Kevin McEvoy

worth

Rick leaned forward in his chair, arms tightly folded, staring out at the group. "If I'm supposed to talk about my life today, then I'm going to have to stumble through it. I'm not good at talking. I hate talking." He looked down at the ground. The moderator of the group, Bob, is an older man whose youth was immersed in organized crime and jails. Yet somehow, Bob made a decision in his early twenties, a decision to escape the life of the mafia and the prisons. He now devotes his life to helping prisoners turn their lives around, just as he himself did. In a heavy Brooklyn accent, Bob called out "Just talk Rick, just talk."

"My pops was an alcoholic. My mom, was, uhh... I was drinking pretty heavily by my early teens. I just always knew I was worthless, I just always knew I was worthless. And so, I drank one night, and got into a car. And, I..." Rick paused, he stared at the floor, and squeezed his arms tightly, so tight that they turned red. He shook his head. "You know, I'm not one of these guys here in jail, who's saying he's innocent. I'm not. I'm guilty. I'm guilty. I hate myself. I just hate myself." Bob interrupted. "Rick, keep talking." "Okay. Well, I took some poor, innocent guys' life, I hit him with my car." Rick's face contorted, he winced, and his jaw locked. "I killed an innocent man, drunk driving. It was an accident, but... I killed him. His poor family, Oh God. I don't know how to, how to..." Dropping his chin, he buried his face in his own chest, trying to disappear. "I deserve my sentence, I know that society needs to be protected from me. I want to be locked away in a cell, where I can't hurt nobody no more."

Another prisoner called out "Yeah, you wanna be in your cell. Man, you disappear into there for weeks, and never talk to nobody. You're some antisocial freak or something." Rick looked up, not angrily, but with despair. "I used to be social, when I was a kid. Now, I'm angry, and if I walk out of my cell, I'm gonna break someone. And I don't want to hurt noone. I stay in my cell and don't talk, because I can't control myself." He had red hair, a powerful build, and his tattoos ran up the side of his neck. Nobody disputed with him, that he could do damage with just a swing of his arm.

Bob urged Rick to continue. "Well, then, after serving a long time behind bars, I came out a gang member. I dealt drugs on the street. I had an area of Yonkers that I called mine. I dealt it all from my bar. I just couldn't forget that innocent guy that I killed, drunk driving. It kept me awake at night. Only thing that could help me to forget was to drink, and do more drugs. When the police got me for dealing, and threw me in jail, then... then... my brother came to help me. My little brother was straight- he never drank, never used drugs, never. He went to college, got his degrees, got a wife and kids. He came three times a week from Westchester to run my bar, just sos I'd have a business to return to when I got outta jail. And, umm, and..." Tears came to his eyes, and he squeezed his arms violently. "While I was in jail, the rival gang came into the bar, and shot him, just to make an example of me." Tears came rolling down his face, and Rick writhed in his chair. "I killed my brother, oh God, I killed my brother, it's all my fault! My poor little brother, it's all my fault." All the other inmates sat quietly, staring at the ground.

I squirmed in my chair, and kept listening. The inmates spoke with Rick, giving him their advice on how to deal with his anger. Many of them scolded him for staying in his jail cell, and not speaking to any other inmates for weeks on end. Other inmates offered their friendship, and invited him to hang out in the yard. After twenty minutes or so of listening, I spoke out. "Rick, I have something to say." My throat was dry, and my voice trembled a bit. "Rick, I know I'm this weird painter, coming in here with Greek statues and easels, teaching, doing a painting. I'm not here to say who is guilty, who deserves what. I'm painting the stories in your faces. I'm just here to let you know that you are worth something. I realize that you don't even know how much you are worth. Rick, you are created in the image of God, and you don't even know it."

Rick's face lifted up, and I watched his hands unclench his arms. His eyes slowly widened. He stared, speechless. And a slow relief washed over his face, such as I've never witnessed before.

Bob said "Rick, you know, you're guilty. You did those crimes. But, you got to forgive yourself now, it's what your brother would want you to do. Finish your sentence, and get back into society, and do something useful."

The group continued to counsel Rick, advising him to fill up the next few years of his sentence by getting involved in group activities, by socializing, by getting out of his cell. Bob gave him practical advice on how to communicate better, on how to have friendships. A sheriff came up quietly and tapped me on the shoulder. "You should do Rick's portrait next, after you are done with these three. I've been a sheriff for many years now, but I've never seen a man's face change like that before, so quick. Look at him, something just happened. Do a before-and-after of that guy."

