Am I a Painter or Caterer On the Opening Floor?

Room #2 at Door 3 Gallery, November 20, 2021.

My first public exhibition happened 13 Years ago. It was at a retired art teachers studio/shop/gallery, and I hired the space for a weekend. The following out-of-focus image is all I have left to prove it happened. It’s my wife posing in front of a few paintings the day after opening to a good crowd that spent more time in the kitchen than contemplating the paintings on the walls for reasons I shall explain.

Rose posing by husband’s 2-D expressions, October 2008.

Mr. Zolo was the retired art teacher whose new business was renting the space and teaching children art on the weekends. His wife, Nancy, also retired, had a craft shop kitty-corner to the studio/gallery. They charged me $160 rent for the weekend, kitchen included, which was a mistake I believe, because it set my standard exhibition protocol for the next decade and beyond.
One would think the investment in time and money matting, framing, publicizing, arranging, decorating, setting out light snacks and maybe some wine and tea, would satisfy expectations visitors carry into a novice painter’s inaugural exhibition. The paintings were good, but no one ever told me that. I made the bulk of them in a studio hut I built in the woods. Squirrels and birds had no opinion to share.

What a chip on my shoulder! For nearly 20 years prior to my coming out exhibition, I dabbled in paint and writing, however worked full time as a line cook, sous chef, chef for a month, what have you. A committed restaurant worker, 2nd rank, self-taught amateur in love with food. Gastronomique was better than a Bible, teaching me how to live richly, rather than accept my stale cracker without complaint, and always in fear of an anthropomorphic God. So I hadn’t any knowledge of the art world, while entering blindly from a rural corner of nowhere. With zero support aside from my wife, and very little confidence in painting, I made the exhibition as much about food and comfort as I did about art on a wall. Probably more so. Butternut squash soup with rosemary croutons, a hearty chili, several quiches, fresh breads, assorted cookies, polenta cake, meat tray, cheese boards, vegetable crudites, beer, wine, pitchers of ice water, tea, coffee... I placed fresh flowers all around the room, a table displayed my expressive books for sale, beside free stuff for quests to take home—books by authors I revered, saved mustard and leek seeds, and a huge bowl filled with freshly harvested tomatillos. A man brought his elderly mother to see the show. When they were leaving she said I was an amazing culinary artist. What?!
The only person to talk to me about the paintings was a business student from the university who “got” that I was trying “to say something” with my work. That brief conversation carried me over to the next painting. Otherwise I would have given up that very night.
In fact I was toying with the idea of abandoning painting altogether to open up a restaurant. A month later I was literally moments away from committing to lease a nearby bistro when I received a call from a local gallerist and curator who offered me $600 to show my work in the college gallery downtown.
I tore up my corporation papers and beer and wine license application, gessoed some canvases, and began planning another opening night menu.

I’m Neither a Chef Nor a Gentleman. Then What the Hell Am I? 2017. Acrylic on paper, 22 x 36"

That was 13 years ago. Little has changed, except that over time I’ve managed to hone my planning and execution of exhibitions to a more sustainable balance. I continue to embellish the room with food and comfort, overcompensating because I don’t trust the paintings on the wall to be enough to influence, instruct or inspire. My gut doesn’t feel that the art is strong enough to capture and pull the people into my world. Museums try it, and fail to show the human without the human there “in the flesh” to exhibit him or herself. Rarely on opening night do I speak about my work. Likewise, few have ever asked me to explain it. Last Saturday while small-talking with a guest about coronavirus (it seems that’s all anybody talks about these days), I suddenly veered from my usual path and explained the inspiration and methods behind the first 5 paintings I pointed to.

An instant high! A new confidence and positivity flooded my amygdala. I knew there was more to that painting, and that one too. These creations didn’t just fall from the sky with all their color and flaws. Art does not speak for itself—only the artist can do that. I know this is blasphemy on the altar of art education, but I can’t come around to believing that people take what they want to take from a painting—that those who do not make it can interpret it however they wish. Well, of course they will, but always at a loss, missing out on the opportunity to experience the poetry of another human being’s expression. I was able to express to my guest, both visually and literally, the gist of a few of these images. If I was dead and gone like all painters will ever be, unable to explain what I felt and/or wanted to make you feel, then a wide gulf in meaning opens up and will remain for as long as the work exists. Enter the art historian who can interpret more grandiosely than a wildly jealous spouse, and make up the craziest plots and subplots about a work of art by a person he has never met.

If the figurative visual artist has nothing to say, then paint photo-realistic nature landscapes, birds, horses, and city streets. Be a human camera, and let the work be judged on technique and skill. You’ll be deservedly praised and applauded for decent copies of what nature expresses every instant, every present moment. I am not in this art game for pride, although it seems like I’m fighting my ego all the time. At face value, my work is naive, mediocre, self-righteous/self-deprecating and sometimes even not at all worthy to be viewed by others. If you take me face value, you’ll probably find that I fit my work perfectly. I am all these things it is and more. Still, you’ll never learn anything at all about the two of us without striking up a conversation.

So, over to the charcuterie tray to gather up the savory, pour a tall cup of wine, and meet me by the painting that appears to be some flowers, a light bulb and a worm dreaming by an open book, but actually means nothing to you that I meant it to be. I’ll explain exactly what it is and how it got there so we’ll become fast friends. You might not care for the painting, but I won’t let you leave without you caring about me, nor I about you.

Now let’s go get some cookies before they run out.

1844 Light bulb 2020. Acrylic on paper, 16 x 20"