November and December 2003 at Visage, Portland, Oregon.
Fresh out of college, so very new to every last thing in the real world, I approached a few local art dealers and asked them if they would allow me to paint their portraits. In retrospect, possibly antagonizing potential helpmeets might have been unwise, but, at the time, I thought my series of gallery types was the most excellent manner of introducing myself to the art scene. I had hopes that I would earn an honest and thoughtful critique from the art-savvy dealers for all my trouble. All I earned was more trouble still.
My professors had recommended that I go directly from the shelter of school to the shelter of a gallery. In fact, the only vocational training Willamette University ever offered me was that advice—as a liberal arts college and not an art school, they are stronger on academics than on pragmatics. By commencement, I knew nothing of commission contracts or press releases—“slide portfolio” was the only phrase I knew in business-of-art speak. The workload that the graduate school of real life dumped on me from day one was immense and also immensely satisfying. I learned how to make ends meet by working for myself and by doing what I love.
Gavin Shettler, Jane Beebe, Charles Froelick, Bob Kochs, Paul Missal, Barbara Black, Mark Woolley, Elizabeth Leach, George Broderick, Linda Yoshida, and Signe Lawrence—and her little dog too!—were the gallery types who played along with my younger self. They allowed me to photograph them and interview them briefly. Now, of course, with a few years of experience in the art world under my belt, my questions for them would be so very different.
The concept: I paint portraits to capture human beauty because I am in love with humanity. Humans disappoint me, so I paint portraits in order to focus on what is heroic and lovely in humanity.
The gesture: Far from a random assortment of Portland dwellers, these thirteen represent a cross-section of the citys art scene. All have opinions about art, and, with the notable exceptions of the bichon frisé and myself, the subjects each have a space in which to show work as well. They are my critics.
The beginning: I am a portrait artist. How do I get my work noticed by my critics? My portfolio contains only faces of family and friends—faces my critics cannot know. Though a portrait may be skillfully rendered, the only portrait that can sincerely captivate any given person is a portrait of that person. I will paint their portraits.
The risk: Portraits rarely satisfy their subjects fully.
The game: Can my critics remain professionally distant enough from their portraits in order to evaluate my work fairly? Do I want them to? Do I even expect them to try?
The anti-gesture: I asked more than these eleven and dog for twenty minutes and the permission to snap a few photographs. Why was my request denied by some and why did others humor me? An aloof or playful attitude? Genuine disinterest or equally authentic benevolence? A definite idea of how their actions would be perceived? Curiosity?
The portrait: It is a record of the subject and also of the artist. It asks the viewer to look again at the subject and at themselves.
The hustle: I want to paint your portrait. I am available for commissions.
To learn more about the making of Critics Critiqued, please visit this article on my blog.