The Play Passel

Painters who I once thought were my influences, I see today, were actually associates and not afflations. When I first saw one of Cy Twombly's paintings, the guards at MoMA had to ask me to remove my jaw from the recently waxed floor. My response to painters like Paul Klee, and Jean-Michel Basquiat is one of pleasure, and not inspiration. In Aristotle's "Poetics" he talks of why we enjoy seeing the "likeness" of something. The pleasure I receive from these painters is one of recognition. I already have an affinity for certain types of paintings. (This affinity stems from a history that is only as complex as my ever evaporating childhood). If I read about the painters who are to be my influences (because I take pleasure in viewing their finished products) I am often disappointed.

For many years it seemed to me that to posit "fun" as my greatest influence lacked the seriousness necessary and appropriate to anythig but a tavern conversation. In the case of painters like Basquiat and others, their pleasure from painting has often been labeled decadent, or at best, escapist or trivial. But I feel that in a certain way, fun is always critical: it involves a deflation or leveling of pretentiousness, or the overly serious. The essence of fun is parodic and ironic. But not the sadistic irony that degrades and excludes others in order to justify it's own position of dominance. It is not ironic in the sense that supposes an essessential superiority to its object. I do not see pleasure painting as a form of escapism that avoids "real" and "serious" problems. Others who are serious exclude fun in order to make legitimate their own superior position of knowledge and power. Fun, however, does not position itself as external to seriousness (however much serious discourse tries to exclude it); it is not the negation of seriousness, it does not exclude taking a position on certain issues.

That is why a greater influence on me then any painter in years after my comic book formative years is the literature of the beat generatiton.

Vladimir. Well? Shall we go?
Estragon. Yes. Let's go.
CURTAIN
(Waiting for Godot)

"Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there."
"Where we going, man?"
"I don't know, but we gotta go."
(On the Road)

The first excerpt is full of passivity and the sombre cerebralism of existentialism which did not influence me as much as the second messages' impetus to action and movement which carries a more essential optimism. Although the beat generation's optimism was often confused and naive, it's mood of urgency, determination, and hope, is the prime motivation for my painting. Otherwise, Beckett could easily convince me that anything I do, painting I paint, or action I take, can not alter or mitigate the terrible circumstances of human existence.
So it is, that aside from the beat generations amoral hedonism, the exuberance and ebullience is something that I find infectious. They communicated to me an awareness of existence as possibility, as promise and as wonder that denies the self-limiting cautions and conventions of most people. (Most grown-ups I should say). Play is what informed my paintings of 1993.

From Nelson Mandela's Inaugural speech in 1994:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you NOT to be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us, it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears, our presence automatically liberates others.

Interview with Painter Duane Keiser

When I first started Fish or Cut Bait I thought that I would be doing some interviews. I tested the waters with some friends and quickly came to the conclusion that the nepotistic results left me uneasy. As the FoCB gondola skipped along the earth, "Interviews" were discharged in order to gain some altitude (hot air balloon = my psyche). Floating around in the blogoshphere one day, I spotted Duane Keiser's blog A Painting a Day, and began to observe his trajectory. Early in my posting I observed, "I think I might be a plein air painter in training" and I have even had noncommital conversations with Matthew Landkammer about organizing some en plein air expeditions. What I saw in Duane's paintings was the graceful patience of a skilled plein air painter. He may not be technically alfresco, often painting at night and indoors, but with his daily paintings he has had to work fast (in the painting world this means three hours, give or take) not so much to capture ever-changing light, but to fit in the time. Every day. Even on vacation. Duane doesn't just paint these "postcard" paintings, in fact it seems his true love is the night-time light. This quality of light limits the color range. The cones in our eyes are less light-sensitive than the rods. Whereas the rods react to even minimal amounts of light, considerably more light is required to activate the cones. Thus more light is needed for the differentiation of color than for the perception of differences in brightness. As it gets darker, colors become progressively harder to recognize. I think Dennis' attention to this has made him a better "on the fly" color mixer. In his bigger paintings he has forced himself to "leave his shutter open" longer than most people have the patience for. So, I like his pallete. I like his drawing, his mark making, his chops. That all comes from practice. Quality practice mind you. There are loads of "painting a day" projects out there with questionable quality improvement results. This is simply a matter of taste, I appreciate a certain unspeakable flick or dollop or drag. As far as Duane's subject mattter goes, I'm a sucker for what Annie Dillard calls "healthy poverty", that is, finding wealth in the smallest of things. Downward Nobility I say. So, I asked Duane a few questions, scratching the surface:

