What is your biggest fantasy; the dreamlike imagery that brings your mind to realms beyond what human eyes see on a daily basis? To me the best fantasies have a basis in reality because that allows us to imagine that we can one day fulfill those fantasies…or at least come close. Those things we feel as if we are lacking, a triumph of social justice, a personal pursuit, a passion obtained, a fulfillment of a feeling we’ve never felt, but know exists…these are all factors, conscious or not, in our fantasies. A fantasy is personal, yet often grand and encompassing of a world we wish to see.
How do we visualize these fantasies? Some have great imaginations seeing imagery without needing further input from outside sources; in other words, those who can visualize. Others require that outside input. This is where art comes in. Art that speaks to you makes you feel like a giant, 10 feet tall and able to reach beyond what you thought possible…or maybe it makes you soar like an eagle, feeling as if you can float high above the treetops, dominant over your domain. That’s my kind of fantasy art anyway, art that lifts you up, boosting you to a higher place, bringing you in, and giving hope, even if it only exists in your brief gaze upon said art.
It is not unusual for me to see people emote when viewing my work. Back in the day I loved how it would make people smile, maybe laugh. I still get smiles and laughs often, though many of my newer paintings see people in front of the canvas with heads turned, intensely contemplating the vibrantly brushed story staring back at them. A delay… and then a big smile, a question, a sigh, tears…it varies because each painting tells a different story to each viewer.
Tears. This reaction often makes me just as happy as a great big smile. It means I’ve connected. And then I’m there to listen. The story of why a piece speaks to someone gives that painting purpose, a calling. And for me personally, floating around in the deep end has more purpose when I’ve connected with someone through my work. (To read more about the deep end, check out my blog post from August 1st).
You can’t force a visual fantasy. Trying to capture someone else’s exact vision from head to canvas is nearly impossible, but an artist can exude a mood, an overall environment in which that person can sit and experience a feeling they wish to feel. That’s the real fantasy factor of a painting…when someone wants to live inside of it for a while. I paint pieces that I want to see, that I want to be surrounded by, that I want to feel…depictions of the world as I imagine it can be.
Social justice. I never thought of myself as a warrior growing up, either through my art or otherwise. I’ve discussed in previous writings about my timidity of expression in my very early works. I held back a lot…too much, or so I thought. I’ve come to realize that I used the time when I wasn’t fully expressing myself to practice, think, and plan for a more revolutionary body of work. I’ve uncovered so many sketches and designs that I had done…some of them I had duplicated years later without remembering I had ever sketched that same thing in the first place. The difference between then and now is that I’m more able to tackle the task at hand, creating a fantasy on canvas that I’ve always imagined, but didn’t have the skills or the testicular fortitude to bring to fruition. Current events loom large in much of my work input. Discussion of LGBTQ curriculum bills lit a fire under me to get going on bringing LGBTQ history to life. I cannot control what teachers teach, or what school districts allow them to teach, or what parents are educating their kids about, but I can create art for the world to see. History portrayed in whimsical imagery, sometimes literal, and sometimes just a sign of the times. Most importantly, I try and represent.
Radical. Beyond history, I’ve long held the “radical” beliefs that sexuality and gender are things to be celebrated, that equity and diversity are virtues, that laughter is essential, that bodies are beautiful, that consent is key, that black lives matter, that brown lives matter, and that being young at heart is much more important than ones actual age.
Rainbow. As a self-aware gay man I’ve come to understand that my very existence is revolutionary. I can’t claim to know what it is like to be black, brown, transgender, or any other “other”, but I do know what it feels like to be the “other ” in the room. And you know what? I love it. Not being the only other mind you, I thrive on being around all the other others. A room full of everyone who is the same is boring. Being a token is boring. My favorite color is rainbow, and I think that says a lot about my artistic mindset. I literally could never decide on a favorite color, and I cannot feel comfortable in a room full of people who are all the same because I much prefer the diversity of color, gender, age, etc. It means there are new stories to be told from varying experiences, varying voices. It’s my happy place, even if it is sometimes a fantasy.
Black lives. I’m often asked who my favorite person is from my painting “Common Threads: the Birth of Pride”. That’s a difficult question to answer, but my favorite to discuss is Essex Hemphill. Why? Everyone has heard of MLK and his epic and essential life. Some have heard of Bayard Rustin, a gay black man who did amazing civil rights work alongside MLK during the 50’s and 60’s. Despite the LGBTQ curriculum bill taking effect in Illinois and a few other states around the country, the life of Essex Hemphill will most likely not be a story shared in K-12 schools.
