The Rico Act

following the work

I've written many times that I believe work comes form work. Being in the studio on a regular basis fosters a discipline; a true practice. I work in series mostly, but I am never afraid to follow the work wherever it leads, even if that takes me off my current focus.

Because I build most of my canvases and stretcher frames, production of new work comes in fits and starts. The Winter kept me out of the studio, but now that the warmer weather is here I am getting back into the groove. I laid down paint on a big piece today, one example of following the work. I was working on the Stations series and an image caught my eye. I made some sketches and knew it had to be black and white and knew it wasn't part of the current series.

That's the way it is for me; ideas have to survive and endure. If I experience something that I think most people would call inspiration, I initially ignore it. An idea must persist. It must keep me awake at night, be waiting for me in the morning and not let me go. My paintings take months because I don't paint everything I think of or envision. Many fall by the wayside and never get past an idea.

When such an ideas survives, I become very quiet about it. Often that's how I know it is a powerful painting; if I've kept it close to the vest during process.

Mystery of Light at Lyons Wier

Soul String, James Austin Murray,

2014, Oil on shaped canvas

69 x 72 in / 175.3 x 182.9 cm

photo via Lyons Wier Gallery

My friend James Austin Murray has a solo show up right now in NYC. Here's a short article with a video interview. If you're in NYC or heading that way in the next few weeks, do yourself a favor and check it out. I've watched this body of work from it's seed, taking root at the Bemis Center in Nebraska and reaching full maturity in his new studio (which I haven't been to yet, but look forward to) in the flower district.

loose ends

I pick up my work from SAM today and the crazy run of this show comes to an end. It is bittersweet; one the one hand I've achieved something I thought was decades away and yet I question whether my career is altered even minutely from the experience. I remain an unknown in SC; a place still trying to wrap its head around Modern art, much less contemporary art. I sometimes think post-impressionism is where most people lose their comprehension of art around these parts.

So the studio will be full this afternoon. I'm grappling with a very large 3-panel piece that is giving me logistical problems, and I'm climbing out of the Winter paralysis and lockout. As I re-enter the studio after nearly 3 months of restricted access, I suppose I question the point. All this time and money and energy spent; for what? For whom? And while there is a freedom in the fact that no one is watching and I may do as I please, there is also the discouragement in knowing that my game is so much higher than most of what I see around me; and yet is goes unseen.

And still I keep going.

The large painting is something I have to paint for me. I hope to return to the stations once I complete it. I may have to rebuild the stretcher frames as I cannot seem to correct the warping of one seam. It's frustrating and time-consuming but not unforeseen. With my wife's show opening next weekend, I cannot imagine being able to get much done this week.

The warmer nights are coming, however. I'll be back in full swing soon.

creation as an act of sheer will

We build fires in the night and look up into the stars. We have always built fires, alone, with small groups and in ritual. Sometimes we are one with the fire and night and stars and one another; but inevitably, someone comes along and wants to rule. They tell us the fire belongs to them. We should depend on this person, for our protection, for our quality of life, for our advancement, for our freedom. Milena have come and gone. The big man, the chief, the king, the pope, the dictator and all the rulers have tried to sell us the same bill of goods; that they know best, and lining their pockets with our gold is the only way to maintain life as we know it.

It has always been a lie. It is a lie today.

There is no Art World. There are small enclaves of very wealthy people engaged in speculation and some kind of visual product happens to be being traded. It looks a lot like art; and sometimes it happens to be, but none of these people notice. There are galleries along the streets of Chelsea and the Lower East Side and they are selling something that, sometimes, was made by hand in some studio by someone and these someone call themselves artists. These big auction houses and large and small galleries and dealers tell us artists that we need them. That they alone can make our lives worthwhile and we should seek them out and lay our gifts at their feet for judgment lest we risk lifelong obscurity and poverty and madness. It's a compelling and, at times, seductive argument. But we should never forget that we built the fires before they came along with their white walls and client lists. We stared and shouted in the night sky before the glittering lights of SoHo faded into Tribeca. We will make, long after they can no longer afford the rent. We will create without their audiences, -in obscurity, and madness and poverty if we must.

