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| This is something I painted when I was 11 years old. Even then, I didn't always go for the most dramatic thing I could find. |
I was lucky to have a dad that bought me oil paints for Christmas when I was 10. Although, I didn’t know how to use them, I proceeded as if I did. I painted this as an 11 year old. At that age, art meant nothing. I wasn’t looking to capture some kind of drama. The concept of a composition was an idea that did not exist. When I looked at something, I was interested in a feeling. Here, there is a road of trees, mountains, sky, and shadows. The day is like many other days. Looking back on those early paintings, it seems to me that I must have been interested in the moment.
Although I was in love with mountains and clouds by the time
I started painting, there was a time when I had no such preferences. That is probably true of all children. At first, all is wonder. Then when we learn that weeds are weeds,
wonderment becomes judgment. Because I
am primarily a visual person, memory takes me back to a time that could precede
speech. I remember the sputter of a neon
sign in the night when I was 2. To the
surprise of my mother, I could describe our apartment over the drugstore years
later. I remember my baby sister Kim
coming home from the hospital when I was not quite 3. I remember snowflakes caught in a pot, and the
pleasure of digging up dirt and discovering that halves become whole when
practicing the magical math of cut up earthworms. The sound of frogs filled the woods. A ship stood at the end of a street. Church consisted of a world that existed outside
its windows. Chain link fencing secured
backyard grass. The house stucco was
rough to touch. Music played on reel to
reel tape. A highway drive, gloomy skies
and an A & W Root Beer sign occupy memories of early childhood. There was the panic of almost losing my best
friend by leaving her behind on a bus, a doll I called Suzie. There is the memory of a great lake long
before I knew the name Lake Ontario. I
remember grandparents, the scent of tobacco, and the sound of small boats on
the water. Even now, the faint sound of
a lawnmower recalls a Canadian infancy.
So much of who we are can become lost by the time we leave early
childhood. Painting became a conscious
thought when I was 5. I may have seen
paintings before, but that is when I realized that the visual world was
something that could be described. I was
with my dad. We stopped to see a yard
sale of paintings. They were
landscapes. I realized I could describe
what saw, but because I saw a small sampling of what a landscape could be,
without knowing it, my vision had been narrowed. I didn’t understand that I could also paint
something like activity around a school bus until I saw a painting of a school bus
stopped at a crosswalk. That is the
problem with art. It is difficult to
conceptualize painting without first seeing a canvas covered in paint. But once you know what painting looks like,
that information has a habit of closing down the thought process. Knowledge can lead to freedom, but it can also
be a trap. Once a narrative is set, it
can be extremely difficult to imagine any other alternative.
I took a design class
in college that emphasized the importance of composition. Although I was aware of the concept, the idea
suddenly troubled me. Though I never
considered painting everything, once much of what I saw was taken off the table
due to the implications of design, I grew to hate the idea that the depiction
of life was subservient to the demands of art.
Had I had a B plan, my life as an artist would have been over. I instinctively felt the idea was wrong, but
I saw no way to debate it. For the next
few years, I lived a life of compromise.
I thoroughly enjoyed the highway, and walking was always a
joyful occupation. I did these two things
to see my surroundings. I felt alive
inhabiting the spaces around me. I began
to realize that the idea of placement only applied if you were living in the 2
dimensional space of paper or cannas, that the randomness of gravel had a kind
of intelligence that exceeded that of the observer, that there was no need to
worry or fuss because the world was already composed. It dawned on me that I no longer needed to be
the captain of my surroundings. I could
simply be. I could be clouds billowing in
the arrival of spring. I could be rust,
or the rustle of brittle leaves. I could
be shimmering heat waves on the horizon, a mercury colored dance of desolation.
I could be a hillside dotted with
grazing cattle. I could be industrial
steam, indignation belching out disbelief in a Texas sky. I could be the moment of encounter. I could see the world as it really was. I could leave the restrictive thoughts of
rectangular lines behind and begin to paint my surroundings. That had always been the point anyway. As a child, I would have never thought that
design was indeed needed to justify a depiction of life.
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| Hazen Market, Hazen, Nevada, Alternate US Highway 50 acrylic on 4 shaped ragboard panels |
I’ve never argued that you cannot compose, or that great
things cannot be accomplished by doing so. I am just saying that it may not be necessary,
that my work really has nothing to do with that thought process. I know it is hard not to think, but the
paintings look composed. Perhaps, it may
be instructive to think about that thought for a moment. You have been given no other way to consider
the things you see, so that is the only response that you could possibly
have. Again, it is hard to escape the notion
that the camera simply did not point itself in this or that direction. I agree.
But in thinking of continuum, any part of the whole is going matter, and
that section, whatever section that might be, is definitely going to be worth
seeing. The point is that whatever
happens to be selected is vitally important to the idea of time and place. I don’t allow for the composed to manhandle
the moment away. To eliminate this or
that thing for the greater good of a painting is to end up painting a place
that never was. That might be fine, it
might be great, it might make for a fantastic painting, but that is not my
reason for being a painter. I never
think I can improve upon a view of a reclining highway, let along do it
justice. The fact that it is completely
out of my reach is what makes a little success so beguiling. In all fairness, I am probably not the best
person to discuss the merits of design.
When I look at a painting, I never see composition. I can never find the focal point because I tend
to see the entire canvas. I don’t happen
to care where the horizon is, or which way a woman may be facing. If what I see intrigues me, I will remain a
while. If not, no amount of design can
keep me from pacing down the hallway looking for something else to catch my
attention.
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| Old Neighborhood Garage, Richardson, Texas mixed media diorama |
I guess a question worth asking is where did the principles of design come from? We behave as if they were never invented. While I can see why the church would want to make sure that Christ was the focal point of a painting, I wonder why the same kind of care should be given to a pear. Given the wisdom of indifference that is inherent to nature, does it make any sense to select an element from earth or sky and treat it as if you were trying to please an egotistical king?
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| End of the Day at the North End of the Richardson Heights Shopping Center... Left panel of 2 panels mixed media diorama |
While living in the suburbs, I often painted the suburbs. People frequently thought I had a bag of tricks to shake things up with. They had the idea that I did something to transform the everyday into something new and compelling. The truth was that I didn’t do anything to the scenes around me other than include them in my life in much the same way that I embraced the sights of early childhood.
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