So here’s the scoop. Essex was a Chicago born, D.C. raised gay black poet who was known for making a giant contribution to the D.C. art scene through his brave writings and readings. Here we have a young gay black man making a career in the 80’s and 90’s writing poetry about being a young gay black man, and receiving awards, fellowships, and grants for doing so (www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/essex-hemphill). In 1986 his friend and fellow writer, Joseph Beam, published an anthology of poems from gay black artists entitled “In the Life”. The anthology included Essex’s work and it received attention worldwide. After Joseph died of AIDS in 1988 Essex worked with Joseph’s mother to complete the sequel anthology they entitled “Brother to Brother”. Dorothy Beam invited Essex to come live in her home so they could work on the project together. While she knew of her sons homosexuality and writing content, she didn’t know of Joseph’s battle with AIDS until after he succumbed to the disease and his writings then hit the grieving mother in a whole new way. In 1992 Dorothy Beam was quoted as saying, “My son knew I’m a worker, I’m a go-getter... In his heart, my son knows I would finish his book. If there is a heaven, he’s there and he’s smiling.”
(this information and more on the story of Dorothy Beam can be found in this January 2019 Philadelphia Inquirer article, written shortly after her passing https://www.inquirer.com/news/joseph-beam-dorothy-obituary-lgbt-black-gay-brother-20190105.html).
I am not black, and hold exactly zero claim to the experience of someone who is, but I have known many moms. Mom’s of LGBTQ people. I’ve known those who embrace their children fully, and those who don’t. Joseph Beam’s mother is a woman who wanted the legacy of her son and those like him to not only live on, but to be celebrated, and she spent much of her life working towards that goal. Dorothy Beam mentioned heaven; while I myself land somewhere in the vicinity of atheist or agnostic, I do hope there is a heaven, because Dorothy Beam belongs there along with Joseph, and Essex and alongside all the other moms, dads and guardians who embrace and celebrate their LGBTQ kids. Essex, for his part, continued his work as long as life would allow…showing a nation the intersectionality of being black and gay…in the 80’s and 90’s no less. How did he do this? When asked in a 1990 interview by Chuck Tarver published in Network about a joke he made about “[being} gay in only a few cities, but [being] black where ever you go”, Essex responded, “Each part of me empowers me. So I can’t say, well my left hand is gay and my right hand is black.” At the end of the same interview he was asked about his often used salutation “take care of your blessings” and he reminds us that we all have our talents, saying, “Some of us bake wonderfully, write, paint, do any number of things, have facilities with numbers that others don’t have. Those are your blessings…so take care of your blessings”. This resonates with me as much as his passion for educating folks about intersectionality through his poetry. If you’re a mature person who has never heard or read the readings or writings of Essex Hemphill, I recommend it (the fainter of heart should be prepared to clutch their best pearls due to the intentionally provocative nature of some of his works).
Portraying the value of diversity in my work truly is as much fun as it is important to me. I enjoy the challenge, adding the fantasy factor to real imagery, bringing each piece back to a place where folks can hear it speak to them. One person’s simple kiss in public is another’s revolution. One person sees cute elephants, another sees a poignant reminder of a pivotal life moment. One person sees representation of people in history, another sees themselves represented in history. From trite to deep, or anything in between, how one sees these pieces is based in their own back-story more than the intention of my vision.
Whimsy. I’ve long been a fan of curved lines, of flow, of things swirling, falling and dripping. These natural elements are embedded into my man-made visuals. Just like you can never fully capture ones fantasy, you can’t fully capture nature either, so I focus on making nature better. Brighter colors, exaggerated lines, an angel, a dragon, a phoenix rising from the ashes in an abundance of spectral realness.
So here it is. The phoenix.
The ultimate symbol of strength and renewal so many of us are imagining for ourselves and for the world right now for various reasons. The global pandemic has not only caused cataclysmic disruption to our lives on it’s own, but it has made the already weak points in our society fracture, and put unique stressors on our relationships. Like the phoenix, we will rise from this. Will we ever be the same? No, and that’s probably a good thing. In my fantasy we are each using this time to think differently, build and rebuild our skill sets, hold fast to those who are good for us, and chart a new course for the future, rising through the ashes in a resplendent burst of color. My hope for “Rainbow Phoenix Rising” is that it raises people up along with it.