For us there is no business plan. There is only an imperative. We must make, and we must reach, and we must push out beyond the known and the possible because we alone know in our hearts that out in those regions we will build new fires and find new gods and build new worlds. That anyone who offers us freedom in exchange for anything isn't actually offering freedom at all.

There is nothing wrong with the art world. It lives in 200 sq foot studios in the flower district, and make-shift garages, and abandoned warehouses, and storage units, and extra (or not) bedrooms from coast to coast and across the world and it cannot be owned or regulated, and it is immune to your auction houses and soulless collections that collect dust for the sole purpose of making more money. It lives in the faces of the mad, the obscure and the poor in every city in this country and quite a few small towns and rural hamlets too. You will never see the greatest painting this nation has to offer. Those people will die and the work will not endure and great treasures will be lost. There are many, many things that wealth can never own. You don't have to be rich to collect art, that too is a lie.

We don't need. We want; and in our wanting we suffer. That is why people are given power; because we believe their lies that they can end our suffering.

I paint to reach the possible, which always lies just beyond the impossible, I think. I paint grand to see if I can do it. I stretch my physical and technical limitations because I believe that is the whole point of living; and that safety and security and comfort are slow, numb deaths that bring us nothing and surround us with so much that we don't even notice it anymore.

I may never have fame. I may never sell another painting in my lifetime. All my work may end up locked away and destroyed without seeing the light of day. But I will never quit. I cannot. I have tried and tried to walk away; there are better ways to not make a living, as the saying goes. I come back every time because if I do not paint I am diminished as a human soul. So I speak to every soul, whether they want to hear or not.

47 things I've learned in 47 years

I'm in the doldrums. Winter lingers and the placid sea merely offers buoyancy; no direction. I'm feeling introspective and so here it goes, in no particular order of significance....

You can always change your mind. The road to change may not come easy, but there is no path from which you cannot diverge.
Life is about relationships. Maintain them with the utmost care.
Always be willing to step outside your comfort zone. The greatest moments of your life result from the unexpected detour, the choice you wanted to say no to but didn't.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. See your decisions through and deal with the consequences.
Things happen for a reason; sometimes that reason is piss-poor judgement, bad luck or lack of perspective. Learn from these moments and move on.
Follow your bliss.
Trust your visions.
No one can give you answers, but seek out people whom you believe can anyway. You'll probably end up calling each other friends for life.
Every problem hides a kernel of wisdom. Break it apart. Use a hammer if you need to, but discover whatever it is you're supposed to learn from it.
Sometimes we act, sometimes we are acted upon. There are equal merits to either condition.
Treat every person you meet with respect and dignity and you will meet god many times over.
Everyone should have one shitty job in their life. A job where you serve people and are made to feel invisible. There is a clarity from this experience that nothing else offers.
Your relationship with money is just that; decide whether it is a long or short term, honest, caring, abusive or destructive, and act accordingly. If you don't like the results, learn to have a different relationship.
Buy the best shoes you can afford and care for them.
Become a snob about one thing, but don't be obnoxious about it.
Do something you will never be great at; this is called a hobby. It should be fun and utterly pointless.
Always take a job to learn before you take a job to earn.
Learn more about money than your accountant.
Be in better shape than your doctor.
Your body is the greatest gift you'll ever receive, treat it well.
Life is an endurance sport, not a sprint. Watch your friends and peers revolve on the wheel of fortune and you will understand this. Stick around, it doesn't get easier but you get better at it.
Dress your age, but dress well; how you act is up to you, but own where you are in life.
Go to New York. Often.
Ride roller coasters.
Finger paint with your kids and make a mess. You'll remember why it's fun.
Drive a stick shift.
Keep a journal. You don't have to write every day, but you should write at least one entry a week.
Get a really nice pen.
Drink water. Lots of water.
Exercise as often as you can, no one is too busy to take care of themselves.
Travel for good friends, good conversation and good experiences.
If your best friend calls and needs you to come, go without hesitation.
Do not buy into other people's emotional states or drama.
Read great books. Seriously. Even if it takes you a year to read a great novel, you join a society once you do. You understand metaphors and you get references. This simple act makes you smarter and opens doors in ways you cannot conceive.
Have a drink with your father-in-law and listen to him.
Bad things happen to most people. What defines us is how we respond to these moments.
Discuss religion and politics if you must, but turn the conversation toward BBQ or college football in the South and you should be ready for fist-to-cuffs.
See great art in person. Art is meant to be experienced live.
Cultivate yourself. Ignorance is a treatable condition.
Take walks. Don't take your phone, don't wear headphones, don't do it for exercise, just take a damn walk; preferably in the woods, but anyplace outside will do.
Get out of bed when you wake up. The snooze button is for losers. My first hour of the day is an amazing personal time where I collect my thoughts and put on my skin for what lies ahead. I'd rather get up in the dark than get a little extra sleep and try to catch up with myself for the rest of the day. I always feel there is something profound about seeing the sun rise.
Learn to cook. You will never be without friends.
Cultivate one noticeable flaw, but otherwise be your best.
Make a bucket list and start checking it off.
Eat local food; no matter where you go.
Love with abandon, live with purpose.
The journey is the destination.

