Cold Feet
The homeless subject of my work began with the simple observation of a people laying on the sidewalk. It always looked wrong and, finally, it became impassable. What made a difference was a change of state. A line had been crossed, a threshold of tolerance. The homeless had not changed. I had. You could say I'd had enough. The fact of the matter could no longer be ignored.
The homeless painting series began as a pathetic, shriveled body laying on the ground, surrounded by a lot of empty space -open space, public space, exposed space. As a personal disclosure, the contrast between the focal point of an isolated body, surrounded by vacancy, suggested to me artistic possibilities. You could say I was taking advantage. Everyone responds differently to the homeless problem. My response is artistic.
The homeless figure in my art is a not very challenging problem, artistically. The figure is typically featureless, easy-to-draw, and instantly recognizable by the viewer as a homeless person. It's the vast empty space in which the figure exists that is artistically challenging, both to the artist, and to the viewer. How to paint the feature-less background in which the figure is situated so as to make it artistic is the immediate challenge, because if the artist hates it, no other viewer will so much as see it.
Therefore, after much consideration, and very much trial and error, I lit upon the distinctive trend of my current work. Every artist who works in oil painting—at one point or another—defaces the painting being painted, whether out of exasperation, from frustration, at not getting it exactly right, or for whatever (subjective) reason the artist may have. What happens next (and I would estimate happens to probably 99% of all artists who ever worked in oil paint) is that the hated canvas—now smeared and summarily defaced, looks interesting to the artist! It becomes that rarity-of-rarities, a discovery.
I have discussed this climactic studio moment with artists. When the aesthetic of the effect is pointed-out to traditionalists, they become taciturn, refuse answer, seeming to “reserve the right to remain silent,” as if they had done wrong. They flatly refuse to acknowledge it, as if staring at an apparition of a ghost. Abstract-oriented artists (on the other hand) go too far, claiming to see more than is there. It is a flash point in discussion. It changes everything. Certain traditionalist artists have never spoken to me again. With the fanatics—the super-subjectivists—it's like taking a blood oath, a commitment.
As is my nature, I tend towards the middle; neither too reserved, nor too wild. A modest, self-effacing oil painting technique is my signature style. It is an approach to painting reduced to the essentials and, at the same time independent, stubborn, provocative, deliberate, even rude, because (as they say), “when you find something that works, go with it.” And, taking friendly advice, is my forte. What is undeniably problematic about my art is the inherent contradiction between artistic technique that "works," and the insolvable problem of its subject, i.e., homelessness. It is a unique approach that makes the ugly easy to look at (easy on the eye), while offending the sense of smell.
That seems so wrong on so many levels. I should be quick to add that painting derelicts is not as easy as my glib self-assessment might make it sound. These paintings of the fallen may look as carelessly made as the bums they depict. That, along with my couldn't-care-less self-assessment, might make it seem as if I'm nonchalant, however, it's not so. Every painting is a struggle, a struggle with myself, and with my own doubts.
If the preceding doesn't give the impression of struggle by an artist with the work of art, it should be nonetheless taken as nothing compared to the difficulty presented upon confronting the human face of homelessness, as subject of art. My face paintings look back at the viewer. They look into you, the viewer. At this point I should defer, as a disclosure, my inadequacy as a writer, of in-depth, written description of the emotional subjectivity of the whole problem of homelessness to a dedicated writer. I fear that banalities, such as the trite comment that, "the eyes follow you," are all that come to mind.
Admittedly, the difficulty of explaining my work is not so easily dodged. There is, in truth, an abstract artistic phenomenon exuded by these paintings of homeless men's faces. I am only the first to see what's there to be seen. What I will stand for is that it is that abstract aesthetic, defined previously, which separates these images from the type of the Academic portrait, which should (theoretically) contain zero subjectivity. By 'subjectivity' I mean that of the artist, not that of the subject, much less that of the viewer. Like any commissioned work, the proclivities of the painter of the Academic work of art should not be evident.
Clearly that's impossible given the subject of homelessness, specifically, the faces of homeless men. This subject is entirely about subjectivity: yours, mine, and the homeless. I must admit I cannot, as an occasional writer, resist the temptation to make a bad pun here; that the visible neediness on homeless men's faces “begs the question” -because they are beggars. What do they want? They only ask for humanity, says the painting.
In my paintings of homeless men's faces the eyes don't simply follow the viewer; they look into your soul. It is possible others don't see what I see. I'm uncertain, because I have not shown them, yet. Up until a certain point in the development of my style, I dealt with faces as I did with the figure-ground panoramas described, above. That was before the person in the picture asserted himself, reached-out, protested his own subjectivity. I wasn't sure I liked what I was painting, at first. I rather resented the struggle of wills. It's too late now, anyway. We're going down that road, like it or not. What can safely be assumed is each “portrait” will be different, individual, and have a subjective effect on the viewer, as they have on the painter.