The Art of Kolaboy

Danny Malboeuf

There are certain moments, certain focal points in everyone's life, that potentially affect
the outcome of that life. A crossroad, I guess it could be called, where you are offered a
vision of what could possibly ‘be’. Many view these as mere speedbumps, and continue
on their course. Others pause, and contemplate the hand that the sisters Faith and Fate are
offering. Far better to follow those winsome siblings to whatever destiny they will lead
you, than to follow the road of convention only to find that it ends in a place with neither
satisfaction nor the option to return. Arriving at desolation after having done one’s best is
far better.

One such moment occurred at my grandparents house, when I was about eleven years old.
A quiet, boring and safe place, with an air of perpetual Sunday about it. There was
nothing to do but watch one of the three or four channels their television would pick up,
or explore the old cemetery, dotted with marble and granite stones. I had that burial yard
quite to myself, and the irony was not lost upon me that, for a place or eternal memorial,
hardly anyone remembered to visit. Old and young faded beneath my feet... polished rock
glistening in the sun. On warm days there was a faint smell of death and freshly mown
grass in the air.

Tiring of this melancholy pursuit, I went inside to slouch in front of the television for a
while. An old Tarzan film? No. I reached to pick up a magazine. A church bulletin, a
Shriner's News, and a Reader's Digest. I settled for the digest. Flipping through it for
anything that would grab my attention, I came across a series of photographs that kindled
a strange excitement inside me. They were like nothing I had ever seen before... defying
gravity, unearthly coloured, and challenging every preconception of reality. But wait... on
closer inspection they are not photos at all, but paintings. The name of the article: ‘Hello
Dali’.

I had painted before, but I had not realized the possibilities, the power to affect... and to
change. Almost as though the ancient and hollow promise that ‘Ye shall be as gods’ was
a true one. It was like a veil had been lifted between what I was, and what I had not
known that I wanted to be. Not to be him, but to create a universe of my own that was
every bit as valid. Once that is kindled inside you, you are never the same.

Sometimes I'm asked ‘How did you learn to paint?’

To answer ‘By painting’ may seem a bit cavalier, but it's 100% true. Especially if one
concedes that technique alone is not the means to that end. Technique can be learned,
only hard work is required for that. But the individual voice that everyone desires will
recede if you reach out for it. It will run if you seek to find it in the advice of others. It
will leave you forever if you continually fill your head with the trash that is offered to
you as entertainment. I have seen the fruit of such ‘inspirations’ .... no more need be said.
There is a secret to relate. A secret way to get there. A silent and solitary way ... and a
sorrowful way. All that I have created is born of my understanding of music, and of my
own sorrow. It's the sorrow that interests the world least of all. Music is the only voice I
hear.

My father was a surveyor. One day he came home with a box of assorted acrylic paints
that he had found lying by the side of the road. They became a salvation to me.

I've never used oils, apart from those wretched paint-by-number sets that the relatives
pelted me with on holidays and birthdays. Recreating ugly little ships, and trees that were
at best very un-tree-like. But it must be so. A child that was not naturally inclined to
hunting or athletic pursuits was a child to cause concern. And the child did cause concern.
Only after those labors of discovery met with success and a measure of acclaim were
those concerns supplanted by acceptance. But by that time, the acceptance – though
appreciated – was meaningless. Creation becomes its own reward.

I still have one tube of that old paint: Yellow Ochre, hardened and dry. Its potential to be
something other than itself has long since evaporated. A cautionary metaphor. I daily
thank God that I have only ONE tube, and not the whole box.

My unsolicited advice? Work hard. Don't be afraid of the solitary nature of this calling. If
some decide that you have become more trouble than you're worth, let them go. Let the
seeds planted in your past flower and mingle together, winding themselves into
something that is new and wholly your own. Be honest in what you create. You will find
that it's the only realm that suffers complete honesty, and for that reason it will become
indispensable to you. Don't hate those who misunderstand you, anymore than you would
hate a dog for not answering you in the king's English. They simply do not have the
capacity to understand. And don't attempt to understand yourself. In the artificial paradise,
reason is Satan. The banal smile of Voltaire is in actuality the grimace of one who has
unknowingly usurped his own soul. I've seen his death mask.

