Once apon a time my dictionary fell open to the Morse Code entry. It had a tiny translation of the alphabet into the dots and dashes. It reminded me of Boy Scouts and spies, of the railroads early western expansion, of dueling cryptologist in the theater of world wars, the rhythmic fist signatures of some retreating Viet Cong patrol. Morse code was the tom-tom drum of the industrial revolution, and like all the obsolete tongues fell on hard times and deaf ears. I started painting these dots and dashes into knobby grid-like landscapes recounting in the Morse code the memories and stories of people in my life. Juggling the dots and dashes into a nests of colors and punch drunk patterns I paint my memories of the ones who raised me, loved me, in a language meant to be heard, not seen. Like a P.O.W. tapping out news to an empty cell as the turnkey laughs I accept that the original text is lost, slowly encrypted out of my control with the constant layering of revised intrusions. Where the drama of somber and prime colors in rigid or hapless designs sets the tone of the narrative. In the end I am left with an undecipherable painting of colors and pattern, conveying to the viewer that hidden here, in the mystery of code, is the story of a life hopefully well lived. I strive for a painting that makes amends for forgetting and spitting at its elders, that rises face first out of the mud carrying a limp and bruise in every incontinent brush stroke and color
I don't really know where to rate myself as an artist, but for argument I say I am a 3 rate painter, so why are my visualizations of a desired work so James Bond? Perfect, cool, elegant, fearless, so many moves ahead of me I wish I could poison the prick. The real me is always the villain, moping on the secret island, needy and whimpering, "the terp's too dirty, this yellow is a crappy yellow, the light is fading, it always fading....."
I don't know how as artists we cobble in the mind these higher calling visualizations, whether they are just uncontaminated potentials waiting for a disciplined effort or mocking magic you imp after. Maybe in the dreamworld our DNA briefly mingles with whatever God's our sorry ass kowtows to just long enough to glimpse immaculate conception artwork, born complete. Ah but then you wake up, sheets soiled, realizing you have to do it the old fashion way. Painting always wins, me, I am just a forensic crime scene shadow of a bungled job with defensive wounds. So if anyone asks me pointing at my art "did yo
u do those", I can honestly say" No, I killed a chimp and stole his paintings"....in my dreams..
I don't find "Art" very obliging these days, playing fair and holding still for a pat-down. Too shadowy of a figure never carrying when frisked. But I probably could finger it in a police lineup after it's broken out my windows and ransacked my life. So I will have to take small comfort in good old fashion name calling and recriminations. "Art" is a sulking, forced march guttersnipe perched in the corner of my studio plinking my cold cold ears with it's cold cold nails. It's a gasbagging sneak thief that trashes my space, squeezing drunk paint tubes onto the floor while guzzling terp leaving me high and dry like an exhausted hotel maid as it skips out on the bill. Art writes down the secrets of everything I ever wanted on a burning stick and makes me play fetch in a thorn thicket field. Like a grinning tar baby Buddha I foolishly punch or a hoary fishwife with a raised skillet, art gets the last laugh every time. I am lucky if at the end of the day I can limp away with a truce. It makes me hoarse when it is quiet. It was here first, we're just passing through putting on our sunday best in front of it's fun house mirror. Love it. Like Gulley Jimson from "The Horse's Mouth", he knew at the end of the day an impatient bulldozer waited, he made peace with it.
1807 Pasadena Dr.
Austin TX 78757-2224
Cell:
512.538.4634
Email:
scotty@scottystevenson.com
Born: Amarillo, Texas, March 19, 1955 ~ Year of the Ram
2002 Flinner Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Michael Berzenoff
2000 Dot-Dash Paintings Dash-Dot, Ground Floor Gallery, Fells Point Creative Alliance, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Jed Dobbs.
1998 Mono a’ Mono, Louie’s Café and Bookstore, Baltimore, Md. Curator, James Rouse.
1997 Twistertown, Fells Point Corner Theater Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Barbara Moore
1996 Paintings ~ Monos, Adler Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Bill Adler
1995 Mono Prints, Corradetti Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Anthony Corradetti
1987 Mono Prints, Louie’s Café and Bookstore, Baltimore, Md. Curator, James Rouse.
2006 The FEAR Show, Sub Basement-Gallery, Baltimore, MD, www.subbasementartiststudios.com Curator, Frank Klein
2006 Sowebo Arts Festival Members Show , Sowebo Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
2006 Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Sowebo Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
2005 Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
2004 Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s Annual Open Studio Tour, Baltimore, Md.
2003 Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s Annual Open Studio Tour, Baltimore, Md.
2002 Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s Annual Open Studio Tour, Baltimore, Md.
