A Living Magazine - Grounded in Maine - Day 1 - Rick Hamilton: Building the Art

Featured in this Post

ARTIST - RICK HAMILTON

__________________________________________

It was the first day of this new Journey. And, morning had broken, like the first morning. I worked feverishly to do a wash, cleaned up some of my extra stuff and stowed it in the back corner of Deb's basement. I was still unsure if I could use the new backpack--if it would be large enough. It seemed to work. It was not Saggy at all, quite the opposite, so I will need a new name (check the IWALLK -Journeys Facebook group to add your suggestion and vote!). It is dark green and LLBean of course.

Just as I was about to take a shower, my niece Helen returned from her tennis tournament. She had worn her IWALLK t-shirt. I was such a proud uncle! I helped her install Movie Maker so she could edit videos. She's a talented and intelligent kid. I think she'll do some amazing and creative stuff.

After my shower I got the last of my things stuffed into the new pack. It was midday. Time to go. I felt like I should have some trepidation about all of this. But, besides the utter lack of money, it was easy to remind myself that I had only been domestic for one month after a year and that I was an absolute expert at what I was about to do. Prior experience can be very comforting. 

I let Helen know that I was leaving and she came downstairs to give me a big hug. She is such a sincere person and when she expresses herself it is always genuine. She seemed a bit bummed out that I needed to go, but I told her it would only be three months and I would be right here in Maine the whole time. 

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the next phase of the IWALLK project. It felt a bit unnerving to be so unorganized. I'm a real self-control freak! All I had was a bunch of names and locations to visit along the coast. They were relying on me to give them some idea about when these visits might occur. As I write this now, I am still at the same pre-stage of planning.

It was not overly hot out, with milky cloud patches muting the sunlight and a moderate breeze refreshing the scene periodically. I wanted to work as long as I could on the last of the Prologues to this Journey and get caught up. I had an appointment to meet the modern artist Rick Hamilton at his studio that evening for the very first feature of the Grounded in Maine Journey. 

I stopped in at McDonald's at Mill Creek Shopping Center to work. Publishing another post before I left brought me to within about two hours of meeting up with Rick. I stolled across the Casco Bay Bridge and into downtown Portland...

Looking from One City Center toward Monument Square.

Rick's studio is on Parris Street, right down near the Deering Oaks Park area, and just behind the Portland Post Office's main branch. I killed some time strolling between State Street and Forest Avenue where Deering Oaks has it's Rose Circle. There weren't as many roses as I recalled seeing years ago and they were rather small, but through the summer season they should become quite bushy. I found my favorite and took this shot...

Deering Oaks Rose Circle.

Near the Rose Circle was The Hiker, a Spanish War Memorial. It realistically depicts the clothing and gun used by the soldiers in the Spanish-American and Philippine-American War, who called themselves, "Hikers"...

Directly across State Street was Deering Oaks proper and it's misty fountain. If one walks along State Street on certain days, passing through the mist can be a great way to cool off...

It was time to meet Rick and I made my way across Forest Avenue, along Portland Street for two blocks, then took a left onto Parris. Rick met me on the sidewalk and we entered his small but very busy studio...

__________________________________________

                  

I guess full disclosure is in order here. Rick Hamilton was my brother in law and father to my niece and nephew. Now, he is more like a regular old brother. But I have sought in this review not to let our familiarity color my view of him or his art. Of course I love the guy, but it took a few years for me to love his art. Presently, and with his growing following and greatly increasing sales, I couldn't help but take a more concentrated interest in what he does, how he does it, and why the curve of his popularity is rocketing skyward.

If you have ever been attracted to down to earth folks, you will not have found a greater example than Rick Hamilton. A practical-minded, responsible father, and extremely hard worker is just the outside of this man. Diving into the passion he has for his art opened up a vista of fascinating aspects about him for me as a pure-hearted and very prolific artist. On this night I would understand this like I never had before.

The space he led me into was rather small, less than 200 square feet, with additional spaces shared by a couple other artists. His section was strewn with the tools of his trade. And when I say "tools," I do mean tools. Brushes, acrylic paints and inks are perhaps the smallest aspects of the process he attends to. Power and manual construction tools, a drill press, wood for frames, even heat guns are essential to what he does...

On the main table of his workspace sat his latest piece, still in the process of being "built." I am here suggesting he is not simply an artist but a builder. He had constructed the frame--as he does with each painting. I asked him if he sticks to certain sizes. He told me that there are sometimes general sizes, but that mostly he will construct a frame size to suit his mood. This dynamic philosophy of changing-up his process, never following one certain way of doing anything, I think, is the key to what brings his art to life.

