Despite. Because.

Back in the studio after too long on the road.   A good night; I can say it was good and the paint is evidence.  I'm still ambivalent on this one and profoundly so.  The last of the three large canvases and looking at them tonight I realize that I need to keep working in this size and hammering at this body of work.  There's something going on; it feels fully-realized to me.

I am now racing the Winter, and with it the cold conditions that will impede and eventually block my studio time.  The summer was glorious; so much progress and this work is exciting to me.

Two paintings hang in a half million dollar condo model in Greenville, and initial reception was very positive.  Those are ok paintings, or, more accurately, they are good paintings that are a bit clumsily executed.  The large ones in the studio are not; they are masterful and epic.

Of course I worry about the size being prohibitive, but then again that was sort of the point.  In the studio tonight I see with this latest one especially that I am connecting with something very deep and primordial.  I have to keep going.

game changer

as yet untitled, 108" x 78", oil of canvas, Rico '12

responding to process

There's the idea; it comes all at once or (more likely) it comes in progressions of experimentation.  Even the most lucid ideas must stand the test of process, of actually attempting to realize them with materials and surface, sweat and labor.  I think one has to respond to process; that is to say be willing to go adjust  the course and intent as more interesting pathways emerge.  I think most artist have rules for works, I know I do.  A limited palette, or a reoccurring phrase, something that limits.  Limitation is good for creativity, don't kid yourself. The best art often happens because of restriction, not in spite of it.   An artist may only be able to afford one color of paint, or because of studio size may need to work on paper.

I had rules for this body of work, but as I was working today something occurred to me; admittedly subtle, but the change is significant in how I now approach it.  Size matters.  As I've made this work this bigger and bigger, I've had to contend with the aspects of process, and the limitations of what I can physically do in terms of physically manipulating the canvas.

The Left Hand Path, Visitations and Wonders

drop cloth (for the Forest and the Sea series), 2009-2011

I had a studio visit today, which prompted a much-needed cleaning and re-organizing of the studio.  The visit went very well and some of my work will be featured in some new condo models in Greenville's West End district next month.  I'm happy to work with this firm and I'm pleased that the work will be seen.  Sales would be great, but they will happen or they won't.

In cleaning and rearranging I propped a section of an old painting wall against the back wall of my studio.  I found it interesting, so I took a picture of it.  I've always wanted to see an exhibition of artists' drop cloths and painting surfaces and work surfaces.  Personally I think it would be fascinating.  It begs the question of what is art, and how does intent shape aesthetics?  

So, I shot more and I mounted a little online exhibition of my own.  If we're friends on Facebook, you can view it here.  

What I found in looking at my own periphery, my "left hand path" if you will, was a vernacular of my own painting language.  It was strange for me to see the work beneath the work and realize that it still carries some of the same phrases and gestures.  I've been sick with a lot of time on my hands this week, so perhaps this resonates more with me than with anyone else.

With digital photography/documentation, we as artists have the ability to rotate, invert, manipulate and "see" our work like never before.  This is a powerful tool.

If you believe there's nothing out there to see

I was almost 3 years old when Neil Armstrong took his small step/giant leap.  I have vague memories of the early space program; flickering images from the tube television, a trip to the National Air and Space Museum as a boy, later a shuttle launch as a teenager.  Like a lot boys, I loved rockets and jet planes and Star Trek and space...I have always loved space.

To have set foot on another planetary body, what must that be like?  How can the rest of your life compare?  Did he, at that moment, understand Moses, Muhammad, Elijah, Buddha?  Removed from the empirical reality and thrust into the fantastic, a shaman's journey which simply doesn't translate to those who can only trust the ground beneath their feet; what do you do after that?

There are those born with the exploring spirit.  I don't think it's in everyone's DNA, not at all.  The searching spirit becomes many things, but the static, comfortable, accepting, unquestioning life is simply not an option for these souls.  There's no point to that existence.  One man's small step changed the course of our culture, and gave courage to all the astronauts and ceiling-smashers and rule-breakers since; myself included.