A few weeks passed, and Bob remarked that Rick was socializing with the group. Rick came over and said to me "Kev, man, we missed you while you were away at that cabin thing. I've got bad news- I'm being transferred. I wanted to do the portrait that you asked me about, but I'm going upstate to another prison. But Kev, I gotta let you know, I believe what you said the other week, I think, I think you're right, the worth thing." He paused. "And, I was wondering if we could keep on talking, if you would maybe let me write an occasional letter to you from the jail upstate. Don't give me your address, I'll send the letters here to the jail. I just, I wanna talk more."

I returned to the jail again, a few days ago, and worked on this triple portrait for seven hours. And as I painted, I realized that none of us- not the inmates, not me- none of us have any idea of what we are truly worth. To paint that.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

-William Wordsworth, 1798

by kevinmcevoy

day one

Around the house, I am always captivated by the simple motions of my wife- wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, fastening an earring, tucking hair behind her ear. I began this painting with an artist friend today, out in Riverhead, with a model that is a former professional ballet dancer. I'm emulating that quiet, everyday motion of my wife.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then methinks, how sweetly flows,
The liquefaction of her clothes.

- Robert Herrick

by kevinmcevoy

pastor forseth

I wedged my foot into a recess at the base of the trunk, and I leaped for the large branch extending over my head. Slowly, I pulled my weight atop the branch. Shimmying between the trunk and another large branch, I made my way steadily up the tree. I kept my eyes closed as I steadied my arms on branches above my head, knowing that the bark was coarse and bits of it could fall into my eyes. I shook my hair, letting all the bits and pieces of bark fall, watching them land in the grass forty feet below. My hand disappeared into my backpack, I pulled out my copy of "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court," and a smile spread across my acne bespeckled face. I was fourteen years old, it was youth group night at Smithtown Gospel Tabernacle, a large, protestant church in the middle of Long Island, and I was having my communion with Mark Twain.

From my perch up high in the tree, I looked out on the enormous, hulking church building. On this side of the building there was a stand of trees, a hundred feet deep, a mixture of maple and oak, Norwegian Spruce, sprinkled with some Tupelos. Here in this place of solitude, I could faintly hear the low rumble of a bass system, beating in time with some contemporary Christian grunge music. The youth group played music so loud that the windows could actually be seen vibrating. Perhaps the music was louder tonight, as there was a guest band hosting the youth group service. Before I had the chance to slip out, I saw the lead singer of the band, clad in skin tight shirt and baggy jeans, run and leap over a piano, grab the microphone stand and flip it upside down, and croon on his knees the final words to the worship song, "It's all about you, Jesus." He wiped sweat off his forehead, and resumed running around the room, telling everybody that revival was here, that the Spirit was gonna fall, and if you don't feel like worshiping, well, you'd betta get used to it, because that's what you're gonna do for aaaaaaaaaaaallllllll eternity, around the throne in heaven, worshiping God just like this, so get up on your feet and clap yo hands. Before I exited through the back door, I wondered if God might make me a custodian in heaven, so that I could perhaps just sweep up late at night, when everyone was gone.

And now, as I sat up in the tree, I thought about God. I loved praying to God, I knew that he heard my every word, and somehow the yellow, orange, and red autumn leaves around me told me that there was a Creator who loved me. From boyhood I knew that Creator to be the greatest artist, one whose palette was comprised of living things. But I remembered back to my young childhood, and recalled some of the crazy, evangelical churches that my parents had attended, before Smithtown Gospel, and I was revolted. And here I was, years later, with that bitter taste still tainting so much of what went into my mouth. I looked out at the building, that stale, postmodern structure, and I wondered whether Christianity was just a sham, just an elaborate social construct to keep the masses in line. I wondered what was the difference between the church and Broadway- lights go dim, the minor chord is borne aloft, now the major chord, here comes the resolution. I found my spot in my book, sprayed myself with the bug spray I kept in my backpack, and began reading. I was hoping that the smokers would choose to loiter in a different spot this week. Last week, as always, the same group of kids slipped out of the building, and unknowingly they chose to smoke right beneath my tree. The nicotinista talked about french kissing, whether or not the band P.O.D. was Christian, and whether or not they were going away on the Winter Retreat. From forty feet above, I was furious, as I couldn't concentrate at all on my book. But this week was quiet, as the loquacious smokers went walking in another direction. And as I looked at the faint glow of the cigarettes in the distance, my mind wandered from my book to the upcoming week. My grandfather had returned from Ireland with the gift of a violin for me, and this coming Wednesday I was going to take my first violin lesson. My teacher was a very talented classical violinist, and also happened to be the wife of the senior pastor of Smithtown Gospel Tabernacle.