In his full time day job at Hancock Lumber he uses his skills and knowledge of tools to assist customers on what is best for their building projects. It only makes sense that he would apply this to his artistic endeavors. More than a painting, each of his works is a building project. Layers upon layers of paint will go down as he hones his vision of how colors can be augmented and mixed. Then he uses various techniques to bring about the actualization of this vision by some unconventional means. Here, the blue of the sky is brought through the white top layer, not by adding more paint but by sanding off what is already there...

Hand sanding works out just the right amount of color to begin with.

But if a heavier effect becomes necessary, he won't shy away from going electric.

The rough idea that starts an image is never something that requires commitment. And, as Rick works and builds his evolving concepts, the faint lines begin to sharpen. Initial aspects in the sketches that start the work may be completely discarded or reworked to fit the growth of any piece...

A metal straight edge (one of many in his arsenal) serves to punctuate

and develop his characteristically very clean final lines.

What start out as light lines becomes more permanent as ideas are allowed to remain alive. 

A close up.

On the piece above, Rick demonstrated how texture plays a part. While he once relied on the color of real oil paint, he grew frustrated with the drying process which could take up to three days. Now with the switch over to acrylics, a third dimension - texture - can be worked in. He used to use a clear varnish to finish pieces. It made them smooth, almost reflective. But, as of late, he has elected to leave them unvarnished and instead has developed means of texturizing, not only with sanding (as shown above) which leaves some areas rough and others smooth, but also by subjecting the still-drying paint to a heat gun. This provides the double benefit of drying it quickly and causing bubbles to emerge, which he can then sand off or push down, making small pits and mounds.

To be in the midst of his studio, surrounded by works I'd only ever seen online, felt like a private experience he was letting me see the heart of. It was a touch of the insider's privilege that I thought myself quite fortunate to be experiencing. Here is one of my favorites that I'd seen online. Someone will buy this soon I'm sure...

"Three Brothers Baking Company"

Something that surprised me was just how many paintings there were in finished, or nearly finished states... 

"Late Afternoon Cafe"

"I Don't Want to Hurt for You No More. P.S. I Can Lift 100 Pounds"

I found Rick's titles interesting. He draws his ideas for themes from many different sources. As his profile explains at the site that sells his work--UGallery.com...

Inspiration often strikes during conversation or listening to the radio. “Someone may say a certain phrase or lyric and in my head I will say ‘That sounds like a painting!’”

I also observed that he seems to have an inner supply of one line phrases. When they surface, he wastes no time jotting them down, painting them on the nearest surface, or scribbling them on the walls around him. I have to say they are quite unique and as far apart from each other as they can be...

"I feel like a lie about to be told." 

Genius. I might have to borrow that one.

"This is all I am so please don't follow me."

I have expressed this same sentiment many times,

but I wish I'd used so few words.

Ha, ha!

I mentioned that I'd seen an older painting of his that I really liked down in Deb's basement, and described it. He remembered it right away. I wondered aloud whether it might be destroyed by dirt and moisture down there?

Rick said that other people had commented on the conditions in which he kept some of his precious works. That's when he did something that completely caught me off guard. He picked up one of the small pieces that looked like it was complete, turned it face down and placed it on the floor. Then he rubbed it around there intentionally scratching it up a bit. He proceeded to pick it back up, dust it off and told me that essentially what he had just done made it more valuable to him.

It is the intention when creating, not the state of the finished product, that made each piece precious. He was implying that paintings are never really done until the clients walk away with them, or they are onboard the FedEx truck on it's way out of town. One must think carefully about this concept. Being there with him, seeing how he worked and hearing him explain it, I perfectly understood what he meant. My disability here is trying to get you to understand. 

Even some of his largest and most intricate pieces are not immune to being completely painted over or altered leaving the subject (for example) and redoing the background, or the other way around. Rick has no qualms or second thoughts about this at all. Regret for changing his paintings at any point is not a tool on his pallet.  

This builder is an artist. And, this artist builds with process, not just with materials. He has freed himself from the convention of treasuring the pristine state or handling things with kid gloves. Rather, the building of a painting is continuous as long as he has ownership of it. The collection of dust may seem random and uncontrollable, but that he knows this is occurring makes it an integral part of the building process. THAT is the art of Rick Hamilton.

We took a few minutes and discussed what has become his amazingly recognizable style of imagery. Until this time, I had not been able to put my finger precisely on this. I mentioned the tall thin figures. He nodded. Another thing is his use of straight lines, few curves, and foreign, or at least non-Maine-like, environments (palm trees, street side cafés, tall buildings, etc.).  He agreed with me about all of this.

He told me that he actually relies on his lack of formal training to create what is now becoming his professional style. He pointed out that there are no light sources, nor shadows in his paintings. I looked around and realized how true this was. His scenes were flat, but still somehow animate. The toes and fingers of his subjects are usually stubby, and contain less than five digits each unless they are to be the focus of the image. 

