The Bum's Rush



Fountain, 12" X 18", Inquire here for print.



      Once I took some pieces to a gallery in Boston and the girl reviewing my stuff told me she absolutely loved my work all except for the spots.  I told her the spots were all the fun.  She was not amused and insisted she was right--the spots sucked and I ended up getting the bum's rush. After enough of that kind of nonsense, my work became very private, esoteric, experiential, and downright religious--you know northwesty.  OK I admit I've become a bit cloistered as an artist.  Haven’t shown anything in years.  I'm more like a monk.

 

          Today a great deal of my work reflects simple interior observations in a sort of time and space soup.  Modern physics tells us that the tiniest element of matter is a sound event which emanates from nowhere [allegedly] as a long thin structure not unlike the vibration of a guitar string.  It lasts a little while and then disappears.  The only thing is they appear in such perfect order that billions of them together become an atom.  That matrix is stunningly ornate and beautiful.  In the same way, the atoms organize themselves into matter and matter into a universe.  All going back to that little sound coming out of “nowhere”. 

     This is always what my art is about whether I’m reflecting treeforms, or just laying down systems of marks inbetween marks.  I start a piece, watch the matrix develop and mature.  I prefer to stop a little past the point where destruction begins—the paper starts to shred, or that last stroke is not quite right.  In this way the piece takes on a life of its own with me just the grateful mechanic holding the tools.  I say grateful because I’ve escaped the dread black hole of politics and religion for a while. Those discussions always go to arguing and silly turf wars.  No.  Art making is different.  One's attention becomes re-oriented.   One feels one is getting closer to why we're here.  Creation is a good thing.

The Fountain is a visual of what went on in an actual meditation.  There was a sensation of bliss getting ever bigger and better like a fountain of light.  God is like that--ever conscious, ever existant, ever new bliss.  This piece is just a mere metaphor for the soaring joy experienced that day.
 
Wm     

A Colored Pencil Lark

Riverbank Willow, 9" X 14", 2006, inquire here for print.

Ever try to work with something you never tried before?  I just wanted to see if I could do it.  I had been reading about Prismacolor and all its wonderful luminous possiblities.   I've been using this coloring medium for years in illustration in a completely different way into pen and ink understructure.  I just had to have a whack at this as an example of colored pencil alone.  I think of this as a road test for a possible new direction.  The actual piece is a bit softer, less contrasty. 

As  for the scene, it reminds of the little people.  There aren't any in it though--then it would be mere illustration.  I'm trying to remain respectable here. 

I took some work down to a respectable Annapolis gallery right on the main drag next to the warf--you know, where they used to sell slaves.  The lady looked at my work and eventually asked what I did for a living.  I proudly told her I was an illustrator.  She retorted all too quickly, "Oh we don't show illustrators work here".  "But I'm not showing illustration I'm showing art," I said.  Her look told me to pack up my sorry crap and get out.  I asked if I could have a look around.  She said, "sure".  As I made my way to the very back of the gallery there it was--a scratchboard illustration of a frickin elephant.  I busted out laughing, made my way to the front of the place and out.  To this day I would rather pull my fingernails out than go to an art gallery.  OK that's a bit harsh.  But I never mention I'm an illustrator to maintain respect.

Meanwhile, I showed this to some art directors as a prime example of colored pencil virtuousity and they tended to say "...yeah, but it doesn't say anything--to be a great illustration it has to say something."

Wm