Part Three: The beginnings of me as a painter.
I had always looked for easier, and easier ways to paint and
the discovery of "magic markers", in the
fall of 1986 really facilitated that process, as well as
others. I need to take a few pages and bring you up
to speed on my own painting thing, so to speak, before
describing the quick end to Summerville.
In the summer of 1986, some of the friends I'd worked with
and known for ten years or more used to
get together and play guitars, and, well, they asked me to
come and if I wanted to paint a painting, all
the better. This seemed like a good idea to me at the time,
as I'd wanted to do something like this
anyways. I loaded by brushes, canvas, paints, paper towels
and turpentine into the trunk of my car and
set off. At the time, I did not know the secrets I'd later
discover in my struggle with Vincent, so this
early on-site work was pretty thin, to say the least.
I set up and began working as my friends began to play, and
it seemed to me as if my hands were
connected to somebody else’s body. Nothing really worked
right. and to say I was scared, as they
awaited "the results", is putting it mildly. The
painting "turned out", but the experience was not a very good one.
Larry Schlosser has the
painting, made in trade for a fresh, new canvas. I named it
"Quadrapons".
Now, I don't know what a "Quadrapon" is, but that
is a good name for this piece of work. There are
four figures,
playing musical instruments and most have their hands backwards. The figures are
more washed out than not as the thinness of the color gives the
painting an almost comical look. I stuck in
some musical notes over the top of the figures in hopes of
adding a little something to the work,
but generally, I remained disturbed by both the outcome, and
experience.
I say all this because another opportunity came my way, with
the same group of friends, to do the
on-site "thing" again in mid-November of 1986.
This time, I had magic markers and a lot more
confidence from my dances with VanGogh and, rather than go
through the same process as last time,
I took my markers and some illustration board to capture the
scene.
The idea was to collect the work, bring it back to my
"studio" and transfer it into oils. This time, success
The effort was a lot more fun, caught about fifteen pretty
good marker drawings with color, and more importantly, observed things that I
saw, rather than something someone else saw, and got them down.
In thinking back, this was the first time I'd spent doing my
own work. The paintings that came from
those moments laid down the first stab at a style of my own,
which I guess I'd have to call honest, and learning.
I wasn't able to finish the oils for the January show, but
for the first time at Muldoons the "magic
marker" images of that second night were included with
the completed VanGoghs. In a way, that
showing took me back to the days of the abstracts, when all
of the works were mine, not copies of
anything else.
Something was different this time, people could actually see
what these works were, and in some cases,
who was in the picture. A feeling of well being about these
paintings still is with me and as I
photographed them, they stared back in a calm certainty.
There are three paintings in this series. The first is of
Sam Cino, a great man and one of the most
talented people I know. Sam fixes old cars, '57 Chevy’s, and
everything he touches takes your breath
away. You can feel the care he puts into what he does and it
always makes me happy to be around him,
which doesn't happen much. Sam also paints and in his house
are many of his paintings. There's also
a table he made that is the most beautiful piece of woodwork
I've ever seen. The last time I saw him we talked about painting and he said
"isn't it wonderful when you finally realize there's no such thing as a
mistake, and we agreed. I thought at that time, what a wonderful thing to say,
and how true it was, as
my journey through yellow upon blue does not green make. Sam
has perfect timing.
The painting focuses on his face as he's playing the guitar
and tries to catch both him, and the
movement of that evening. It's thicker, as I have improved
and the darker lines pulled through the
yellows of the shirt and hair. By the way, he does not have
blonde hair but there was this light coming
from over his shoulder
and I wanted to try and get the dance of it. I did not
succeed as the yellow of the light covered the true darkness of his
hair("hey, some change, now light covers dark") and, consequently
ended up calling the painting The Sun God.
'We always
see each other as friends
do and pick
up where we left off
continuing
the delight of being,
and within
ness".
Seeing the Portrait of Dave Morland across the table from me
as I write this, and a photograph of the
same subject, for the book, sitting beside me, I'm reminded
how it feels to spend time with Dave
Morland. I've known him for twelve years, and never heard
him say a negative word. When we first
met, he reminded me, a great deal, of my father, not because
they had much in common, but Dave's movements and style gave me that sense. A
few Christmas seasons ago, when his Dad died, I remember
him standing in his driveway, and me, with tears in my eyes,
and him, with tears in his eyes, hugging.