So, why no stout people, no lights or shadows, no anatomically correct hands and feet? Again, it is a lack of training, now turned into a motif. "When I started out I wanted to make perfect feet and hands. But I just didn't know how. I tried to study how light affected objects and where shadows would go and found it difficult. You can really tell when a shadow is in the wrong place." I had no idea about this. I'd equated his style to a rejection of realism, when in fact it was the adoption of his lack of training as an asset. By choice he had turned what most artists would be stultified by into a consistent and easily recognized style of his own.   

My camera doesn't function well indoors, and so my photos of the paintings therein are a bit fuzzy. But, in a sense, I was glad that I didn't have a professional set of pictures to present here, as the journey to his Facebook profile site or the commercial site are the best ways to get the idea about what these paintings might look like on your wall...

"Dance Contest, Havana."

A "Curator's Pick" at the site that sells his art.

"At Least There's Pretty Stars"

"East River Underwater Volleyball Club"

"Immigrant"

In passing, Rick mentioned something that we both use to keep working and creating. We agreed that it was the antidote for creative blocks. "Just start doing it," he said. "It doesn't matter what it will turn out to be." He said he'd never get anything done at all if he were to simply sit there on his bench in front of a blank frame (he uses wood, not canvas) and scratch his head about what the painting should look like. He just begins working...constructing...building. I knew exactly what he meant. I killed writer's block by simply writing. Before I'd know it, words would come together. I'd become invested in what I was saying. Then it was simply a matter of going back and carving out the concepts from the roughness of the introduction through into a clear and meaningful conclusion.  

I think Rick is no different, despite his use of a different media form.  Perhaps he is an even better example. Nevertheless, we both want our work to be understood. I could never simply type a jumble of letters, or unconnected phrases. He would never scribble aimlessly and then call it "meaning," just to say he'd done something.

He has something in the back of his mind. He doesn't necessarily have the foggiest clue what is looks like yet. But he takes the basics, hangs onto and starts with anything that he can recognize in that subconscious state--maybe it will only be a color, an object, or a face. That cracks the egg of the hidden concept open enough to continue pulling bits and pieces out. He might discover that something altogether different emerges. He may like that. Or, without even reflecting may paint over it and go back toward what he instinctively felt was trying to come out in the first place. He may even do a series, where the same subject is portrayed in different scenes. That, particularly, is something I would like to purchase from Rick someday--when I have something that resembles a human life again.

Having said all of the above, tried to explain it, rationalized it for myself and for you, listened to Rick's attempts to do the same for you and me, ultimately it is the mystery-genius of any truly devoted artist that he or she is not able to express why or how their work is what it is. 

They know. But it is the work itself that must do the expressing. That is why they produce in the first place. I think if any artist were completely able to explain their art, there would be no reason to continue creating. It is the friction between what is held in the mind and just how much of that goes into the final production that makes art such a spiritual experience for the artist and the connoisseur. It is the translation of the non material into the material - building the art - which is so satisfying to both.

Rick is very fortunate to be moving out of the purely local market and into a more national venue. He was the fifth top selling artist on the entire UGallery.com website last year. The prices he charges are middle level, typically hovering around the $2,000 range for online sales. But, I would urge local fans to contact him through Facebook and save themselves some money. There are advantages to being in Maine. Shipping costs and sponsor fees can be avoided by scheduling a stop by his studio. And, these savings can be significant in most cases.

Before leaving the studio I asked him if he plans to make this his full time job. Without hesitation, his answer was a definite, "Yes." I admired his confidence. "I know this will end up being my full time job," he stated with calm self-assurance. 

There is nothing more that I'd prefer to see happen for him. He is always evolving, trying new things, coming up with new subjects and techniques. I'll wait in great anticipation for these next  few  years to see what he will be coming up with. As he becomes more financially independent and has time to focus exclusively on his artistic career, I think we will witness the emergence of a world class creator. Frankly, if I had money and empty walls, I'd begin purchasing his art on this very day. You might do the same?

Rick Hamilton's Websites...

Rick Hamilton on Facebook

Rick Hamilton on UGallery.com

__________________________________________

The Portland night had grown dark. I needed to get up to Washington Avenue, and walked through the city's arguably roughest area in the East End to get there. I would describe this place as almost-rundown. There were pockets where people of color predominated. There were other blocks where Muslim immigrants strolled to the local markets with their kids. All these folks mixed in with the "native" white population. I saw no conflicts or intimidation coming from any angle. 

People greeted me as I walked by. Unlike many of the hundreds of other similar places I'd been to around the country, the streets were teeming with people out enjoying the summer night. So many citizens allow the fear factor to limit their movement in even their own neighborhoods. Portland isn't like that. I know there are crimes and other social issues of concern here, but either the people aren't as afraid or they are simply brave enough to go about their business and visiting despite these things.

