Many would argue my art was government
sanctioned. Stroud, my mentor, fully
supported my expression and output and she ensured my benefactor and patron
received the art with an open mind, often directing them to experience the
intent of the journey, disregarding anything they felt might be an error. She challenged them to simply enjoy the
creativity and expression of the artist; not trying to fit the artist into a
pre-conceived notion of the intersection of prose and art. Most of my peers felt words were enough to
convey the complex emotions within their writing. I felt I needed to add a more visual
representation of my voice. My words
needed vibrant color to allow maximum comprehension of my inner turmoil, the
thing which powered my creativity.
Stroud challenged me, sometimes she gave specific
guidance, other times she just let me create; free form. Words, pictures, codes, it didn’t
matter. I was to go where my brain took
me. Some have said it was as if she had
assigned me to create. Her rules were
there were no rules other than being present, in the moment, preferably working
quietly as to not disturb the other gifted and talented second graders in the
trailer on the upper playground of East Side Elementary School in Winnfield,
Louisiana.
My initial assignment, dated Sept. 6, 1977, when I was
but a lad of six, started a productive period spanning nine months (until May,
1978), demonstrating my evolution as an artist and national commentator on
subjects as varied as witches, raindrops, why policemen wear blue and what made
me giggle. At such a young age it seems
I understood the nebulous line between art and commerce, oftentimes co-opting
commercial art to masquerade as an academic exercise. Also, I was partial to magenta.
As an avid reader, viewing this body of work, I was
reminded of someone else who in the late 70s was mired in indecision, pondering
what was more important; creativity and discovering the new or focusing on the
acceptance of the existing to ensure financial viability for the future. Andy Warhol was, in 1977/1978, just starting
to be comfortable in his own shoes as a person, an artist and a social arbiter
between the talented and the monied.
My funding stream, the parents, allowed for a
remarkable lack of tension and stress, often necessary for true
creativity. I feel if I had to fend for
my finances, I may have been less happy but more productive. As it stands, I was comfortable both with my
output and the quality thereof as well as my child-like reliance on brevity and
transparency. I felt no reason to hide
anything from my audience including my incessant need to draw lines and
immediately color outside them. I wonder
if this was a passive-aggressive recognition of observed boundaries and my
cavalier intent to disregard them.
I refer to this time as my invisible war with Mr.
Warhol as he and I seemed to have an agreement to not acknowledge the work of
the other. But there are too many
parallels to now ignore. Although I
existed outside the mainstream art scene nationally, my increasing reliance on
the marriage of style (words) and art, my move toward an almost crass
consumerism as well as my disturbing adoption of the vernacular of the party
scene in NYC begs the question, who was influencing whom?
Whatever the case may have been, Mr. Warhol seemed to
make a specific point not to mention me in his diaries and I wonder was it
professional courtesy, lack of awareness of a fiercely competitive peer or
simply the journalistic peccadilloes of his editrix, Pat Hackett?
Over the next few months, I will share with you these
stories and accompanying illustrations juxtaposed with Mr. Warhol’s entries in
his diary to see how closely he and I were in annotating the world around us,
not as we saw it but as we intended it to be seen and wished it to be. I fully expect this competition to provoke
rigorous debate but in the end we shall see who emerges victorious. Who will win the Pop Art Wars?
This first piece is undated but contains no prose and
is not labeled, hallmarks of my oeuvre.
As such I feel it may have been my first attempt at establishing my
personality as an artist and the acceptance and interpretation (even I am
unaware of its intent) caused me to begin the practice of dating and labeling.
The multi-colored scales seem to nod toward an animal
of a fantastic nature. Note the use of
vibrant color and movement. Also note
both people’s bodies are a deep pink.
Were the protuberances wings?
Were they bubbles? The pink
people, I know, are male based on their haircut. As this was the 1970s and societal norms dictated
gender assignment based on the at-least-since-the 1950s-code of short hair
denotes male, long hair denotes female.
As my brother had just turned three during the summer of 1977, I’m
unsure if he is the other male; I feel fairly certain I incorporated myself
into the work. If it’s not my brother it
may have been any of my friends from that time (Jason, Kyle or JJ) or even my
cousin Jody.
To the perceived movement of the bodies, I wonder if we
are floating? Hopping about in zero
gravity? Jumping? As we are smiling one can assume we are not
falling or being flung from the back of this candy-colored creature.
I know not the source of my fascination with
flamboyant fauna, but it became a touchstone of sorts and continues to this
day, although at the age of 44 11/12ths, I have become said fauna thanks to
Brooks Brothers and Bonobos. But we
aren’t here to discuss my sense of style or Mr. Warhol’s although he did start
the trend of wearing tuxedo jackets with jeans and that alone is a worthy
legacy.
This exercise is supposed to compare our respective
works for both creativity and output. Much
as I, Mr. Warhol was reliant on the use color, almost too much if you listen to
critics of pop art (both his and others like Rauschenberg, Oldenburg and
Lichtenstein). Unlike Mr. Warhol, I
stayed within the boundaries of my own lines.
He traced many of his subjects and purposefully printed them
off-center. Most of his work didn’t have
to be labeled as they were silk-screened prints, not free-form drawings. His experimentation with color was advanced; he
would often invite visitors to urinate on some paintings to change the colors,
which, while vulgar, is creative.
There is no date
for direct comparison and my drawing is freehand while his were typically
traced, so a soup can to soup can comparison is not possible. Even though he was creative, the fact I, as a
child of 6, was able to refrain from urinating on my own art gives me a decided
advantage.
The Pop Art War score thus far is Dusty 1, Andy 0.
Even though I referred to the animal as “he”, I gave “him” the head of a
girl, which is a departure from the concrete gender norms I had been taught at
home and church. What was I trying to
say? What was my motivation? 