Skip to main content

In The Studio

Comments

Anonymous said…
You paint well, but what's the point?
10:54 AM
Anonymous said…
What is the point of painting night and airport scenes? Is there some motivation? Some meaning?

I guess what I am trying to ask is what do these places mean to you?
9:49 AM
John Sanchez said…
Before I can answer, I have to aknowledge that your first question is usually encountered as a statement, not a question and if it is, nothing I say or do can change your attitude of it. "what's the point" is a negatively charged inquiry. I am in a rush right now, but I will answer the other questions soon. Thanks for looking and your challenge. Come back soon.
1:44 PM
John Sanchez said…
Each Artist has to re-show or re-create in the world those aspects of reality that they deem to be worthy of showing. Some of these aspects are not readily available to the viewer and that certainly makes art frustrating to many(If you dare take the time to even investigate some of the esoteric works out there) because of this, I tend to stick to painting in a more traditional manner in order to keep the lines of communication open with as many people as possible. I am hoping to convey an understandable world through the use of realism. The subject matter, on the other hand, is where the truly personal choice of the artist shows his work. I am not entirely convinced that anyone really has to know the why I chose night and or airplanes or any other object or space. That is something that I would like to leave to the viewer to contemplate for themselves-do they find the night or the airplanes or the brushwork or the lights in the painting touching a part of themselves that brings about an emotion that they want to experience? I do not nor want the power to manipulate that experience, I am just trying to be the conduit to them and to this I add that this happens as an interesting by-product of the art making. I do not have the viewer in mind when I create the work. I have my own emotions to contend with. But as an aside if you want to know the why of these subjects it is this: Fear and comfort. The shrowd of night reduces the subject matter to a more simple viewing window. With the man made lights the objects(such as an airplane) are in a way bathed in traditional chiarascuro almost like portraits. The night also has another meaning in that it usually represents mystery and or fear. This is probably caused in us by the not knowing what lurks in the darkness. I beleive it is a pretty universal fear that we experience especially as children-you know the whole boogy man concept. The scenes depicted are where my idea of comfort comes into play. I am not exactly sure what comfort is, but I think that that which we are exposed to for so long become somewhat of a comfort. It could be good and many times bad. The sense I have of where I grew up symbolizes this comfort for me. The industrial like middle class New Jersey I grew up in is simply comforting to me. Where ever I am, I am bringing this comfort into being someway. It's similiar to moving into a new apartment or home and bringing stuff(George Carlin comments beutifully about this) from your previous place. The airplanes on the other hand has to do with my father. He was a pilot in Cuba and in some odd way I believe that becoming a pilot is special. Of the many brothers and sisters my dad had he chose to become this special thing(not that my aunt and uncles aren't special) its that they rightly chose the safer professions. Heck don't we all deal with these choices. An Artist?!??!! What am I fucking nuts to try this!!!?? Well I think my dad had to have dealt with the same sentiments- A Pilot!!??! What are you fucking nuts???!!! At least Art has been around since the beginng of humanity, Airplanes are still pretty damn new to deal with and when my dad chose this profession, airplanes were really new. He was born in 1912, The first flight of an aircraft had just happened! It's an homage to him and consequently to our humanity. I can probably go on. Maybe I will some other time. Thanks.
11:16 AM
Billermo said…
also, chicks dig painters.
12:24 AM
Unknown said…
My friend, you are an amazing painter, simply put. I have to admit I was a little surprised to read your diatribe there, but very thankful to do so. If it weren’t for the questions already posed of you I would have likely asked the same. I guess I’ve just still been wondering what you were after.

I think the two of us are after very similar goals in our work, and it’s nice to know that I’m not alone. Well regardless, congratulations on your recent show and best of luck with everything. Say hello to everyone for me and hopefully I’ll be back in Miami to visit soon.
4:30 AM
John Sanchez said…
Wow I did go on didn't I? Jeremy!! How's the big West man?!!
1:24 PM
Unknown said…
Portland has been awesome so far. I miss the ocean and knowing people when I go out to see galleries but I suppose the fact I'm being left alone allows me to see more work and really digest my thoughts on the work I've seen. What I've seen here so far ranges from kitch-laden wall art to some very strong work. Over all there is a lot of figurative work and I must say the majority is well done. I've been working on some small landscapes (oil and egg tempra) and going outside and drawing the buildings and life around town. So far so good, this fall I'm going to apply to a couple of masters programs here. I'm keeping my eyes open for group shows but it seems like a the art season is winding down as fall begins. I'm fine with that though, it means I can focus on working and not showing. As long as I get work done I'm happy. By the way, did I hear you are engaged now? If so, congrats.
7:19 PM
French Farting Whore said…
What is the point of painting anything! Planes, Fine. People, fine. Nothing, that is also fine. (abstraction).

To quote Carlos "Just Paint! Pump it up. Paint!!!"

ALSO, Whores like planes.
9:53 AM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Post a Comment
Read more

My dearest and son

11 comments
Read more

A Memoir of sorts Part 1.

 I come from a background of divorce and grit. My young mother, with dreams bigger than her reality, married a much older man. He was an airline pilot in Cuba, his third marriage, and I’d be the last of his many kids. He was 64 when I was born, my mother in her early thirties. The man was tired, worn out. They divorced when I was three, in New Jersey. Immigrants, scraping by with hard work and blue-collar jobs. My father took whatever work he could find, mostly driving trucks. The communists in Cuba had torpedoed any real chances for future success in the United States. My two brothers and I ended up on public assistance. Then my mother started dating another man, and that’s when the real chaos began. Drugs and alcohol stormed into our lives, ushering in years of domestic violence, drama, and constant moving. New schools, new roach-infested apartments every six months. One day, a neighbor had a garage sale. We couldn’t afford much, but my eyes lit up when I saw a trunk full of draw...
Post a Comment
Read more