rain and oil

study for Prometheus, oil stick on paper, 2014

My drawing practice has recently returned, largely in part to being frozen out of my studio and my wife's aggressive rehearsal schedule. I draw in negative; the images I get down are flipped in my mind's eye. The whites are black and blacks white. I've tried working on black paper, but over the holidays I started using paint sticks in various shades of black and I've been very happy with the process.

I get images from everywhere, and lately I've been appropriating photographs from the various Tumblr feeds I check-in on daily. I confess that I've become addicted to Tumblr, I like the idea of scrolling through hundreds of images with little or no text. It's a feast for a visually-oriented person like me.

I'm taking a break from the stations series to paint another painting or two. It's not like anyone is busting down my studio door demanding the work for a show anyway, so I am happy to go at my own pace and wander in and out of the series at will. Maybe I also need a psychological break from the all-black fields, who knows?

That's the way art goes, I think. Changing one thing makes something else occur to me. Then I'll go explore that new idea. I've said it many times, but work comes from work. Painters paint, actors act, musicians play music. There are enough waiters and waitresses in the world; do what you have to do to keep your dream alive, but don't buy into the means as the end. Anyone can keep working if they are successful. Those of us who work without concern for recognition or money and keep at it are a different breed. I've been fortunate with getting my work into the world and even selling it. But I do it because, try as I might some times, I cannot not do it.

Today is a work holiday and I'm off to the studio to smoke a cigar and enjoy the rain.

what we see

7th station, in progress, studio

I've been invited to participate in a group show curated by an incredible artist and acquaintance at U Dayton (I'm big in Ohio, ladies and gentlemen, what can I say?). The assignment was simple, but it's gotten me thinking about appropriation and images and seeing. Painting, and really all art-making I can think of, involves an altered perception. Not the kind you get from substances, but an altered sense of looking/listening/experiencing a thing. It's taken me decades to fully grasp that I see the world fundamentally differently than most people; that I experience the world around me profoundly differently. So if I take an image and rotate it and reverse it and filter it, it becomes a thing it was not before. My active experience and interaction alters the thing itself, and thus forever changes the perceptions of others as well.

It's said that we don't really know what art is, but we know it when we see it. I'd add to that Jerry Saltz's famous quip, "art can be for anybody, it's just not for everybody." The viewer has a responsibility in encountering art. I really don't think a painting is done until someone has seen it. For me, seeing people see the work gives me closure. I'm not responsible for what they take away, but I'm very interested in what they bring.

If you think about it, every one of us is alone in the universe. We are experiencing life and our surroundings in a unique and solitary way. "Blue" to me isn't necessarily blue to you, and so on. Artists train themselves to trust this. We invite it in and use it, and we attempt to bring those perceptions to a table of universality through the personal. I think artists are sharing people. It makes it especially hard for us to understand those who do not share.

Over time, I've developed a way of using my medium to facilitate what I see and communicate it to others. I eschew the common notion of inspiration, but truth be told I walk around in a constant state of being inspired by everything. I'll stop and take pictures of clouds, or puddles because I find them remarkable. All that looking has brought about a way of seeing; or is it the other way around?