Wednesday came, and with it a great deal of nervous excitement. I couldn't wait for school to end. Aside from the thrill of the instrument inside of my case and the wonder of how the violin lesson would go, I was also curious to enter the home of the senior pastor of the church. On the pulpit, the pastor was a warm, sincere speaker. I found his earnest, straightforward manner of talking to be engaging, yet stripped of any coercive artifice. He wasn't flashy. Born during the Great Depression to Norwegian parents on a farm in Alberta, Canada, the pastor often used whimsical farm stories to illustrate spiritual principles. And while he could be lighthearted, he could also be confrontational and fearless in his criticisms of his own church, a quality which I found comforting. And as I thought of Pastor Forseth, I was reminded of Jesus looking out on a crowd of people that had journeyed so far by foot to hear him speak. Jesus looked out on these masses of tired humanity with pity, that they were as lost sheep without a shepherd. Pastor Forseth had this sort of a compassionate spirit. Considering all of this, I listened to his earnest sermons on Sunday morning.

Pastor Forseth greeted me at the door with a quiet nod. Off of the pulpit, he moved slowly, spoke quietly, even looked somewhat stern. I nervously entered his house, and sat down in a side room with my violin. I watched the white haired, old man as he moved slowly about, as he cleaned up a board game, made a cup of coffee, swept up the floor. Pastor Forseth and Sue's home was unique, it looked like the interior of a transplanted Norwegian cabin, complete with ornate woodwork and rosemaling on the ceiling. Their furniture was made out of old tree stumps, painted with Norwegian colors, handmade teacups hung from hooks beneath the cabinets, a hand painted harpsichord sat quietly in the corner. Suddenly, a door burst open. Sue Forseth entered the room, violin in hand, and yelled out "Oh, Bob, you are just wonderful! He came home on his break this evening, and played scrabble with me, just to keep me company. And thanks for the coffee, too." His stern face broke into a wide smile, and as he kissed Sue he suddenly looked like a little boy. Sue looked over at me, and said "Ah, Bob, think we got an Irish fiddler here, do we now? Look at this face. Fun. Let's go. MacElroy, right?"

Every Wednesday, I would walk from my school to the Forseth home, and Pastor Forseth would greet me at the door. At first we only spoke for a few short moments, but after a short while, he would invite me into the kitchen to talk to me. He told stories about his childhood on the grass plains of Alberta, and described Canadian folk instruments to me, his favorite being the saw. "You put the saw, any old carpenter's saw will do, between your knees, drag a violin bow across it, and bend it for pitch." He asked me how school was going, and he laughed when I told him stories about the deluge of dittos that Mrs. Olitsky would rain upon the desolate wasteland of eighth grade history. He described his years as an itinerant folk musician playing gospel music in war ravaged Europe, after the second world war ended. He talked about how things were going at Smithtown Gospel Tabernacle. He had traveled to sixty countries, and spoke about the work God was doing across the world. While we spoke, he warmed up food for me and filled my glass with iced tea. We would talk for hours on end, and his conversation was often about God, though he never came across as forced. It was as natural for him to talk about spiritual matters as it was for other people to talk about baseball. I listened with such delight, his sincere love for God was so wonderfully engaging. And when we were finished talking, I would watch him closely. With the solemn manner of a farmer of the plains, he walked about the house. But the thing that I watched closest was his relationship with Sue. His every interaction was imbued with such a quiet, tender affection for his wife, and I reflected how attractive it is when genuine love is witnessed. He thanked her for something or other, listened to her talk about the events of the day, and he laughingly chided her for always being late for orchestra or for service. And once Sue disappeared into the side room to teach another lesson, with a wry smile he would call up the stairs to his twin sons and convey answering machine messages left for them. It was something to behold, the dry monotone of his Canadian accent, relaying the content of a Long Island girl's cooing message.