In my opinion, good art, while it may awe, should not make people feel small. The Statue of Liberty, for example, is seen by some as a symbol of America’s freedom and to others it is seen as a symbol of what America should be. Two very different views of the same art, and yet either way it uplifts the spirit, maybe with a feeling of pride, or a drive to work harder to better the lives of others. Either way, we rise with her, lifting our own torches for our own reasons.
Young at heart. Millennials and Gen Z are fabulous at being socially aware, and appreciating art. In any era, younger generations are often looked upon with dismay by older generations. I have a one-word theory of why this phenomenon exists…empathy. To expand on that one word, once people reach a certain age it seems that they forget about what the early part of their journey was like, that they were passionate, made mistakes, had fun, pushed the envelope. Often times parents and guardians raise children as if the child is to pick up where the parents left off, as if the children should have learned from the experiences of the parents to be the kind of better people the parents had envisioned. That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works. Certainly we can learn the words of others experiences, but the experiences of others are not our own. We are all individuals and we start from scratch with our own fresh journey. I truly believe that empathizing with our younger selves is the gateway to good mentoring of the next generation. This is how we stay young at heart.
Each generation is a phoenix unto themselves. Those who have risen in decades past would do well to blow oxygen into the young puissant embers. This is what being an ally is…helping others to glow. The journey doesn’t cease to proceed without supporters, but it sure does make the path longer and steeper if we go it alone. Rising from the ashes doesn’t mean we were ever defeated…it is a rebirth of sorts, but to me the phoenix is the story of those who have been beaten down, not just in this moment, but over time, only to get fired up and ready to go once again. These are the spirits that never die, and this is the spirit that I hope comes through in my art and in this piece. Those who are spirited, playful, ageless, those open to learning, those who appreciate the colors of life that even the most privileged among us can view with wonder, those are the hearts that beat loudest in my ears and those are the hearts that I paint for.
So the phoenix is a mythical creature, but is its meaning pure fantasy, or does it signify a reality? I think that’s up to you…you with the hearts that I paint for.
Watch the video version of this blog here:
Have you ever felt that driving force to to achieve something, striving to obtain that spot on the proverbial podium for what seems like ages, and once you get there you don’t quite know how you’ll thrive in your newfound position? As a lifelong artist I feel this way pretty regularly. Sometimes reaching an achievement proves to be lackluster on its own, and it’s not always the giant, glowing, star shooting, confetti falling, angels trumpeting from heaven kind of moment that will stick with us.
One of my absolute favorite parts of childhood was summer camp. I loved it because you didn’t have to be “cool” or popular in your everyday life to fit in. The most awkward among us could thrive, being our best selves. Having an older brother who was a couple notches cooler than I was in non-camp life sure didn’t hurt. I had confidence straight away when I got to camp as Paul and I were treated like rock stars the second we’d step out of Mom’s car and were greeted by our summer friends. Even as the years went on and my brother aged out, I still felt amazingly loved and looked up to, which gave me an abundance of confidence. A confidence I felt none of at school (Junior High is awful, am I right?!). Sure I was a good artist, and I showed that off when I could, but at camp I was also seen as a really good athlete (Ikr?!). Everyone wanted me on their team. After Paul left camp, I was often the first one picked for sports teams. Honest to Judy I have no idea why this was the case in kickball…my foot rarely connected with that spherical object, but I digress…
Swimming days were the best. Twice a week we were bused over to a local college to use the pool. I started off in the shallow end with most of the camp. In the shallow end we spent half of the time learning the basics of swimming and the other half playing games and screwing around. But there was another side to the pool…where the older kids were…effortlessly swimming laps across the huge expanse of the dark blue section of the pool, diving for rings, being amazing.
The deep end. I wanted to be there.
As young artists we spend so much time in the “shallow end”, learning to use pencil, watercolor, clay, paint, etc. playing with mediums we’ve never tried before. So much practice. For those of us who always knew we’d end up in a creative field, it was time very well spent, and while we continue to practice for a lifetime, we can’t stay in the shallow end forever. Our work needs to mean something more, it needs to speak to people…the louder the better if anyone is ever going to hear or see our artistic message.