s- Are you teaching anywhere?
d- Yes, I teach at the University of Richmond and Randolph-Macon College as an Adjunct Professor.
s- R-MC's website makes it look like the sort of liberal arts environment that I attended at Whitman College in Walla Walla, WA. I imagine that your classes are only fractionally filled by Art majors. Are you teaching fundamentals, or upper level tricks of the trade, or some sort of interdisciplinary direction?
d- Yes, there are actually very few art majors in my classes as both colleges are liberal arts and I mainly teach beginning classes. Every now and then I teach an upper level class but I actually prefer the beginning classes.
s- How is the ebay bidding process working out?
d- --Great. It seems a little more civilized than the first-come first-served situation I had before where it got to the point where the paintings sold so quickly that the only people who could buy one were those who happened to be by a computer when I posted one. This way people can consider the painting for a time (5-day auctions) and decide whether they really want it.
s- I asked this question before I actually clicked on the (click here to bid) link. The auction part of the process has added a whole new drama to my appreciation and experience of the paintings. I often try to estimate what a painting "should" go for and then have fun quantifiably measuring my taste against the final sale price. I'm assuming that you can sell your paintings on the internet because you are not represented by a gallery. . . is that right? A lot of people don't realize that galleries take 50% of the sale price, and sometimes more. You seem to have eliminated the middle-person and entered into the global economy.
d- I still deal with galleries but it is understood that the postcard paintings are my own. The rest of my work is sold at set prices, either via my website or studio, or through galleries. Yes, galleries take a hefty chunk but SOME earn that chunk by doing their jobs... getting the work seen, connecting with patrons and handling advertising and shipping etc year around, NOT just during shows. That's worth 50%. Paying 50% for wall space once a year, however, is NOT worth it. Fortunately, galleries are no longer the only game in town.

s- Do you have a written statement of purpose?
d- Yes, and hopefully it comes out in my paintings.
s- Cheers.

s- How has the Painting A Day project improved your painting?
d- I find that the technical aspects of painting have moved into the background, like breathing. My technique has started to follow my vision rather than the other way around.
s- Funny thing is, I've been taking Tai Chi classes on Sunday mornings lately (two sessions so far) and my instructor said the same thing will happen to my movements if I keep up the discipline for the rest of my life.
d- and I have practiced a very traditional style of Karate for about 20 years (Shotokan.) Much of my understanding of what it means to truly practice something is derived from my expereince with Shotokan. It is funny how the boundaries between disciplines begin to break down the longer they are practiced... my painting informs my karate and vice versa. At first glance that sounds odd, but the fundamental obstacles we face in any kind of practice are the same.

s- What could you get better at?
d- It has gotten to the point where those things I want to improve don't have easy words to describe them. Much of what happens in paint is wordless anyway, so I can't really say "drawing" or "tonalities" anymore. I know there are plenty of things I could do better (when I look at a Velazquez, or a Vermeer etc, I REALLY know.) I know the path I need to take, but I can't quite see what's on that path... if that makes any sense at all...?
s- It makes perfect sense. Personally, I've recently moved over to oil paints and I'm just now pulling twigs out of my hair and brushing the leaves off of my chest after having tripped over several roots in the path.
d- and then there are the bears. . .

s- What sort of medium do you use with the post card paintings?
d- I use venetian turpentine and stand oil with pure turps.
s- Is there a ratio of these that you prefer?
d- 1-1-1
s- Do you have an opinion about Liquin?
d- It's a pretty good all around medium (I used it for years) but it gets a little too tacky too quickly for me. The medium I mention above has a slow, gentle tack to it that I like.
s- How slow? Does it dry over night? How are you getting such nice images so quickly on your blog? Are you a couple days ahead, letting them dry, and then scanning them? Or, if you are taking digital pix of them, what sort of camera do you use?
d- drying time depends on the pigment of course but generally it will be a good several hours. As for getting the images posted on my blog, I've gotten proficient with a basic point and shoot digital camera... Nikon 3200, which is an older camera. Just about any will do these days as long as you have manual controls. I archive the images using a professional SLR digital (Nikon D-70.) Each painting is done on the same day as the posting.

s- Do you listen to music while you paint?
d- Yes.
s. Me too. Although, occasionally I've found books on tape to be a nice change. Read any great books lately?
d- I just reread "What Painting Is" by Elkins who compares painting to alchemy. It really makes you want to paint.

s- Are you a spiritual person?
d- Yes.
s- I have been thinking about this. At first I thought, what a stupid question, but then I thought, what sort of person would say "no"?

s- What does Virginia have that NYC and LA don't?
d- Millie's Diner

s- Are you an "artist" or a "painter"?
d- I'm a painter.

(for further thoughts by Jonathan Foster, click here)

Foliated, 1994

The following is by M. A. Greenstein from Los Angeles, on October 8, 1994:

CRYPTOLOGIST: What's that knotty veneer covering the sun?

PAINTER: What sun? That's not a sun.

CRYPTOLOGIST: Looks like a deadly snare to me.

PAINTER: Decode! Decode!