It was a short walk to Washington, where I turned left retracing the same route I used to walk to Falmouth the week before. On that last hike I'd noticed a potential sleep spot at Martin's Point, just at the start of the bridge between Portland and Falmouth. I found a path there and ventured in discovering a really nice spot. There was a fire pit and several areas where I could set up the tent. It was certainly good enough to spend one night. Once I'd gotten the simplest tent configuration assembled (just the tent on the ground, with only two of the three tent poles being used--no fly and no tarps), I stood there enjoying the salty air...

The moon rising above Mackworth Island.

Then I heard voices and two flashlights headed down the path. Two kids in their very early twenties walked right up to the fire pit.  It was a guy and a girl. I heard him say, "See! Isn't this the best spot? He wasn't kidding, was he?"

Knowing that they would soon discover me, I said, "Hi guys..."

"Hey..." said the guy. "Shit, I was told no one was here."

I mentioned that I was only staying the night and then moving northward up the coast and told them that if they didn't bug me they would be welcome to use a place in there too. I asked him what their plans were. He said they were planning to move in. He said that it was his case worker who suggested the place. I said that was fine. The girl promised they wouldn't make a lot of noise. Then the guy told me they needed to head back out for about 20 minutes to get the rest of their stuff. I introduced myself as Alex and asked their names. The guy said "I'm Mikey and this is Emily."

I stood by the tent just hanging out until they got back. They made quite a bit of noise coming down the path upon their return. When they came into view I saw that they had two shopping carts filled three feet up with junk. And then they left to get more!

I just shook my head. Naive kids, didn't know what the hell they were doing. They were making the classic mistake of thinking that security was proportional to the amount of stuff you have. Obviously, they had been hanging out with all of this shit, or hiding it somewhere until now. 

I plainly saw their immediate future... They were going to try to install themselves there. A few of their local friends would end up finding them, or some older guys, and their cover would be blown. They would have the typical homeless street life drama and would be outed to the police or chased out by a stronger interested party...or worse. 

This was no place for a girl Emily's age. I'd heard a story about another young couple their age in the West End who had a secret spot. In that case the guy was beaten unconscious and the girl was raped and left on the ground, bleeding, for him to discover in the morning.

Mikey was one of those reform school raised kids, short, wiry, acting tough, shirtless, had potential, but was probably going to waste it early, getting Emily pregnant while they were still homeless. You've heard the story before. It is a multi-generational tract of poverty, state assistance, criminality, and lack of education. Frankly, that scenario, multiplied by millions is the tethered weight pulling society down. But, it is the symptom of a broken system, not its cause.

You may know how much I loathe receiving unasked-for advice, and so I honor that principal by not advising others, unbidden. I would bite my tongue until a little later that night. For now, I was extra glad to only have a small tent, be alone, and travel with only a backpack. I climbed into the tent and quickly fell asleep, lying on my sleeping bag. 

I woke to the sound of sirens up the street. There was a mountain of this couple's crap silhouetted against the moon-reflected mudflats beyond. They were nowhere to be seen. I was curious and stood up outside the tent flap, then shown the light briefly over to their tent. I still saw no one.

I sat back down inside the tent and a few seconds later Emily emerged from a crouched position and came tiptoeing over to me. "I think Mikey was caught by the cops. They haven't come down here, but I'm afraid to go any check what happened. So, no flashlight okay?"

I just stood up again, realizing they might be blowing my cover along with their own. "Fuck," I said. "You guys have way too much shit and it's screwing you."

Emily just replied sheepishly with, "...I know...It's all Mikey's..." 

"He doesn't know what he's doing." I was becoming iritated.

"...I know...I'm sorry."

In the very low light she looked like a nice girl, tallish, slender, pretty. I just climbed back in my tent and she returned to theirs to await whatever activity was about to come down the line. Shortly after, she snuck down the path toward the street.

In about 15 minutes she returned and I went over to ask her what was going on. She said that Mikey had just broken up with her (obviously an immature high school style relationship), that he regretted showing her the spot, and that she would be leaving but not until the next morning. She asked me where I would be going. I told her I was a journalist and would be heading up the coast to report on life there. In so many words she implied that she might be interested in joining me. What kind of life causes a young lady to jump from a guy her age to an older man she doesn't even know? I know that women (and men) can certainly be opportunists, but seriously?

This little partnership she was suggesting was not going to happen, but I didn't tell her that. Mikey returned with yet more stuff and I climbed back into my tent, trying to sleep while they argued softly in the dark. They eventually stopped arguing and Emily went to sleep in their tent. Then, for the rest of the whole friggin night I heard that little shit Mikey loudly clearing brush and kicking away leaves. I slept maybe a half hour, before my watch alarm beeped at 5:00 am.