As months went by, I grew better at the violin, and eventually I was invited to join the orchestra at Smithtown Gospel Tabernacle. And as years went by, I grew close to Pastor Forseth.

On a Wednesday night, I climbed the same tree behind the church building, and pulled out my book to begin reading. And then, I thought of Pastor Forseth. He was somewhere in the building, getting ready for the adult Wednesday night sermon. He preached his sermon, he served people, he visited people in hospitals, he helped pull together broken families, he challenged the congregation to be more like Jesus, he moved forward. I once read in the New York Times that counterfeit money is not dangerous because of the risk of inflation, as the common misunderstanding goes. Counterfeits are in fact dangerous because counterfeits cause people to stop believing in the validity of the value of the bill. I was prepared to reject the whole currency, because I was so disillusioned with some counterfeits that I had come across. But Pastor Forseth was the real thing, and he wasn't deterred or distracted by others' perceived faults, he simply lived his life unto God. "Kevin, stay close to God, stay close to man, and do all you can to bring God and man together" were the words he often relayed to me. I lifted up a prayer to God, climbed down from the tree, and walked into the youth group service.

Three weeks ago, I flew out to the Forseth cabin in Minnesota, with my wife and sons. Though I had seen him a few times, I had not spent time with Pastor Foseth in about ten years, as he had retired a decade ago from his position as senior pastor at Smithtown Gospel Tabernacle. Hundreds of miles away from all civilization, I spent two weeks painting Pastor Forseth's portrait, beside a lake, in a simple garage that was on the property of a cabin. There, beside lawnmowers and garden tools, with brushes and palette in hand, the days passed with us laughing, telling stories, remembering all the wonderful things that God had done in our lives, sitting on the lake, playing harmonica and saw, listening to Pastor Forseth give lessons from the Bible, watching him warmly converse with his wife at the end of the day. Ten years later, and I still loved watching Pastor Forseth and Sue converse with such quiet warmth. Their love for each other was so beautiful, theirs was a love that was contagious. And on his eightieth birthday, when the entire Forseth family arrived at the cabin, with five children, and eleven grandchildren all around him, I presented him with his portrait painting. And afterwards, at 12:30 at night, I played the Irish fiddle, and a bunch of crazy Norwegians danced around the cabin.

by kevinmcevoy

i'm tired

I left through the side door of my studio, and I carried my palette to the parking lot. Under my arm, I had a bottle of turpentine, and a few pieces of steel wool. As I crouched beneath the streetlamp, at eleven thirty at night, I furiously scrubbed the paint off of the rim of the palette. I poured more turpentine, freeing up the dried paint, then continued to scour the surface of the wood with the steel wool. I kept scrubbing. Then I paused, and thought to myself, "I'm tired."

You know, dear reader, as any young man might feel towards a girl with a curious eyes, I always want to present you with my finest foot forward. But, tonight, I just want to say that I've worked so hard, I've painted all day, for weeks on end, I've pursued innumerable leads to their final end, I've completed large portrait commissions, I've traveled to prisons, I've painted the things I care about most... and I am tired. Please don't mistake this as meaning "I give up." No, just the opposite. I'm excited to paint. I'm just exhausted.

Tomorrow, Margaret and the boys and I leave for two weeks, for a portrait commission in Minnesota. A couple is flying us out to a remote town, to their cabin on a lake, where I will paint the portrait commission. I am thrilled to turn my phone off, to watch my boys play on the lake, and to paint a portrait of a person who I have a lot of respect for. And, I'm looking forward to resting.

When I was a little kid, my mother used to listen to some musician, whose name I can't recall, some singer from the eighties. She used to sing "They don't know that I go running home when I fall down, they don't know who picks me up when no one is around, I drop my sword and cry for just a while, because deep inside this someone, the warrior is a child." Yes, yes, I know, it is very, very corny. But, the woman who sang it was sincere, and the words still stay with me.

by kevinmcevoy

tv 55

Recently, I received a call from TV 55, or Channel 10 News. They had heard of the painting I was doing in prison, and they wanted to do a story on it. I was initially reluctant, because I don't think I am the one who is worthy of a story, at the jail. The program called "The Council for Unity" has created a peaceful existence between rival gangs in jail. The Council for Unity is made up of some truly wonderful individuals, people who invest their everyday into the lives of these inmates. Sargent Noreen Fisher, Bob, Alex- these individuals are truly inspiring, all of them are newsworthy. I was in a conundrum. I initially didn't want to do the article, for fear that the inmates would think I was in this for the photo op. As well, I wanted the spotlight to be placed only on the individuals that truly deserved it. I told the news station that I would hope they would place the emphasis of the story on the Council for Unity, with me featured on the side. A few phone calls from the Correctional Facility reassured me that this publicity was very good for the jail, and consequently for the inmates as well. The Council for Unity was thrilled that they were being featured in a news program, and gave me their approval.