My very first paid commission was the cover art for sheet music, a hymn that some
dodgy local preacher (the friend of a relative) had written. It was the worst hymn in the
world. You could hear it sextillion times and never recall it later. But, being 13, I was
proud and happy to be using my limited ability and actually be paid for it. Ah, but Billy
Sunday had no intention of paying me after he received the finished work that I had
labored over. Only after I had asked him about it in front of others did he produce the
magical twenty dollar bill. This was the same guy who several weeks before had melted
his refrigerator door after having put an electric heater inside to defrost it - honest to God.
It was an experience that taught me a lot, both about the ‘business’ of art, and the regard
– or rather the lack of it – that most people have for artists. Here is the general mindset,
which I learned between the ages of 13 and 15:
1. "Are you the one who draws?" Insinuating that creating art is not work. At best it's a
hobby that's taking up way too much of your time. It's not healthy.

2. "Do you still do that art stuff?" Implying that you are largely wasting your life. Time
that could have been better spent at NASCAR events is gone forever.

3. "Could you do me a picture of ... " (insert ugly wife, barn, dog, dead relative).
Absolutely. I will get right on this half-assed commission of yours that you are only
enunciating to hear yourself speak. My time is not in the least valuable. Please take it all,
and hug me.

4. "I'll bet you could knock one out in ten minutes." The public at large does not
consider the nuances at play when recreating the ugly wife.

5. "I'll pay you for it." No. No you won't. Especially if you're a preacher or a relative
(not all of them, of course).

6. "That shure does looks real." Yes. That was my aim. Your skills of perception are
spot on.

7. "I know plenty of people who would buy something like this." You lie. You know
of no one who would. And, if you are queried about it later, it will have completely
slipped your mind.

8. "Why don't you do one for me sometime, something normal like flowers ..." Why
don't you die? Slowly.

9. "Why don't you join the Art Guild?" Maybe because I don't wear support hose,
hook rugs, and babble endlessly about grandchildren who still wet the bed.

10. "I sure would love to have a (free) portrait of my daughter before she leaves for
college." Take the beast to Walmart, there's an Olan Mills booth there.

Beware, those close to you will work you like an organ grinder's monkey if you allow
them to. However, the upside to this whole shebang is that their inconsiderate onslaught
will more than prepare you for those who truly value your work, and are willing to pay
you for it.

I once had an evil great aunt. She got my father hooked on cigarettes when he was 8 or so,
just for the fun of seeing a child smoke. Never had a kind word for me... quite the
contrary, actually. Later in life, she thought she was Grandma Moses and started painting.
Horrible paintings. It's a wonder I paint at all after having been exposed to her
abominations. Later, she went nuts and they stuck her in a home where she pretty much
devolved into a vegetable. Still mean though. A mean carrot. She's dead now. Haha.
It grieves me to say that the paintings of Marylin Manson are better than those of Tony
Curtis. It delights me to say that that's not saying much.

Inspiration is a mercurial thing. It's that sudden quickening that ties the loose ends of the
individual psyche into a Gordian knot of – hopefully – beauty. In that small universe,
even the most surreal of images feels perfectly natural to the creator. Unfortunately, the
obsessive tunnel vision needed to accomplish this leaves one mentally at a disadvantage
when it comes to explaining a particular piece to a public that is equally ill equipped to
understand it. I am speaking of pieces not conceived for any particular audience, but
rather ones that are created as a necessity for the psychological well-being of the creator.
Paintings deliberately aimed at a specific group are a whole other matter.

Inspiration is rather like the butterfly collector chasing a butterfly. Once you see it, you
are intent on the pursuit of it, not noticing the ground as you run, or the people you may
pass, or the cloud formations in the sky at the time. Later, when you're asked to retrace
your steps... it's nearly an impossible task. Your intent was to catch it, to capture the
elusive thing that's beyond your ‘normal’ experience. The lust for the eternally beautiful
and exotic... this is the heart of the matter. We defy those ponderous twins of decay and
death, temporarily, at least. The eternal in us longs for eternity, therefore we create with a
purity of intent, and with no purpose in mind other than a righteous defiance of the
elements that are slowly and methodically consuming us.

A while back, I had an experience that kind of illustrates the nature of inspiration...
I was sitting in my car in a shopping center parking lot, waiting for someone. Suddenly, a
small bird (I think it was a wren) flew through the open window and landed on my knee.
An instant later it had flown away. I think we were both surprised. The bird most likely
mistook blue jeans for an oasis. I was expecting nothing – and got a bird in my lap.
Inspiration...

Moral of the story? What one perceives as water may actually be denim.

Often, paintings evolve like a game of chess. You are moving the various pieces around
the board and you suddenly realize that the pieces have been arranged into a profile, or a
landscape. It wasn't your initial intention, it just seems to ‘happen’. The purest imagery
seems to come when you follow a nonsensical obsession. Somewhere in your quest, you
lose sight of what you were originally seeking, but the paths you've traced in searching
have become an end in themselves.