When I started painting, really committing myself to painting, words like spiritual and the Sublime would get you tossed out of dinner parties unless you were disparaging them.  But when I look at the painting of JMW Turner, or Rothko, I immediately get that sensation I that get from looking through a telescope, or seeing images from the space station, or from Mars, or staring out into the ocean; that we, you and I, are insignificant and tiny and our lives and so-called problems are little more than space dust to the infinite.

All I want to do is create portals to that place.  That peaceful insignificance.  There's no room for hate, or ego or agenda there.  We can only be carried away.  I think in that moment, that absolute surrender, we find the greatest part of ourselves; the part that -in fact- doesn't even belong to us, but is a part of everyone and everything.  It's what makes us human.  It isn't a chemical compound, or a genetic puzzle piece, or anything that can be quantified or analyzed or reduced or argued about.  Our essence is our shared experience; our loss of Selves in which we find ourselves.  That's why I paint.  That is what art has the power to show us.

louder than words

I've been internalizing a great many questions as of late; what is art?  what is it that I do?  what images and themes re-occur throughout my oeuvre?  does art matter?

I've always believed in going to work.  That showing up in the studio and getting your hands dirty provides the proper and fertile state of mind for inspiration, and that painters paint, sculptors sculpt, writers write, and so on.  I believe we are defined by actions, not ideas or concepts; though I appreciate the visionaries in this world.  True visionaries make their visions real, however; with sweat and blood and sometimes their very lives.  Actions speak.

In the studio, often I'll start down a path and on my way I'll notice little trails -overgrown and thorny and mostly-hidden from the casual glance.  Sometimes these lead me to amazing places, sometimes they are distractions, but always the journey is worth it.  Making work makes me think about work and this drives the creative process into new directions.

My girls started 1st grade today.  Bittersweet, to be sure, but mostly a happy time.  They grow older (as do I) and they are slowly growing up and inspiring me and helping me grow and love and create and thrive and evolve.

Most of my time in the studio is spent prepping canvases.  I paint quickly and decisively; I always have.  I don't labor over paintings once I begin, but I fetishize the prepping.  I love beginnings and I love possibility.  I've said many times before that one day I will paint the most amazing painting that will be but a single mark on surface.  Simplicity and power in one authoritative stroke.  All else seems to be leading to that moment.

move

The second two black paintings are ready to accept the oil paint.  The past few weeks have been madness at the day job, and I feel that particular area of my life is about to undergo radical change.  Every man has his breaking point, where "lucky to have a job" no longer provides the motivation nor holds the power to take what is being dished out.

I heard from an old friend who recently moved from Italy to Germany, and thought of how I grew up -in the military, moving around every few years.  It was a good way to grow up; though at times I hated it, as children (especially adolescents and teenagers) are want to do.  I've never stayed in one place too long until here, and while my life is rich in ways I could have never imagined, I feel the road always calling.  I crave change and the act of stepping into the unknown.

Tomorrow night I'll start hitting it, and by the weekend may even be ready to get down; we'll see.  I gave a studio tour today to a friend whose been asking for months to come, and last week Donna of A Perfect Gray graced the studio for her annual visit.

When I think about the journey of the past 8 months, and see how I took this idea from a dream to these large works, it feels good.  I read a quote a few days ago that has really helped me through a stressful weekend, "before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem, make sure you're not surrounded by assholes."  True indeed.  It reminds me that one can always choose; you can always change your mind.  The road might not be easy, in fact it may really suck.  But worthwhile change is worth whatever you go through to get to.  I hope I have the strength to capitalize on the possibilities that are coming my way.

ocean size

Whiskey at this late hour, reflecting and being; the sweat of labor still cools my skin.  In the warehouse studio there is no judgement or noise or frustration.  There is the living; uncompetitive and poignant.  I lose myself in the working, opening up to the autonomy of each painting and discovering.

I white mark on surface, so pure and amazing and I think of the blackness of Caravaggio and keep working, striving toward the deep, the deep.