Yesterday, they came into the jail, camera crew and all, and videoed as I painted with the inmates. The inmates loved it, they were laughing and fighting each other to get into the camera's eye. They volunteered for interviews. Ralphy, the black guy on the right, puffed his hair up into an afro. I painted his afro while being filmed- it was really funny, everyone in the jail was laughing.

Tonight, I'll be on TV55/Channel 10 News, at 11 p.m.

by kevinmcevoy

day four

I'm continuing to work on this painting, and have changed the background quite a bit. I've put in a lot more detail in the violin being careful to not lose the initial impression. So much of art is a struggle to retain, through to the end, that feeling that sparked the art in the first place. As Robert Frost said "A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness..."

by kevinmcevoy

matt

Matt, oil on linen, 16"x 20"

Here's a painting of a fellow, Matt, who models for the school which I teach at, the Hampton Studio of Fine Art. Other artists had set up this pose, and had been painting for a couple of days. I jumped in for the remainder of the pose- and so, this painting is a two day sketch. What a quirky painting- Matt looks like a Harley Davidson gang member, talks like an NPR news anchor, and tells stories like an uncle who has worn a dozen different hats.

by kevinmcevoy

souls

The Prisoners, day two, oil on linen

In souls, as in pools slumbering beneath trees,
Often there are two things that one sees:
The heavens- coloring the tranquil flow
Billowing clouds and golden glow-
And mud- dismal, dark, and deep,
Where crepuscular creatures crawl and creep.

-Victor Hugo
-- ---
Comme dans les etangs assoupis sous les bois,
Dans plus d'une ame on voit deux choses a la fois:
Le ciel- qui teint les eaux a peine remuees
Avec tous ses rayons et toutes ses nuees,
Et la vase,- fond morne, affreux, sombre et dormant,
Ou des reptiles noirs fourmillent vaguement.

by kevinmcevoy

vice

Vice, 18 x 20, oil on linen

I think this painting is fun. I've been working on it, on and off, for the past couple of weeks. Friends who stop by my house typically laugh first, then pause, then tilt their heads in a funny way. Not a bad response to a painting.

by kevinmcevoy

kev, maybe you should just paint

I was invited to a workshop and lecture by the world famous painter, Odd Nerdrum. I have been following his work for years. He is probably the most famous realist artist that our age has to offer. His exhibits draw tens of thousands of people. His books sit on the shelves of every major bookshop across the world. His facebook page comments elicit hundreds of responses in just hours. His spittle is bottled and sold as magic old master syrum, guaranteed to make your paintings glow like the masters. His nose hair is bound into brushes. His... I guess you get the idea.

With years of expectation built up, it was with a bit of nervous anticipation that I entered the room. As the door creaked open, I saw a figure hunched over on a stool, its face buried beneath a mess of straggly grey hair, body swathed in what appeared to be a linen nightgown. He opened his mouth "And so, we find that Kant was the greatest artist ever, because he was not an artist. He was an artist of artists, who saw what was before what was to be was and is. But, Apelles, most brilliant of all men, was the greatest painter of all men, yet we have no painting by Apelles, but rather the testimony of Apelles' wheel, spinning in motion in the continuum of time, motion in stillness." A mere ten seconds had passed, and I was crestfallen. Here is a great figure of the realist movement, arguably the most famous face of naturalistic and representational painting- and he seems to be performing an act. Maybe I am sensitive to such artifices because I spent a good period of my childhood being dragged off to evangelical tent revivals, where a prophet would mysteriously walk onto the stage, stare at the sky, furrow his brow, and assume the role of conduit between heaven and earth. "I, I am speaking to you of these things, to enlighten you. Philosophy is the element of painting, philosophy is painting, without philosophy, you have no painting. The men who think, the most brilliant men on earth, they are the greatest painters. And the greatest painters are the most brilliant men on earth." A woman in front of me was nervously playing with her iPhone, and when Odd lowered his head for a moment, she raised her iPhone to take a photo- he suddenly lifted his head, stared at the woman, and boomed loudly "NO, NO PHOTO. NO PHOTO!!!! I do not like photos. I do not like photos." Then he fell to quiet mumblings.