I'm long overdue for a trip to NYC. Good conversation is hard to find in this town.

the fourth station

Apparizione della Madre (fourth station) [in progress],

acrylic and oil on canvas, 72" x 72", Rico '14

The weekends seem shorter, the winter drags on. I work with constraints (mostly time) but increasingly without limits. I'm fairly far along on four paintings now, and I saw them all hung for the first time in the studio today. They are strong, and there is a long way to do.

A quiet night fades into a busy week. More stretchers to build -always we begin, again.

condemnation

condanna (first station) [in progress], acrylic and oil on canvas

72" x 72", Rico '14

A good night last night, the cold winds made it a closed door session. There are times when I feel that I am so utterly far removed from everyone and everything; that this tiny town may as well be an island or Mars. Working alone has taught me self-reliance and to trust in my visions. I am in my place of uncertainty. Each painting is a sustained effort, a surprise, and provides me brief satisfaction when I'm able to pull it off as I had imagined it.

The black paintings are incredibly difficult to document. What looks grey in the photo above is a matte black. As one moves through the room and views these paintings from different angles, the composition recedes and emerges and fades. These pieces are painted with a space in mind, and when I have two or three more under my belt, I will begin that process.

I've worked heavily from sketchbooks for this series. I have an arc of story through the composition of each painting. I know what they look like in my mind now.

the first failure

il primo fallimento (third station)

acrylic and oil on canvas, 72" x 72", Rico '14

There's a favorite cultural myth that we cling to above all others; that man pulls himself up by his own bootstraps in isolation from the world around him and achieves greatness/wealth/fame by merit and hard work alone. The claimed rewards proof, -irrefutable, that he alone is deserving of the overflowing cup from which he now drinks deeply. We worship celebrity for this very reason; celebrity being both our gods and everyman. It plays into the very same mythos as the impoverished, inner city youth who rises to professional fame and wealth in sports through hours of dedication and practice against all odds. We need to believe in meritocracy if only to keep us from losing hope in our fragile puritan ethos and desperate belief in fairness. In reality there are far fewer slices of pie than can ever be enough for all of us, and most; no matter how talented or brilliant or dedicated they may be, will never rise from obscurity.

So we lost an amazing actor yesterday; an artist. There will be many talking heads paraded across everyone's television screens and op-ed columns saying why we should mourn or why we should pity or condemn. There were, no doubt, sermons. There will be "serious" talk about addiction and help for addicts, the victims of their own hedonism or escapism fueled by the overwhelming pressures of their fortune; good or ill. Many people who have never so much as smoked a joint will decry the wretched cultural scourge of illegal drugs; equating heroin with abusing Adderall, blaming rap culture and immigrants and of course, Obama.

Can we instead take a breath for a moment and recognize that a man is dead? People die every day, each death is tragic; each has some back story that, unlike the high-profile death of a celebrity, will never be told. To some degree, most of us will die with our pants at our ankles (metaphorical speaking). Death doesn't wait until it's convenient. Death is the price for life, and everyone pays the same fee when the check comes to the table. I'm far more inclined to view the death of a six-day-old baby as tragic than someone my age who couldn't wrestle his demons to the ground, but the real truth about addiction is that the users are seldom the victims anyway; the victims are almost always the families. Those left behind. It is those people who deserve respect, privacy in their mourning, and compassion. The dead don't care what we have to say about them, or when we grow tired of speaking of them at all.

I've seen friends go down the rabbit holes of crack and heroin. It's ugly and deeply saddening, and there is a moment, right before they go under when you're still reaching for them and trying to do everything you can to pull them out. In the very next moment you realize they will pull you under too, and you salvage what you can, step back and hope they make it; and promise yourself you'll be there when they do. Sometimes you can be. But not every time.

The christian's prophet said, "let he who is without sin cast the first stone." Implicit in that statement is that no stones be thrown at all, because who among us is blameless? Who among us hasn't failed? We may have the presence of mind to not shoot horse, but that doesn't mean we won't die behind the wheel for any number of equally-preventable and similarly banal reasons. It doesn't mean we are superior. It only means we had the opportunities to make different choices, and somehow, maybe even in spite of ourselves, we acted on those opportunities. I won't claim innocence when it comes to drugs. I'm fortunate to have a peculiar immunity toward addiction to some substances that others try once and it seals their fate. Lucky me; but it owes far more to biochemistry than moral fortitude let me tell you. And while heroin is a peculiar journey during which at one point everyone knows how it will likely end, when you're in it, it may not seem so clear and rational and clean. I've overcome some demons, so have many good friends. But others, equally dear, are not here today, and that doesn't make them weak or bad people so much as it makes them human and frail and more like me than I can sometimes own up to to care to admit.

