The Place Where Painting Cries
His eyes widened and his lips opened a bit. An Oni tattoo penetrated the skin of his neck and a scar crossed his cheek from ear to mouth. He stared into the painting. It’s ruff texture and gritty brushstrokes captivated him. Within the image a man sat at the edge of a hooker hotel bed. Lines traversed his face as though they were records of his life. On the night stand next to him rested his ol’ pal Jack Daniels and next to the bottle an ashtray over flowed with the butts of Pall Malls. An envelope containing a letter to loved ones leaned against the lamp on the table. The man held a piece to his temple. He contemplated the direction life had taken and the direction it could or should take.
The scarred man stood still for endless minutes. Justin walked over to him. The man turned and gestured Wuts up with a nod of his chin.
You the artist, he asked.
Yes, Justin said.
This is my favorite piece man. He looked to the painting again. It speaks to me. I know this place. I’ve been there in life. He looked at Justin.
I love this one.
Thank you, Justin said. I’m glad to hear it resonates with you.
It was the art Justin learned as a teenager, expressing himself through poetry and song lyrics. In his early twenties he transitioned to painting but his subject matter didn’t fit the fine art world’s notion of contemporary artworks suited to complement lofts and condominiums and reduced to dollar signs for collectors to impress their circle jerks or hide em in climate controlled storage. His work blended the style of classical oil painting and abstract with origins of comics and cartoons and cinematography. And often were filtered through his quirky sense of humor.
Justin painted truth. A realism-not photo or hyper realism- a realism of life. The human experience captured through emotion, like visual poems. Passions of love, the intensity of lust, complications of relationships, the pain of losing loved ones, the blackest abyss of depression, fears of repressed childhood trauma, struggles of addiction and the simple stresses of everyday. Through art he presented questions over identity, religion, culture, and society as he was taught by clowns of the Traditional Native heritage he was raised in.
Thank you, Justin said. I’m glad to hear it resonates with you.
No man, Thank you. The scarred man turned and walked away. Justin stood in thought. The man had answered a question he asked himself long ago. What was the purpose of being an artist? Standing in the middle of the show surrounded by his paintings lining the walls Justin understood he was not an artist nor painter-but a storyteller. He told stories of his life, but in doin so he told stories of other people’s lives. He represented a guild of people who were not blessed with the ability and medium to express themselves as Justin was. He looked around at the paintings. They were no longer his. They were theirs.
The scarred man stood still for endless minutes. Justin walked over to him. The man turned and gestured Wuts up with a nod of his chin.
You the artist, he asked.
Yes, Justin said.
This is my favorite piece man. He looked to the painting again. It speaks to me. I know this place. I’ve been there in life. He looked at Justin.
I love this one.
Thank you, Justin said. I’m glad to hear it resonates with you.
It was the art Justin learned as a teenager, expressing himself through poetry and song lyrics. In his early twenties he transitioned to painting but his subject matter didn’t fit the fine art world’s notion of contemporary artworks suited to complement lofts and condominiums and reduced to dollar signs for collectors to impress their circle jerks or hide em in climate controlled storage. His work blended the style of classical oil painting and abstract with origins of comics and cartoons and cinematography. And often were filtered through his quirky sense of humor.
Justin painted truth. A realism-not photo or hyper realism- a realism of life. The human experience captured through emotion, like visual poems. Passions of love, the intensity of lust, complications of relationships, the pain of losing loved ones, the blackest abyss of depression, fears of repressed childhood trauma, struggles of addiction and the simple stresses of everyday. Through art he presented questions over identity, religion, culture, and society as he was taught by clowns of the Traditional Native heritage he was raised in.
Thank you, Justin said. I’m glad to hear it resonates with you.
No man, Thank you. The scarred man turned and walked away. Justin stood in thought. The man had answered a question he asked himself long ago. What was the purpose of being an artist? Standing in the middle of the show surrounded by his paintings lining the walls Justin understood he was not an artist nor painter-but a storyteller. He told stories of his life, but in doin so he told stories of other people’s lives. He represented a guild of people who were not blessed with the ability and medium to express themselves as Justin was. He looked around at the paintings. They were no longer his. They were theirs.