High School art classes were, in many ways, like summer camp to me. While I was obviously in the room with other kids from school, I thrived there. I loved creating in that space. It was the one room in school where I could be as much of “me” as an otherwise shy, closeted high schooler could be. I credit Mrs. Pope and Ms. Funke for fostering that fulfilling environment…not all art teachers are created equal, and these two gave me that space. I was good at something…art…and in that room everyone knew it. It wasn’t just about being good, but some of us were actually interested unlike half of the class, a hilariously inspirational, yet unserious group of people who mostly took these classes for an easy “A”.
Ha, an “A”. Grades matter so much more when you really want it. Junior year I painted the best watercolor I had created up until that point (and it's still my favorite). It was a scene based off of a photo I had taken in Hawaii the summer before. I was so proud of that piece. I rarely used watercolor, so just coming up with such a magnificent output was a clear triumph.
I know Ms. Funke was watching me as my eyebrows furled…looking at the grade she had given me with contempt, alongside the note that said “more motion in the trees”. I looked around the room at others receiving their grades on their latest projects…pieces of art thrown together in haste by people who didn’t give a damn…half of them got undeserved A’s. Garbage. I got it. More was expected of my work. She probably figured it would get under my skin and push me to do that much better the next time. That’s fine…I still wasn’t about to look at her again the rest of the period. I think of this A minus a lot. That one grade surely had me subconsciously throwing motion into my work over time in High School and even more so after, as I began my art career in earnest. It was also a good metaphor for how I’ve felt much of my life. A minus. Good, but not quite great, in so many ways.
So there I was, in the shallow end, swimming laps of freestyle and backstroke, trying to make my way through a fun loving, yet sloppy crowd of my fellow A minuses to get from one side to the other.
And then I heard it. The voice of Ms. Nolan. She was the shallow end swim instructor at the time, and interestingly an artist herself. She eventually left camp to pursue an art career in Paris. Gosh I loved her. She called out to me with her fingers a half-inch apart, “Peter, you’re this close to being in the deep end”.
I was so excited I gulped a bunch of gross shallow end pee water while trying to maintain a good backstroke. I grabbed the wall, ready to show off the best damn freestyle I’ve ever swam.
“You’re in the deep end!” Ms. Nolan proclaimed.
And she meant immediately. Thrilled, I jumped out of the pool and walked over to the dark blue waters of the deep end. There was a different instructor on that side of the pool for “advanced swimming”, he was currently doing a lap of breast stroke, while the handful of others in this exclusive club were taking turns showing off their swimming prowess. No one was gulping down pee water as they struggled to reach the wall, there were no kickboards, and the atmosphere was much more serene. As I stared into the water my excitement didn’t disappear, but it was filtered with a layer of “oops”. Lessons were basically over for the day so I just jumped in. My feet didn’t touch the ground. Where’s the bottom? This is deeper than I thought, and It’s colder. They probably don’t pee as much in this end. I could hear the sounds of my friends in the shallow end having fun and splashing around. I kinda missed them, but hey, I’ll see them back at camp. On this side of the pool I was the newbie, the weakest link, the youngest, an A minus in a group of A pluses with an opportunity to prove myself once again. This would be more challenging.
I reached this step as an artist years back, when I decided I was ready to take the plunge and express with my liquid colors full time. It was uncharted waters for me…both scary and exciting as I looked at the vast expanse of options before me, trying my best in a field of well-seasoned artists. Over these many years, I’ve driven myself to dive through what is expected of a painter. I feel like I’ve pushed boundaries of subject matter and brought new life to old imagery. I’ve created whimsy in my work, creating visual stories through color play and unique line work. I’ve discovered ways to trick myself into “perfecting” each piece like looking at my work in grayscale to make sure I’ve got the color tones the way I want them. The black and white in my “Thaddeus Art Behind the Scenes” YouTube video was not just creative flare...it was an expansion of this desaturation practice I use for every piece I create...in addition to the fact that I love me some black and white silent film. The new part for me is the video production itself. Throughout this new adventure I've shown off my drag persona Champagne Toast, and created S.B.P, Grayson, L.P., and others. As a group we have been able to bring the artwork to life in a new way on YouTube.
