In Preparation of Leaving Home: The transitional year of 1985 was both horridly bad and rapturously beautiful, or at least it began as the latter and ended as the former. Application for graduate school was delayed because I waited too late in the year to begin the process. (Where one does not seek counsel, counsel is not given.) This summer is described indirectly in the first chapter of Icarus Transfigured.
My apprehension during that long year can be seen in the paintings. Whether flowingly romantic or borderline psychotic, they show a young man with something to prove: If my fortunes could have been raised through a quantity of brushstrokes alone, then my mind would have been calmed about the unknown journey ahead.
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I sold this painting through the Alice Bingham Gallery in Memphis, Tennessee, which was located in a neighborhood that is now regarded as the Cooper-Young Art District. Had the Memphis art scene been more developed in the mid-80s, I might have moved back home. Alice was a booster and a supporter and, being a genteel Southern woman, was kinder to my uneven artwork than it deserved. However, this was a good painting.
I have never been one to understand the significance of encouragement. Robert Fogelman, member of The Board of Directors for the Brooks Art Museum, brought one of my three-dimensional paintings right out of my BFA show. This was far from discouraging, I now realize, but the gloominess of that year gave me little sound reason.
Acrylic and enamel underpaint helped speed the completion of this oil painting. This canvas has the dubious distinction of being the largest artwork I have ever created. Lantern Coffin, also from this period, is the second largest.
Retouching, Summer of 2021: The original female anatomy in this painting was painful to look at. I kept the head, arm, and one shoulder, and reimagined the body emerging from a box. One rule I have discovered, which cuts across every creative endeavor, is that a work is manageable only up to a certain size. By size, I mean complexity in any conceivable sense in any artform. Once a creative work crosses a line, problems exponentiate.
The color-coded bees will be recalled from my Op Art painting from the previous page.
One of the pitfalls of being a young artist is not being able to see where you are good and where you are bad. The lamp was a particular object of fascination, whereas finishing touches in other areas were of less interest. Slapdash, in and of itself, is not always a bad thing; inconsistency always is. During my retouching of this painting, I made time for some improvements.
Acrylic, acrylic collage, and modeling paste were used. This large work was later destroyed because of its thick inflexible elements. A lot of sentiment went into making this piece, but little was left ot save it.
Oil and acrylic on canvas. One of several self portraits. This one is unapologetically blue.
More oil and acrylic. This painting survived in a roll for several decades. I undertook to improve it at the same time I retouched other older works in the summer of 2021. Many hours later, I realized that I was making no headway, so chopped up the canvas. The central head motif was saved.
The Making of An Artist: I will not dispute Malcolm Gadwell’s benchmark 10,000 hour rule, where 10,000 hours of practice are required before a level of achievement is obtained. I have doubtless logged in as many hours in several pursuits, but to claim extraordinary status would be immodest. Indeed, in the first version of my website, I proclaimed my genius to the world, which may have been premature where 10,000 hours were needed to learn the imprudence of those remarks.
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