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How much is custom family portrait painting

Price of a painting or a portrait mainly depends on the popularity of the artisan as well as the quality of his work. Thus, offering a precise quote is difficult. Nevertheless, you can choose online services like custom painting from photo, which takes your digital shots and transforms it into a hand-painted portrait based on your demands. This is a affordable price service, specifically if you compare with traditional artists. Plus, it is hassle-free, high-quality and the portrait is delivered right at your doorsteps.

How much is custom family portrait painting?

This inquiry is asked repeatedly throughout the internet because it’s a critical one.

A lot of people realize the significance of an absolutely custom painting and portrait. They are aware of how a must have it is to present somebody else or yourself a present that can last not just a lifetime, but a lifetime and beyond. Whatever your reason for planning on commissioning a custom portrait, you’ve probably considered portrait commission prices.

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Once considered a relic belonging to the photography era, the art of portrait painting is making a comeback think of it as a selfie that can take weeks to complete.

Price of a painting depends on the size and number of persons to be painted. A big canvas will cost more than a small canvas. A four person family portrait may cost more than a two person portrait.

The Garden Project

If The Garden Project attempts to shatter illusions with ersatz idealism, Marshall’s most recent work, four paintings collectively titled Souvenirs (1997-8), pushes for another realignment: to place cultural figures of the civil rights era into the pantheons of high art. Or, at the very least, give inclusive homage to the known and anonymous who have shaped the artist’s history (and America’s) over the past decades. It is a grand gesture that only slightly veils Marshall’s larger critique of questioning how history designates a few to stardom and muffles recognition of many others, and he has gone to his most allegorical extreme to do this. The four paintings are a jumble of souvenir kitsch and gumball cheapness with overriding references to the early Renaissance (Fra Angelico’s linear space and biblical straight men, in particular). In Souvenir I (1997) a living room stands in for the church and Archangel Gabriel, a black figure with glitter-dust wings, delivers his message in the form of a boutique of flowers. Dominating the right side of the painting is a velvet souvenir banner with the halo heads of John F. Kennedy, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King registering as a proxy for the holy trinity. Marshall presents the lesser-known players of the civil rights era at the top of the canvas, floating in a bed of silvery clouds like putti. Malcolm X is there, but most are not as familiar, like the four girls killed during the 1963 Birmingham church bombing.

Like The Garden Project, Souvenirs has an edge. Things are not quite as they seem. He has leveled out the playing field and determined that nothing is sacrosanct: art history butts up with razzle-dazzle, the divine with suburbia, white with African American history. Culture moves into the realm of politics, and the embracing question is who has the authority – or taste, property, justice – to determine the heroes. Popular culture does, as Marshall suggests, by showing the immorality of the Official Triad as subjects that have saturated every tier of the market, including the kitsch. In the accepted reverence for the Kennedys and King – American mythmakers for both African Americans and whites – the possibility of others who were no less heroic vanishes in their wake.

Even when the paintings are unwrapped from its symbolic packaging, there is still much more left. These are tamer works stylistically, more serene, and the drama more muted to something closer to the frictionless sheen of a magazine spread. Marshall’s usual brushstroke pastiche and layers of assemblage are near to absent. In Souvenirs II, III and IV (1997), he has removed colour altogether and gone monochromatic, like a pre-Technicolor television screen held stagnant. The living rooms – of no particular period in anywhere America – seem radiant in their near entropy. As in Souvenir I, the names of the famous mingle with the arcane and float down the canvases like nightclub playbills: soul singer and songwriter Otis Redding, playwright Lorraine Hansberry, singer Ida Cox, folklorist Zora Neale Hurston, and Hollywood starlet Dorothy Dandridge, among them.

It is chancy work to the extreme, since Marshall courts the possibility of turning his symbolic saturation into the decorative, and then hams it up more with a glitter-dust curtain fringe running along the bottom like a carnival backdrop. But he escapes the pictorial by the peering eyes of his angels. Dressed in a mourning suit (one assumes) the foreground figure in Souvenir I is bent at the waist and looking out over his shoulder at us, the whites of his eyes reveal such a doleful gaze that the entire painting comes together at that very point. An otherwise static environment nears a sense of movement and liveliness that is entirely human and compassionate. Marshall is only being half-glib by not making it difficult to miss that the archangel is, in part, a self-portrait; the coy messenger invited into the white-dominated hierarchy of contemporary art has brought with him some uninvited guests.