I’m proud of what my work has become, not just in style or subject matter, but in what it means to others. It’s the connection with others through my work that I’m most happy with. It means I’ve done something right so far. A new gallery opportunity this coming fall will provide me with some amazing ways to connect with new people. While I enjoy travel and meeting people in new places, over time I’ve realized that there isn’t anywhere to go beyond the dark blue waters, it’s living up to the challenge while being here that is what keeps one afloat. No matter how we swim, or what waters we come from, it's all one big pool we are swimming in. I’m still young, and the world has only seen a splash of what I have in my head. There are countless options for me to explore in the future, diving further, stroking towards an “A”, or dare I say, an “A plus”. I’m not entirely certain what that will mean for my work, or my prismatic life…all I know is that I will be figuring it out alongside all the others in the deep end.
It seems to me that life is one big search party. We search for ourselves, our purpose, our loves…we discover who our friends and family really are. Growing up, no one ever tells us that most of the questions that we ask as youth are unanswerable using someone else’s words. As we all end up learning, we need to find these things for ourselves.
It should come as no surprise that as an artist I prefer imagery over words. I often struggle to unearth the right words to explain how I feel, which is especially evident right now during the tumultuous time that we find ourselves in. (And yet I start writing a blog *eyeroll*). Even answers to simple questions such as, What are you working on, When is your next exhibit, even How are you, have been escaping me. The creative professions, specifically the fine arts, are impacted differently than other fields of work when the world is turbulent.
What does an artist do to keep a positive vibe in their work when the world is burning, or during a bitter cold winter, or during a time of great personal struggle? Some artists turn to dark art, changing the direction of their work. That may work for some artists. But hello? Have you seen my work? I am Peter frickin’ Thaddeus, painter of vibrant artwork full of life, love, and pride. I see in color. How could I possibly turn this body of work into something as angry as the world that surrounds us? What does an artist with an upbeat artistic vibe do to protect against the darkness around us?
I think it’s physically impossible for me to create dark or angry art. Believe me, I’ve tried. The darkest I've gotten was a black and white (ish) series of paintings years back. What began as deep brooding paint strokes on canvas turned into a series of Old Hollywood celebrities like Hedy Lamar and Jean Harlow…from that fabulous photo shoot of her with the vase of what I believe were hydrangeas. Sure, they aren’t colorful like most of the work I’ve done otherwise, but they are far from “dark”. I love me some old movies. Silent horror is amazing. The visuals without knowing what is to come because there are no audible words—brilliance they probably didn’t even know they had. If I tried to paint these scenes they’d view more as “Young Frankenstein” than “Nosferatu”.
More recently than the Old Hollywood celebs, I've started using a rain motif in my work. I love the rain. Not at an outdoor art show of course, but I’ve had some of the best times in the rain. It’s also a sign of renewal and life. Once your hairdo is already ruined there’s really no sense in fretting, right? I use rain as an overlay in some of my work—imagery I really wanted to paint, but the rain adds one more element, one more challenge if you are predisposed to see it that way. That said, my rain motif is meant to be, and I think generally seen as an added element as opposed to something sad or dark. At least the way I paint it.
It’s my nature. I’m predisposed to the positive, whether I like it or not. Of course I don’t always feel happy. I can’t even count the number of times just this week that I wanted to throw in the towel. Or throw that towel at the wall, or out the window. Or wrap that towel around a rock, set it on fire, and throw it through said window. To be certain, these are tough emotional times for us creatives who spend our lives exploring our own expression in all times, good, bad, and otherwise, only to make the final product visible to a world that may or may not feel a connection to it.
With all of this swirling in my mind, I have to say that if I’ve been successful at anything in my 20+ years as a professional artist, it’s keeping my work bright, upbeat, and unique.
So what’s my secret? I have a few.
First, I have created my own world. I’ve done my best to create studio space that is another home…a creation station where I can block out the world for specific periods of time to focus on forming my visuals of expression and send them back out to the world as I rejoin it. During winter I spend long hours in the studio creating and planning. The short days never bother me, because my hours are so long I often never see the gloom of the outdoors (with the possible exception of a walk to and from the house, as my studio is on the second story of my detached garage). I store my vibrant collection of paintings partly on the walls of my house to keep my mood up when I'm there, and the rest I store in my studio…within eyeshot of the painting area. This distance is close enough to give me energy from the work, but far enough so as not to influence my next piece too much.
