Memory Lane

Whenever I mention that I worked in a shipyard, people seem to conjure the image of a welder, like a scene from Flashdance. I could correct this narrative, but if you want to think of me as Jennifer Beals, who am I to stop you?

I painted Buick Skylark just before quitting the shipyard, and it remains one of my favorites. An artist’s favorite pieces does not mean their best pieces, though they could be. A work can become a favorite for many reasons; a memory of a special time in one’s life, a creative breakthrough, etc.

I painted a lot of jalopies over the years, more for psychological reasons than visual ones. My dad had at least two cars like this, 1970’s American boats. I remember a Ford LTD and a Dodge Dart, but there could’ve been more. Although I can’t remember the original color, I remember the day my dad came home from getting his new-to-him Dodge Dart painted turquoise at Earl Scheib’s. It was a notoriously bad paint job. Throughout my childhood, at random moments, my dad would exclaim “Earl Scheib! Twenty-Nine, Ninety-Five!”

Despite our complicated relationship, these jalopy paintings were an homage to my dad. I have the same soft spot in my heart for these cars when I see them today, usually abandoned in the open desert. I knew my dad always wanted a better car than what he had, and sensed he felt his own worth was represented by these shitty cars. I felt like painting these cars was a way of honoring him by reframing the issue and declaring a person’s worth and their car’s as disparate.

In addition to this, this painting is a favorite because it was the first time I isolated a car from its surroundings, essentially shifting a potential landscape into a still life. By isolating an object and creating a negative field around it, an artist can control a viewer’s focus. This was the moment that I realized that negative space can play as important of a role in a painting as a painted object. Nothing can be very much something.

When I was working at the shipyard and had a few finished paintings, I took a couple days off and drove to Santa Fe to visit with some galleries, in hopes of finding representation. I remember arranging two meetings in advance of my visit. Upon showing Buick Skylark to one gallery, they responded that I didn’t know what I was doing and that no one would want a painting like this. They weren’t trying to be mean, only honest, and they were polite about it. I’ve always felt inferior and undeserving, and have a bit of an an imposter syndrome, so this was a painful moment. This rejection was not “your work isn’t a good fit for us.” This was “your work isn’t good enough for anyone.” My brain responded with sadness and despair.

On one of my breaks at the shipyard, I visited a Barnes and Noble and picked up an art magazine, in hopes of researching potential galleries. I noticed an ad from Hespe Gallery in San Francisco, which looked to have a good roster of artists and an aesthetic similar to my own. I reached out, and a couple weeks later, drove to San Francisco to meet with the owner.

Charles Hespe loved Buick Skylark! My puddle of a self was shocked. How could this be? Charles was a kind man and had a beautiful space in Union Square and he wanted to work with me. I couldn’t believe it.

This is one of those saving-the-best-part-for-last posts. A few months after leaving some pieces with the gallery, Charles Hespe called with some news. I remember my best friend Paul’s reaction when I told him the news….”oh shit!” Charles had sold Buick Skylark to the Getty family. Those Getty’s.

Recounting the story now, I’m still struck with the magical feeling. It’s not really about the Getty’s, though I’m certainly glad for their support and their role in my development. This story is about dreams, and joy, and realizing that life is not always what we think. In fact, it rarely is.

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Thank you for reading my posts. I’ve really enjoy writing here the last couple years and I’ve received so many kind words from readers. I look forward to sharing many more stories.