When he announced a break, the room fell to nervous chattering. He walked off to the corner of the room, and quietly conversed with a few individuals who had traveled with him from Scandinavia. Eventually, somebody asked him if he was going to paint. He spoke "I paint in mystery. When I was young, I discovered that if you have an element of mystery in your canvas, it keeps people standing in front of it longer. So I paint mysteriously." He walked over to the easel, and began to set up. He did not fuss with palettes or stretcher bars or mediums or anything. He just took some box tape, borrowed a panel from an attending artist, mixed up some basic colors, and began to paint with his fingers. Within seconds, a hauntingly beautiful image began to take shape. It was astonishing. It was beautiful. It was weird, but, it was beautiful. He spent the next couple of hours in silence, periodically broken with engimatic utterances as a response to questions. A timid old woman finally mustered the nerve to ask "Mr. Odd, ummm, what do you look at when you paint?" "Ah, I am looking at Rembrandt, and you are looking at me."

At the end of the class, he gathered everybody around. "I have something to say. Modern art, Andy Warhol: They tried to take away my fantasy. They tried to take away my mythology. They said I could not paint these things. Modern art tried to take my voice away from me. I would not let them. I stayed close to Rembrandt." It was a refreshingly honest word, the first direct thing he had said all day. At the first sign of sincerity, I was touched- we all were. Suddenly, I wondered: maybe it's not all an act. Maybe he is, geniunely, this weird. Maybe he just really likes wearing linen nightgowns, in the middle of Manhattan. It's possible. One thing was certain, he is a talented painter, and I learned from watching him paint.

A lecture followed, in which a large auditorium was filled with scores of Odd Nerdrum devotees. People had flown from Texas, driven from Maryland, from Canada, all to hear him speak. He assumed the lectern with a solemn, awful silence, like a druid in a forest at midnight. He stood silently, until the room quieted down. He spoke. "Immanuel Kant was the greatest artist, most brilliant man who ever..." and he proceeded along the same route. But this time, his thoughts were coming across more clearly. "Philosophy, philosophy, that is the basis of all painting. Rembrandt, Velazquez, Apelles... these men were philosophers, not painters. They were very smart, you see. And if you read philosophy, you will find that you are suddenly transported to another level. I know a young man, who came to study painting with me. He was not smart. I directed him in the way of books and philosophy, and he became smart over the years. Now he is a very great painter. Because he is smart. If you too study philosophy, you will have a hard time communicating with those in your family- your mother, your grandmother, your aunt... Beauty is only seen in that which has suffered. And so, one must despise the gracious line of a woman's neck, the flower in a field, yes, even the laugh of a child. Is this right? All great art is timeless. It does not refer to any modern accoutrements. Modern society has not produced anything beautiful- its buildings are ugly, its material is without beauty. Men wear jeans, to conform, instead of true clothes. All artists are refugees from society, because the true artist criticizes society, and society cannot call them its own. The prophet, he is the great one, the one who is the refugee, the one to whom all society will turn, when it realizes that his criticisms are true. American art is not great, because it does not suffer. You have a lot of money. It is not money, but philosophy, intellect, and suffering."

Instantly, it all made sense. I remembered a painting by Odd, a self portrait which he entitled "The Saviour of Painting, the Prophet of Painting." That's what this all was. This whole workshop was his press conference in New York City, in which he cements his role as the leader of all painting. What is the deal with all of these megalomaniacs, trying to take over the world? Why do artists have to be so weird?

The Savior of Painting, Odd Nerdrum

I was infuriated. I raised my hand. "Umm, excuse me, Odd, I disagree with you so strongly, I don't know where to begin." Every head in the room turned and looked at me. "Mark Twain said "The gods value morals alone; they have paid no compliments to intellect, nor offered it a single reward. If intellect is welcome anywhere in the world, it is in hell, not in heaven." You know, philosophy is not the source of art. People are. The human spirit is. In fact, a very stupid person, with an inferior intellect, could be the source of the greatest work of art. What's more, philosophy is not found in books. It is everywhere. The taxi driver who drove you here, to this lecture hall- that taxi driver had his own philosophy. A few years ago, I came back from Europe, and couldn't see anything beautiful around me. I was elitest. I hated all of the strip malls around me. And then, I was in a parking lot, sitting in my car, and I saw a woman standing in a bus stop. And, she started crying. Her little daughter held on, and the mother wept and leaned against the pole. That woman had a philosophy, and its up to us artists to discover the world within her. That's what Rembrandt did, tried to capture the beauty of the human spirit- not trying to be the greatest philosopher ever. You know what would be a good painting? That taxi driver from the middle east, sitting in his taxi, with his meter and modern accoutrements beside him, staring out the window."

