We talked about music a lot (Harold posted some mp3 links over at his blog). We talked about blogging. We talked about the paintings of Dennis Hollingsworth and Chris Jagers. We started more threads then we could finish. I kept looking over Harold's shoulder at the stuff on his walls.I really was interested in this one he was working on as a commission for Nordstroms. He tells me that it is upside down for drying purposes.
On short notice I was able to visit Harold Hollingsworth's studio this weekend. He's livin' the real magilla when it comes to studios. Vespa parked in the pad. Shared bathroom down the hall. Dealin' with the particulate of chop saw cuts and huffin' the fumes of all sorts of paints. I actually miss being able to wake up and casting sideways glances over to the working space. It is easy to fall into the out-of-sight-out-of-mind trap in any other sort of studio relationship.We scurried around his space, riffin' on all sorts of visual triggers. I remember making a mental note of the level of organization. I think it is crucial that in order to go hog-wild, one needs to know where everything is. Hog-wild? Psychedelic? Free-style? Harold's new paintings are dippin' into the organic for sure. What doesn't happen is that they don't refer to too much else off of the canvas. They remain in the nothin-but-paint category. This is a hard thing to pull off, as far as I'm concerned. Compare this detail below from one of his monster older paintings to the new piece hanging in the working spaceStencilish vs. what, organic? The graphic clean line is still there, with references to wallpapers and period design, and yet, its better. Check it out, first you lay the canvas down and make a puddle. (I'm already bouncing on my toes at this point because this is how I have been starting everything these days. What can you do with all the potential energy loaded into a puddle).Harold takes a squeegee to it.
I like it this way however. All in all, the time flew by and we found ourselves almost late for Whiting's rock show (I miss the big city. . . not the traffic though). Whiting went on just as we got there.
Someone handed me a Rainier.