2001 Speak, 2001 Artscape, Meyerhoff Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Gary Kachadourian
2001 The Artist of Sowebo, Resurgam Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
2000 Invitational, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Mark Braun.
Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s 12th Annual Open Studio Tour, Baltimore, Md.
Out of Order, Maryland Art Place, Baltimore, Md.
The Artist of Sowebo, Resurgam Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
1999 Fells Point Creative Alliance “Big Show”, Fells Point Corner Theater, Baltimore, Md.
Invitational, Theater Project Fonda Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Kim Tyson
Out of Order, Maryland Art Place, Baltimore, Md.
Le Salon Les Refuses, Perrelli Fine Art & Design, Baltimore, Md. Curator Kim Tyson
Sowebo Arts Festival Exhibition, Coastal Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s 11th Annual Open Studio Tour, Baltimore, Md.
Baltimore: A Cultural Landscape, City Hall Courtyard Galleries, Baltimore, Md.
The Artist of Sowebo, Resurgam Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
1998 Journeys, Fells Point Creative Alliance “Big Show” Studio 302 and the Halcyon Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curators, Mary Jo Kehn and Joan Van Sledright.
Artscape: Artist in the Empowerment Zone, City Hall Courtyard Galleries, Baltimore, Md.
First Annual Regional Juried Exhibition, Fells Point Creative Alliance, Studio 302 Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
Fond of Fonda,Theater Project Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
School 33 Art Center’s 10th Annual Open Studio Tour, Studio 302 Gallery, Baltimore, Md.
The Arabber Show, Theater Project Gallery, Baltimore Md. Curator, Dan Van Allen
Out of Order, Maryland Art Place, Baltimore, Md.
1997 The Big Show, Halcyon Gallery, Fells Point Creative Alliance, Baltimore, Md.
1996 The Big Show, Daily Grind, Fells Point Creative Alliance, Baltimore, Md.
1995 The Big Show, Halcyon Gallery, Fells Point Creative Alliance, Baltimore, Md.
1994 The Great Scott Show, The Adler Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Bill Adler
Isospin Gallery, Baltimore, Md. Curator, Lisa Meo
Mike Giuliano, “Morse Code: Paintings By Scotty Stevenson”, Baltimore City Paper, 9/25/02
Carl Schoettler, “The Fells Point Art’s Journey”, Baltimore Sun, 8/9/98, Baltimore, Md.
1998: 2nd Place In The First Annual Fells Point Fun Festival Visual Arts Awards,
Sponsored by the Society For The Preservation Of Fells Point,
Juried by Nancy Miller Batty, Chief Curator of the Delaware Art Museum.
1978: Merit Scholarship, Maryland Institute College of Art, Baltimore, Md.
Scotty Stevenson was born in the Texas panhandle in the mid-50’s a part of a meandering oil field family. He had a checkerboard rearing moving up and down the Southern gulf coast, ending up in Singapore in the late 60’s. He returned to states to study photography at the Maryland Institute College Of Art in 1973 where he fell under the thrall of painting. Weaned off the Maryland Institute in the late 70’s, he is currently shackled, living and painting in Sowebo and showing his art in the Baltimore art community.
Ok, if I must. Several years ago my dictionary fell open to the Morse code entry. It had a tiny translation of the alphabet into the dots and dashes. It reminded me of Boy Scouts and spies, of the railroads early western expansion, of dueling cryptologist in the theater of world wars, and the rhythmic fist signatures some retreating Viet Cong patrol. Morse code was the tom-tom drum of the industrial revolution, and like all the obsolete tongues, falling on hard times and deaf ears. I started painting these dots and dashes into knobby grid-like landscapes recounting in the Morse code the memories and stories of people in my life. Juggling the dots and dashes into a nests of colors and punch drunk patterns I paint my memories of the ones who raised me, loved me, in a language meant to be heard, not seen. Like a P.O.W. tapping out news to an empty cell as the turnkey laughs I accept that the original text is lost, slowly encrypted out of my control with the constant layering of revised intrusions. Where the drama of somber and prime colors in rigid or hapless designs sets the tone of the narrative. In the end I am left with an undecipherable painting of colors and pattern, conveying to the viewer that hidden here, in the mystery of code, is the story of a life hopefully well lived. I strive for a painting that makes amends for forgetting and spitting at its elders, that rises face first out of the mud carrying a limp and bruise in every incontinent brush stroke and color.
… . .- .--. .--. -.-- / - .-. .- .. .-.. … / - --- / -.-- --- ..- / ..- -. - .. .-.. / .-- . / -- . . - / .- --. .- .. -.