Influence. That’s a question I get quite often. What famous artist influenced me? Judging by the looks on the faces of folks who have posed that question over the years, I never seem to have an acceptable answer to it. There really isn’t an artist that my work is “influenced” by in terms of style. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the work of many artists, and can even sometimes find commonalities in other artists work when I think about it. I love the color-play of the Fauves, the simple brilliance of the art of Keith Haring, and the comic intrigue of Roy Lichtenstein, but I’ve never thought to spin off of any of their styles. I’ve always frowned on the idea of recreating others art (except during the learning process of course). This is part of me creating my own world. I would much rather craft something in my brand than model my collections after an artist already famous for their style. This has been the key to the uniqueness of my work. Even if it means I’m starting from scratch in getting the world to see and understand my work. I’d rather be authentically fresh in my approach.
What is another secret to keeping my work upbeat? Constantly being conscious of the difference between my input and my output…my input being how I feel, and my output being what the world sees. Just because I’m angry when I paint something doesn’t mean it will look angry. Often times my strongest emotions, when paired with a paintbrush, create a focused vision on canvas. My input changes as my mood shifts while creating a piece, and by the time I get towards the end, I’m more conscious of what that piece is portraying to the world (my output). What feeling or emotion is this output evoking? It varies from painting to painting, but most often I hear “happy”, “powerful”, “wow”, and the like. More recently I’ve gotten tears…from happiness or poignancy, either way, I still consider those “positive” tears. As I approach the point where a painting becomes more complete, I consider its output and decide whether I can imagine others feeling such feelings. If so, I continue to complete the piece as planned. I want my pieces to portray progress, both in style and substance. Jumping down a dark rabbit hole is not what Thaddeus Art progress looks like. I didn’t even like writing that sentence. Most of this thought process is second nature to me now.
Aside from all that, and maybe most importantly, I’m able to keep my artwork upbeat during the down times because I try everyday to surround myself (virtually or otherwise) with those people who make me feel that there is always room for more good in this world, the kind of good that is beautiful, that is healing, that is fun.
We may not ever get all the answers we seek and as barriers pop up along the way, every one seemingly worse than the next, it's worth reflecting and remembering just how we were ever able to see clearly in the first place. To me art is not only a snapshot of any given time, but it is a beacon, leading us to our next discovery.
“What inspires you?” Is a question I’m often asked, and I never seem to have the quick response that some people are looking for. It’s more complicated than saying “rainbows inspire me” or “queer people inspire me”. Those things may be true, but they come out sounding shallow and silly in comparison to what has actually inspired my art over time.
I started painting heavily around age 12. I’ve been “arting” for as long as I can remember, but I began painting seriously around age 12. I started with tropical themes, because I loved the beach and sunsets so so much. The colors of the sunsets, tropical flowers, lava, and the ocean are all vibrant and bright, so that’s the palette I used (and it stuck!). They were true to my subject, and besides, those colors made me happy, so why not? I used vacation photos and pictures from Hawaii calendars for images to work from. This was my main body of work from middle school and into high school.
The tropical theme was great and I've revisited it over the years, but I wanted to paint people. Not just any people, though. I wanted to depict the people that I wanted to depict (crazy for a teenager, right?!). I wasn’t very good at it, but that didn’t matter. The idea of painting certain people made me come alive. Let’s come back to this.
In my early high school drawing classes we didn’t draw the human form…it was mostly still-life’s and horses…ugh the horses. I learned to draw a horse skeleton before I had any formal training on drawing the human form (which I largely taught myself over time). At home I drew women. Many, many women. Women in dresses. Dresses with fringe and feathers. And those hats! Great Judy Garland did I love to design women’s clothing! I drew other things of course. Floor plans and renderings for houses, hotels, restaurants, entire islands…I loved to design EVERYTHING. I taught myself to draw many things, but painting…painting is different. It’s not only an advanced skill level but painting on canvas just felt more permanent. Something I’d have to show off. A canvas painting is too big to tuck away, I can’t just toss it in a sketchbook.
Back to people…there’s something about painting a person that inherently tells a story. It says a lot about the artist, as well as the subject. Ok, fashion…I loved that, but I also wanted to portray something more. Something more passionate, more raw, more (let’s face it, I was a teenager) sexual. I wanted to paint gay people. I didn’t know exactly how I would go about it at that point, but I wanted to. What’s something adjacent? Hmm, passionate, raw, sexual, AND something I can have out on a canvas for everyone to see... Ah yes. Marilyn Monroe. Classic. Not the skirt-blowing scene from “Seven Year Itch”, but shiny gold dress Marilyn (I did pencil drawings of her in many outfits but that shimmery gold dress was the winner).