The room exploded. People started to yell out "Yeah, he's right. You don't need to paint people suspended in space, in togas, in order to have great art." "Yeah, you're right, art can be as simple as life itself." Another person sided with Odd, and disagreed with us. "If time is within the continuum of space and eternity, then the Mona Lisa best portrays that which is eternal and yet anchored in..." and on he babbled. The senior editor of the biggest art magazine in the country was clearly invigorated by this upset, and looked over and said "Anarchy!" As the room continued on in this fashion, I sat quietly. The magazine editor had a nice way about him, and was clearly interested in where the conversation had gone. Then looked at me, and said "Excuse me, excuse me. Young man." The room was silenced. "Young man, let me ask you: What is philosophy?"

I said "The love of wisdom."

He said "No, it isn't. It's a spiritual searching, it's a consuming quest, it's..."

"Philosphy literally comes from the Greek words "Philo" and "Sophia." The love of wisdom. And anybody can have wisdom. Rich or poor, stupid or smart."

The room continued to buzz, and Odd eventually regained control. He finished his lecture, and I nervously made my way out the door.

Later that evening, I attended a demonstration by Nelson Shanks. He is the kind of person that, if you ask him for directions to the restroom, he will somehow manage to fit into his response that they he painted Lady Diana and President Clinton. I had been prepped by a legion of artists beforehand concerning this. And he did not fail to disappoint. In a very fashionable, downtown art club, he stood with one hand on his hip, and twirled the brush above his head, in the air, then attacked the canvas with pinky extended. I tried to get a photograph of this foppery, but his painting hand was always moving in such rapid, delectable dalliances that I could not capture it on film. Nelson draped a prominent social figure in the most horrific, gold, curtain fabric that ever was vomited out of Sodom and Gomorrah. And, in front of a delighted audience of 200 or so, with a Hi-Def camera crew recording every detail, he painted. He spoke of his immensely successful exhibition in Moscow. And as he painted, it was evident to all that Nelson Shanks was, indeed, a very talented realist painter. He captured her likeness in just brushstrokes. I left half way through.

As I made my way to the train, my head was spinning. Here they are, international celebrities of the art world... and I have never believed less in painting as an art form. It all seemed like a show. Does art always have to assume such caricature when it assumes the stage?- the mysterious shamanism of Odd Nerdrum, the contrived aristocracy of Nelson Shanks? Disillusioned, I dwelled on these things. Then, I asked myself if I was just jealous. Maybe I was just an obscure little artist, thumbing my nose at anybody who made it big. No, I couldn't say that was the case- I have endless praise for some of the biggest contemporary names, from David Leffel, to Andrew Wyeth. Painters who paint beauty, with sincerity.

I spoke to Margaret, my wife, for a long time about all of these things. After a couple hours of conversation, she just paused and said "Kev, maybe you should just paint."

I went to the Riverhead jail two days ago. I asked the inmates if they would like to be in a painting. I set up my easel. I painted them for three and a half hours, working and talking with them all the while. They skipped their lunch to sit for me. One of these men never knew his father- when he was fifteen, somebody told him that his father had just been found dead, and it made no difference "because your father was a worthless drunk anyway." The convict continued on "And that's when I decided I was going to be just like my dad- do drugs, and drink myself to death." Another prisoner told me about the guilt of his crime, how he was an idiot, was dealing heroine and deserved his sentence. Another man told me how his father left when he was an infant, and how much he had loved his grandmother, and how much she had loved him. He was going to get out of jail soon, and said he was going to live his life for his grandmother, now deceased, the only person who had ever loved him. I finished painting them, and they thanked me so much for coming, asked me to send pictures of the painting to their girlfriends and brothers, asked me to come back soon. "This is the only worthwhile thing that's happened to me, in this jail."