As I think about the stations of the cross, what intrigues me is that it is the story of a man who knew how his story was going to play out. He could have opted out at any time, walked away, lived a long life or (if you buy their theology) simply stepped off this mortal plane and onto another. The most human thing in the world to do is to avoid pain. The compelling arc of story is that he faced his fate with eyes wide open and in so doing provided an example of how each of us can do so as well. Some are born to discover new worlds, create research that will forever change the world we live in, be great artists, composers, actors or world leaders. Some are born to be great parents, courageous teachers, or simply play the supporting role in other people's lives while never seeing the spotlight themselves. Whatever our path, whatever it is that we were born for, whatever gifts we have been born with, we must grab that destiny and run with it. Live it for all that it's worth and squeeze every ounce of sweat, blood, spit and sex out of it until we collapse in a lumped, bruised heap at death's door. I believe we are born to live, even if we cannot escape death. The when and perhaps the how of dying isn't up to us; but we make our own terms when it comes to how we live.

These paintings are an existential journey for me. I don't have any answers; I'm too busy asking questions.

one winter more

one winter more before the northward crossing,

acrylic and oil on canvas, 2014 Rico

The process of painting passes through dozens of paintings. For every mark, from the very first one, the pictorial space is shaped and changed. The artist practices a detached discernment, but must free himself from judgement. Openness and awareness must be preserved; the act of seeing is paramount.

Things occur in the process. Work comes from work. The simple change from white to black has profoundly changed my perceptions and interactions with the canvas. As I prepare to take this concept large, I'm reminded that I purposely constricted myself in square canvases. The square is inflexible. It is also pure and, surprisingly, spiritual. I'm reminded of Malevich, from whom I now have a much deeper appreciation. Indeed the association with the icon is asserting itself in this work, and that was by design but unexpected in terms of effectiveness.

A quick break and then back to lay down another layer of acrylic so that I can hit these with oil tomorrow. This modest 10" x 10" canvas retains the large scale. I'll dive into the 6' x 6' canvases with abandon.

reflections

The sun has just risen over the Atlantic and tide is rolling in. We took a last-minute beach adventure; much-needed after the harsh re-entry into routine after the long holidays. What remains of the week is a frenzied roster of events and tasks; that peculiar state of daily life as parents and professionals. I'll enjoy the drive back once we're clear of the 70 miles of incessant billboard vulgarity which defines so many beaches. I hope for light traffic and blue skies.

...And later, reflections of the sun in the ripples of the pool as my little mermaids dive and glide beneath the surface. Skills honed last summer as we dutifully put in our daily hours poolside in Florida. They grow each day now, shooting up like sprouts after heavy rains.

Reflections on the year past and the weeks ahead, each year accelerating with my daughters ever closer to a day when they will move away and begin their own lives. If I do my job well, they will do so with confidence and wonder; and yet it breaks my heart to think of that day. Therein lies the rub of parenthood itself.

Reflections on the windy sea as Helios makes his ascent. Choppy waves move fast to shore and the artist's mind is lost in contemplating line and surface, form and fluidity. In a few short days I'll return to Spartanburg for the opening reception of the show. It still feels surreal and distant. A friend said she was coming and it made me realize that I had forgotten there would be people I knew there Friday night. Solitary is the practice and the Way. So much so it is surprising when it is peopled.

Wave wash sound of water caressing sand. I'll sit in my library tonight and feel recharged; our spontaneous escapade much needed after the harsh re-entry into daily routine from our long holiday break. Over two weeks back into it and we are all struggling still. I question why; perhaps too often. I suppose I wonder what purpose these Industrial Age structures of school and work actually serve any more. We are operating on 19th century paradigms which are long-since obsolete. Like the provincial sensibilities which make abstract art a hard sell even 100 years into the uniquely American story of it, as a nation we all-too-often mistake nostalgia and narrow mindedness for tradition.