The painter transforms the surface to seek the unknowable. The cryptologist deciphers the surface to grasp the unkown. The surface is inexhaustible.
(Italo Calvino)

Thinking of recent discussions on DNA coding, Steven LaRose rhetorically asks: "Can we conceive of the very thing that permits us to conceive?" "Can we see the text that creates us?" The artist thus poses a simple though ancient epistemological question: Can the mind (now the brain) know itself? Can we use the (rational) signs of consciousness to understand that which makes us conscious?

Early twentieth-century Japanese philosopher Nishida Kitaro likens the self-reflexive inquiry into human knowledge to one asking, "Can a head look for its head?" "Can a sword cut itself?" In such cases, says Nishida, the rational effort is fruitless, the challenge misguided.

Now, after centuries of examining how, and why, we know what we know, contemporary philosopher, scientist and artist find accord in accepting the cryptological aspect of human knowing. We have only the awesome power to create knowledge by way of signs and symbols. Our knowledge of the world is forever mediated by configurations of intuitive meaning. Meaning is that matrix of complex and oftentimes, contradictory relations between things and no-things. Relations are more like sticky webs of possibility rather than slick links of power. Relations, painterly and otherwise, are born into absolute nothingness.

The following is by Betty Seid for a class she was taking from James Yood. It is in response to my first solo show at Space Gallery in Chicago. As far as I'm concerned, she nailed it:

There are two ways of exploring the universe: introspectively, looking for ever smaller building blocks of existence; or expansively, recognizing the self as the smallest of creatures within the enormity of the cosmos. Depending on philosophy or point of view, Steven LaRose's Foliated series can be seen as a visual representation of either process. His paintings have an architectural orderliness that is often shocking to discover in the organic - a pristine crystalline landscape in a gooey blob of protoplasm, usually evident only through the lens of a microscope. And they reveal layers of webs that must be probed to understand the depth of the universe - the distance to be traveled, defined by a far away light. Whatever the approach, be it macro- or micro-, the artist has reversed the viewer's expected point of view. With the light source a visible orb glaring out blindingly, it is the viewer, and hence the artist, who is on display.

The layering of image in LaRose's paintings is created by layers of polymer on board. Their hard glossy surface is attained with the application of a coat of polymer over each stratum of image. Each web sits encased in its own dimension, covering the surface, allowing the viewer to see into and through it before it can be transcended. Swimming through the shining depths toward blinding light, the viewer becomes part of the painting, drawn in and kept out at the same time. There are seven large works in this exhibition and 18 small pieces (approx. one foot square). All use the same "foliated" formula. An over-all background pattern is laid down: either a geometric/organic blend of landscape seen from a great height, or a spattered faux-granite surface, or merely a wash of muted color. Overlaid, and centrally placed, is an orb of painted white light, occasionally with a soft golden-hued aureole. In the middle ground is suspended either a shower of floating forms - tiny colored spheres, beans, or some other amorphous configuration - or a finely wrought web of filigree, each rendered with careful attention to the distant light source that illuminates them. Finally, LaRose creates a bold linear barrier that presses up against the picture's surface, but is still formally obedient to the glaring light. This takes the form of rough tree limbs, distressed furniture spindles or weathered wroght iron grillwork. It has been left unglazed and thus jumps off the painted surface, challenging the viewer to penetrate its open spaces into the illusionistic beyond.

The largest painting in the show, A Map of the Map, exemplifies the formula with a distant landscape background, blinding central void of white light, and two backlit tubular filigree networks - one red, one ochre - that meet and entwine in the middle of the horizontal format. Each layer is encapsulated in glossy polymer, enhancing the effect of real light emanating from the painted spot of white. The unglazed surface pattern can be read as a greatly magnified black web with much open work. But here LaRose departs from his usual furmula, allowing a simple shift of the viewer's vision to convert dimension from convex to concave. The surface reads as the sort of network of depressions that form on parched and baked earth. Either way, it works. This painting (as are the others) is indeed a map - cosmological and geographical, interior and exterior - an exploration of the existence of physical and psychological space.

The 18 smaller paintings are hung as a unit, two rows of nine, and although they are being sold individually, they function as a sketchbook for intimate investigations of the larger formal themes. In The Spirit of Gravity, for example, the forward-most unglazed element is not linear but rather a floating school of rough textured black lumps. LaRose also experiments with color in this smaller format. In two of the paintings the usual white light has been replaced by black, an interesting twist both visually and metaphorically. In Riprap, color is the primary feature. The distant background is black, speckled with primary colors. The standard format continues with a blinding white spot, in front of which is a layer of primary colored irregular shapes - the specks of distant space have floated forward, their dimensions defined by the light behind them. And the matte surface barrier consists of a mesh of gnarled brown branches.

LaRose paints within the well-defined parameters of the formal exercise that he has set for himself. The path is marked and he has graciously invited the viewer to join him. Whether the journey is external, moving through and away from grids of confinement out into the labyrinthal tissue of the universe, or internal, toward the most basic space within the center of a cell, it is a path of exploration with the same ultimate goal: exfoliation until the totality of light is attained.