"Yellowman"
48" x 48"
Acrylic on wood
1989

I started painting in 1989 at the age of 23. I had taken an art class in elementary school but never really did anything after that. I was working in economic development and rented a room out to an artist. His name was Harry. He was a prolific painter and soon my house was filled with his art. I thought it looked like fun and thought I'd give it a try. "Yellowman" was my first painting.

In the midst of painting "Yellowman" I fell in love. I think if was during some point when I was painting the grass and stairs. I inexplicably began adding "unnatural" colors to the grass--reds, whites, yellow, blacks. The painting began to assume a life of its own. The drips on the stairs were the brush and the paint talking. I felt the freedom and exhilaration of creation in an immediately gratifying medium. I could think of something and create it instantly. I knew there was no turning back.

The next painting I did was "Island Girl." Unfortunately I painted it on a heavy wooden partition. It weighs close the 200 pounds. With "Yellowman" I had composed the entire painting before I began; "Island Girl" evolved as I painted. There are some visual references I used while creating the piece: a Bob Marley album cover for the "rastaman" face, some studies I did of fishes for the fish. The woman appeared from thin air and floats ethereally above the sea. Later paintings would have even less references as I chose to paint strictly from my imagination.

The third painting I did was "Dying Cranes," the theme inspired by the dying mother of a friend. That was followed by "In the Garden or Happily Ever After," a little tongue in cheek, I think.

My fifth painting was "The Sixth Sense -- Waving at Gauguin (a self portrait)." This is what I consider my breakthrough painting. What started as a humdrum, life-like self portrait, ended with an explosion of spontenaity. I struggled for several days with my self portrait, the result was an accurate, yet dull representation of myself. No matter what I did, the painting remained cold and distant, failing to convey any emotion whatsoever. Finally in a frustrated rage, I attacked the canvas with globs of vivid color. For over an hour I remained in an unconscious frenzy, madly defacing the object of all my hard work. When I came to, I was staring at a portrait that was no longer lacking. Whatever had been missing had suddenly appeared. I finished the painting in a not-so-frenetic-but-newly-inspired manner.

Harry flipped when he saw the painting. I called it "The Sixth Sense" because it is the true source of the painting. My hand is holding up five fingers, one for each sense, but it is the world that we experience beyond the normal, beyond what we can see, hear, touch, smell, taste, that gives my painting life. "Waving at Gauguin" was Harry's idea. Gauguin was one of my favorite artists at the time--I always marvelled at his use of color, the seemingly arbitrary hues that enlived his paintings. Harry thought I had gone over to the other side and was now waving at Gauguin as if to say "Hey, Paul. I made it!"

Eventually I would quit my job and become a consultant to spend more time painting. After several years I enrolled in the Corcoran School of Art. Harry wrote one of my letters of reference for my admission. At the Corcoran I would greatly accellerate my technical skills. I learned to accurately draw from life and effortlessly paint any image I wanted. I gained the freedom to destroy my most precious part of a painting, trusting that I could bring it back if necessary or create something better in its place. Slowly, though, I began to turn towards sculpture. It is in this medium that I have produced some of my most exciting and gratifying work.

I painted a lot of early paintings to please Harry. There was no feeling like creating a painting and showing it to him. He was like a child, full of awe and excitement and enthusiasm. Free with his complements and support. Every creative endeavor was an act of god to Harry, worthy of contemplation and adoration. He never got to see my evolution as an artist, though. He never saw any sculpture I created. Harry committed suicide my first year in art school. I know he would have been proud of where my art has gone. I could just see his face as he gazed on a new sculpture. Hear him voice his raspy comments, "Wow! That's fuckin great, Matt. Fuckin GREAT!" I know he's still watching and I know that he's with me, but sometimes I wish he were still here.