It was during these painting exercises when I began to realize why gay people loved Marilyn, and Lucy, and Judy, and Liza, and Princess Diana, and all the divas so much. The stories they exuded through their iconic imagery alone was enough for me at the time. Their real stories were attractive too. They drew me in, so I drew them. Princess Di could be seen in situations from high fashion pageantry to physically embracing people dying of AIDS. That meant a lot. Both of those things. The imagery. All of it. And besides, I kinda had a crush on Prince William. I looked up to Lucy. She was an enormous talent, funny yet fashionable...amazing. I wanted to be like her but my own version. I didn't know of many publicly gay people at that time. Few queer celebrities for me to look up to, to paint, to model myself after. I did love Christine Jorgensen, as I had seen "The Christine Jorgensen Story" from 1970 several times. Her image made it to the idea board in my room, but I never portrayed her in art. Transgender is still under the rainbow umbrella, and I just wasn't ready to paint anything under that umbrella, as much as I wanted to.
I wanted my own brand of realness. If I couldn’t have it for real at that age and stage of my life, then I would paint it. So, I edged closer. I created a small 8 inch by 10 inch painting of two people headed in for a kiss…two men…silhouettes in the night. Surely no one would guess that they were two men, right? I mean, they are just silhouettes. The thing is, while I had an abundance of passion and drive, I was sorely lacking courage (I once rocked a Cowardly Lion costume...no acting needed!). After I took a good mental picture of the two men, I painted over one of them to make him look more feminine. There. It still has the meaning behind it for me, but no one will ever know. I didn't even sign this travesty of pride expression...I've always signed my pieces, even the ones I thought weren't great. Not this one.
Eventually we painted people in a high school painting class…a self-portrait. Great. Do I paint in the acne that is all over my face, or nah? I chose nah. I preferred the abstract Peter. I painted a version of myself with wild, super tall hair in red and blue color scheme. Abstract was better. Abstract allowed for the imagination to go wherever the visual journey takes it. My next foray into painting art including gay people was my “People of Color” series. You see, these were literally people of different colors…red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. They had triangle heads, and the whole idea was that they could be representing people who were black, white, brown, etc., but most importantly for me at the time, they could be any gender. I played with the masculinity/femininity of each character and would laugh to myself when people would refer to a specific person as a “man” or a “woman” when I had a different thought in mind while painting. They weren’t necessarily wrong…they just had a different vision of the character, than I did. In this way, I’ve learned a lot about people’s backgrounds and worldviews from exhibiting my artwork over the past 21 years. What one sees in a painting says as much about them as it does the piece they are looking at (I don’t judge though-I promise!).
Eventually I got me some courage. It took a while. I tiptoed into LGBTQ art with rainbows and other subtle imagery, but no longer. In the last 25 years since I began painting heavily, I’ve been passionate about beaches, and fashion, and architecture, and nature…it just makes sense that who I am, who my friends are, who my allies are, who my family is, would eventually find a way off of my inspiration board and onto canvases, and walls, and computer screens for everyone to see.
About 8 years ago I started volunteering for Youth Outlook, a local northern Illinois LGBTQ youth group. My teenage self had attended this group around the time I was painting beaches and figuring out how to paint two people who are gay, but only to a gay eye. I see the youth once a week, as a leader for one of our local drop-in sites. I created my Pride series because of them…because we tell them every week that they can be their authentic selves. In turn, they are a reminder for me to practice what I preach.
I haven’t changed all that much in the past 25 years…I’m still inspired by several items from the life buffet. I’ve always had a high art drive, and while I’ve honed my skills, and my knowledge and experience have expanded, on the inside I’m still inspired by many of the things I was as a teen. The difference as an adult is that I’ve fully embraced my community, which has helped to give me the courage to create authentically in a way I never could have before.
No one has time for this answer to the inspiration question at an art exhibit. For me, the answer is less of an individual flame and more of a smoldering ember that sparks my fire along the road. That takes time to explain authentically.
As an acrylic painter, I use my soft bristle brushes to tell a story of love and pride in vivid, contrasting colors and strong whimsical line work. I portray a love for life and the magnificent creations this world has to offer, and love of the diverse array of people that occupy our spaces and the relationships they enter into. In my work I celebrate pride in the communities we come from and live in, and pride in ourselves, embracing who we are in bold fashion.