Wish I was ocean size

They cannot move you

No one tries

There's illumination in this black paint and mark-making.  And now there's whiskey, sweet and warm and the day fades into another.  The time in the studio is pure; like love, like time spent with daughters or walking along the Bosporus, or standing on the edge of volcano in Guatemala.  Life.  Living.  The act of living is moving ever towards dying...and it makes me smile tonight as I paint in my head and see what these will be.  Cool night kissed the rafters and rained down goodness and there is seeing.  Much seeing and some doing.  A good night.

blank slate

Stretched and sized 2 more large canvases over the weekend, a brutally physical process in which I impart a substantial amount of my DNA into my work.  Let's just say that there will be no disputing authentic Rico's from fakes.

With aching hands and scraped-up knuckles this morning I look across the studio at pure possibility; there's something so beautiful about a blank canvas; especially so with two.

I complain about location.  I do this too much, though it is certainly a factor.  The biggest limitation on me, -on anyone, is myself.  While I step up my game every time I walk into this space to work, I hesitate outside these walls.  There is no one coming to find me, of this I am absolutely certain.  It is not even that rejection bothers me so much any more, I think it is simply that natural human tendency to resist change and to avoid the unknown.  What if I were incredibly successful?  What would come with that?  How would my life need to change and am I prepared to make those changes?

Yes.

Looking at this big black painting I see something really amazing and to an extent magical.  The fact I live with it day after day and that this quality is not diminishing says something about where I've gone with it.  Where I'm going is still unknown; and that's the real magic.

studio tonight

swimming at night

she thinks she can warn the stars (for e.k.)

108" x 78", oil on canvas, Rico '12

Here's a preview of the big black.  I'll photograph it properly tomorrow, but this is an exclusive for the half dozen people that read this blog.  After weeks of wrestling with this painting I feel I found my groove.  Tomorrow I'll start building the next one.  And so it goes.

I painted this for a friend whose daughter died.  Six days on the earth seems such a short time, but no one can own time.  As parents we assume a natural order to life and mortality, but in the end it is only a bold assumption.  I felt this spirit needed to be writ large, and today is the anniversary of her death so I wanted to lay it down tonight.  

And I'm spent, and I need to sit alone with this epic poetry for a time as the day falls away.

wandering in blackness

I've spent weeks with this large black canvas now, slowing applying thin layers of medium and paint.  During this time I've been trying to address the logistics of exactly how to move paint around such a large area that replicates the way I did it on small sheets of vellum.  I've had a couple of "ah-ha" moments and it's just been practice, practice.  The big canvases mess with you; it's a lot of work and visual real estate to screw up, so there's the pressure that weighs down creativity.  For my part I've been struggling to get the surface where I want it before the white gets laid down.

The demons of doubt and disappointment and frustration have descended on me and I feel like St. Anthony in that famous etching being ripped apart and consumed.  Try as I might, I can't catch a break; I no longer even get rejections, I only get silence.  Being ignored is far worse than being rejected because there is no closure; you're just left wondering.

There is nothing new under the sun; and so much more so with painting.  There's always some artist you never heard of somewhere that did what you're doing.  The best one can hope for is authenticity and hopefully that authenticity may afford a new vista for the audience, the artist and painting.  So back into the 100 degree studio I go, and I keep searching myself for that authenticity and honest expression onto surface that will break open my own ways of perception.

It's less stalling and more free falling.

Just one more second before pulling that ripcord, just one more, one more, one more.  The farther and faster I fall the quicker time becomes; the more the urgency is felt.  Let go of all that I know and accept the reality of my current being; hurtling toward oblivion at 9.8 m/s/s.  Because art/creativity should be dangerous.  It should come at a price, and a high one at that.  If you're not in some way risking your soul then you're not doing anything a monkey with a brush can't do.  You've got to be pulling g's up to the point that everything is about to fall apart and spin out of control, and then you've to pull out and touch the endless blue.

It's time we took painting somewhere again.