They just don't come any better than Dave Morland. This
painting has a lot of Dave in it and I think
it's the first time that I was able to get
"into", instead of "upon" the canvas. It
occurs to me that for a painting to be alive, as they are when
"there in there", the painter must have a feeling,
or understanding of the subject. This can not be done
if you're working from someone else’s work because they were
there, not you, no way to get the
proper feel.
In the transfer of the original marker work to oils, which
happened about the same time I was making
my final stand with Vincent, it was this work that finally
helped me to see what I wanted to attain. The feeling of
the work coming from the canvas, could only be done if you
felt for what you were doing. This painting
has that. Although it's still too thin and has a few running
spots it has a life and moves, which is what
I'd wanted it to do.
Dave’s wife, Carolee, or Carol Lee, or Carol-Leigh,
depending, recognized Dave from the "magic
marker" rendering at the January Muldoons show, and it
was the first time anybody had said anything
like that to me. It made me feel good and the painting has
become a real favorite of mine, not because somebody said
something nice about it, but because I can feel Dave, in it.
The way he has hold of the guitar is how he
holds the guitar. The concentrated downward look to the
instrument is about right, and the little red
lines coming from the guitar are the first indications of
movements (in this case, music) I was able to
paint. Behind him was a light, just like the one over Sam’s
shoulder in the previous picture, but this time
some yellow managed to highlight, not overpower. I tried to
get the movements in the clothing by not
paying too much attention, and I mean by that I simply
slashed on various shades of blue in the hope
that the figure, along with the "red" of the music
would move together. If you listen close you can hear
Dave playing.
Portrait
of Dave Morland (1987)
"when I
stopped making speeches
and began listening instead
I learned more from you, my friend,
than anyone else.
Your soft, gentle style, and slow pace
make more sense to me every day".
The final piece of this series is the Portrait of Larry
Schlosser. I'd explain to you who Larry Schlosser is
but it's probably
not necessary. Larry is one of those people that everybody seems to know and no
matter where I've ever gone with Larry, somebody always
knows him. Anyways, Larry has saved my
life on several occasions when I had no place to go, or
live, due to various domestic disputes. He always
took me in and I felt more at home in his home than in the
places I'd just left.
I first started painting in his attic many years ago when
Alexis and I had finished beating each other to
death, and I guess it was that time, and those events that
really started the "suffering artist" thing. How
can I even begin to tell you of all the wonderful times,
moments together, all the golf outings, picnics,
genuine friendship that flows between us. Suffice it to say
that Larry is my friend and in all my messes
he's been there and helped. Nobody other than Larry, in my
life, has done that. Never a critical word,
never an unsolicited opinion, just always there. I looked foreword
to the trans of this painting from markers to oils probably more than I
remember the night the original drawings were done at Sam’s house as I
sat below Larry on the floor while he played his guitar on
the sofa above me. I had done the other sketches first and remember Larry sticking
his face out, just a little towards me, as I began drawing him.
For some reason, that position, which is not really natural,
was the one that ended up in the painting.
Larry's also the hairiest guy in the world and his grey hair
turned the painting just a little too grey for
me. The body in the
painting takes the whole scene, and the picture looks like this because I was
sitting below him on the floor. Once again, the movements
were tied in with reds on the shirt and blue
on the pants. Probably the most striking thing to me about
this painting are the eyes, for they
seem sad. I've wondered about that because Larry doesn't
have sad eyes and have had to come to the conclusion that something in him that
night, or something in me, guided my hand through those
darker colors and try as I may not to recognize it, a
certain sadness existed. In thinking about this, and
what it means, I've developed a better understanding of what
it really means
to be a painter.
No matter what I'd done, or how it came out, that's the way
it was and that's what made it my work.
For the first time I'd freed myself. The notion that had
caused me to scrub so many paintings when
I first began could now be laid to rest if I accepted the
works I'd done as they were, not how I thought
they should be.
I still subscribe to this theory and while it has not
prevented me from creating a few really crappy pieces
of work it has stopped me from destroying many efforts
before they even had a chance to save
themselves. Sometimes, when I let my self, I can stand back
and just let go, feeling more like a channel
than a painter and that's the best, really. Learning not to be
so judgemental about my work, or anything
else for that matter, is probably the most important lesson
learned so far.
By the way, last weekend Larry Schlosser married his ex-wife
after ten years of bachelorhood, and to
them I can only say "best of luck and much, much
happiness".
Portrait
of Larry Schlosser (1987)
"the
luckiest people in the world
are the ones
who can say what a friend is,
and luckier
than those
are the ones
who have one".