Kerry James Marshall’s inclusion

If Chicago painter Kerry James Marshall’s inclusion in Documenta X as one of only two painters (the other being Lari Pittman), and his widely-noted exclusion from the Whitney’s “Black Male: Representations of Masculinity in Contemporary American Art” exhibition (1994) and 1995 Biennial indicate anything, it is that Marshall’s paintings are not easily placed within a determined curatorial framework.

There are reasons for this. Marshall’s paintings are monumental, figurative, and have a flattened staged presence that brings the paintings right up close. His sense for composition and balance, of knowing what to leave in and what to take out, is one of his strongest skills which he has developed after years of working on small collage works throughout the 1970s. He has allowed what he learned from his teacher and friend, social-realist painter Charles White, from his student years at the Otis Art Institute, and what he picked up while working with African American folklorists, to incubate for an extended period before turning to painting, and all the while recognizing that to take on the medium requires an exceptional knowledge of art history and an individual philosophy that can successfully find a place within that canon.

The overlaps of these earlier influences are evident in Marshall’s use of symbolism, a narrative format and grand scale. But it is his obdurate goal to bring the socio-historical terrain of his own life to the foreground. He is himself like a human map of the civil rights movement. Born in the most segregated city in the South, Birmingham, Alabama in 1955, and raised in Los Angeles – his family arrived in Watts two years before the 1965 riots – he has been a Chicagoan for the past ten years. The influences have not been diverse, at least not in the way Marshall has methodically distilled them. He has determined that nothing really separates the past from the present, or the lowbrow from the high. All of which adds up to an independence of mind that makes his work assuredly self-contained, informed and within the modes of postmodernism but not necessarily reliant on them.

The closest comparison to Marshall, in my mind, is the stand-alone Leon Golub whose paintings of torturers and soldiers of the Vietnam War Peter Schjeldahl once described as being able to lead us, with courtesy, into the socio-politics of his subject rather than “rubbing our noses” in a political agenda (Village Voice, October 26, 1982). Schjeldahl added that Golub’s scale, framing and frontality meant coming face-to-face with paintings that were able to consume a room – and, therefore, consume us. Marshall’s paintings are also very much like that.

In 1995 he produced a series of large-scale paintings called The Garden Project. The works are based on housing projects in Los Angeles and Chicago that are generally perceived as testaments of debauched urban renewal (or “Negro removal” as they were lampooned back in the 1960s and 70s). In Marshall’s paintings, however, the settings are ultra-romanticized. Songbirds flit through clear blue skies, sunbeams stream outward, garden beds are immaculate and in full bloom, and smiling, happy children peddle down carless roads on their bikes, a dog jogging alongside. These are hardly the images one conceives of as an accurate depiction of housing projects (though possibly what developers had envisioned when they added “gardens” to many of the project names as they were being built – Nickerson Gardens in L.A., and Chicago’s Altgeld Gardens and Wentworth Gardens, among them). That officialized euphemism of an implied paradise seems a nominal, almost irrelevant point, but it is where Marshall has leaped from to create five monumental paintings for the series.

Watts 1963 (1995) is a painting of Nickerson Gardens, one of the projects where Marshall lived when he was a boy, and among the fistfuls of daisies are three children dressed immaculately in summer gear – white shorts, white sneakers, hair bobbles and flip-flops. Obscured by palm trees and a banner that sails across the upper portion of the painting, which reads “There’s more of everything,” are the low-slung project dwellings. In another work, “our town” is written in red college-jersey lettering across the top, and in Better Homes, Better Gardens (1994) a teenage couple stroll along a footpath oblivious to their idyllic urban setting. In all this synthetic deception, each painting becomes a psychological portrait tightly wound by Marshall’s ability to fill but never clutter his paintings. The colours run intense and are mixed here and there with green, yellow and blue passages – dots, blanks, smears and drips of paint. Areas of painted overlays, collage and signage underscore a multiplicity of symbolic meanings. It is sentimentality overblown, the yellow ribbons that will bring the boys home from the Persian Gulf War.