Inevitably, if I go looking for a dragonfly I will find instead a rainbow made of green
grass and warm, honey-crusted sandpaper.

This is my... process.

I love the vagaries of ‘art’. I detest exactitudes, limits, and definitive answers. If you
define something unequivocally, you limit it's meaning ...well, for me, anyway. Nothing
is more beautiful than a mystery that moves you in some indefinable way. A glimpse, a
thing you almost remember, can be raised to the level of exaltation when combined with
music and a susceptible psyche.

Honestly, I try to have no thoughts at all when I'm painting. The resulting imagery seems
more pure the less that any thought process is involved. Music is the catalyst that rattles
the shelves of my junk-shop brain. Who knows what will fall off the shelf? Maybe the
shelf will fall off.

With dreams, I appreciate far more the visceral effect of the strange rather than the actual
meaning behind them; suffice it to say that I do not try to understand them when I awake.
Meanings usually come much later, after I've determined not to seek them.

I've learned (through trial and tribulation) to deny and suppress nothing in my work. It's
the only place one can be completely honest, in a seductively evasive way. Most of the
time we honestly don't understand ourselves. Misguided educators, and indeed human
nature, compels us to attempt to connect the dots and bring meaning from the mysteries.
But the great revelation is that the dots do not want to be connected; they only want to be
touched, gingerly.

Artists are often disappointed with the response of the public to their work. But the public
sees only the culmination of the creative process, whereas the artist has lived each piece
from beginning to bitter end. Years that have shaped each artist’s identity go into that
person’s output ... but really, the casual viewer isn't concerned with the trials of creation.
Even the educated viewer can and does get it wrong .

I remember reading about William Blake and his first exhibition. The critics used phrases
like ‘the effusions of a distempered brain’ and ‘a madman's scrawls’ to describe his work.
Ultimately, anyone who seriously creates art – in whatever form – can resign him/herself
to being perpetually misunderstood by everyone .

I never think when I'm painting. Thinking is detrimental to the purity of expression, and a
‘figured out’ painting always looked figured out. What is the meaning behind a particular
piece? They all mean something, but I never know exactly what while I'm painting them.
Maybe it's the visual equivalent of speaking in tongues (i.e., thoughts and feelings that
are beyond the ability of expression in words). The meaning tends to come at a later date.

Of course, I paint because there is no other option. A day that passes where I have not
made progress of some sort on a piece is (I feel) a day wasted. It is quite an incredible
compulsion. And I love it. Though it does come at a price...
For me, time often passes in a blur. The only way I can gauge its passage is to look at a
particular canvas, and then that week comes back to me. When an artist is immersed in
this creative ‘tunnel vision’, it can be pretty rough on many aspects of their social life. It
can potentially destroy it. Fortunately, at this point in my life I have a circle of friends
and a girlfriend who accept my insanity. This was not always true, however. The main
point is just to persevere and remain true to your ideals no matter what. Then you will not
be plagued in later life by those ‘What if I had... ?’ questions. There's no getting back
time that has been squandered.

Still, there's a lot of general wear and tear on everything around you. I once went
shopping with a paintbrush behind my ear, and elicited quite a few stares before I realized
what was going on. I think I have one pair of pants that aren't paint-bespattered. Dammit,
I even have Thalo Blue on me bleedin' steering wheel.

A desired thing, when ultimately possessed, will almost certainly disappoint. And,
paradoxically, the wanting and desiring of a thing will sometimes produce something
greater than that which is desired. Just look at the myriad of literary works that were
predicated on the possibility that the planet of Mars was inhabited. We arrive there, and
it's a heap of red dirt. Heaps of red dirt seldom inspire anyone, apart from brick
entrepreneurs.

The journey is 99% of the time greater than the destination. I couldn't appreciate this fact
at 12, but now I have a somewhat better perspective. I hope that, in the years to come, I
will develop an even better one. Each painting begins as the greatest that I will ever do,
and honestly, none must end that way. I've never been happy with any of my paintings.
The vision always seems to recede; the greater the effort that is made to touch it, the
faster it disappears. This is the will o' the wisp that we chase through the dark and dense
forest. As we learn to run ‘artfully’, it is the branches we dislodge, the incidental result of
our pursuit, that cumulatively – and ironically – become our greatest creations.

Maybe that's one of the motivations in all who are compelled to create works of art: you
want to keep the things you love forever. But everything goes away ... and if you try to
hold them, they turn to dust in your hands. And, in the end, your hands turn to dust.

The words of Danny Malboeuf, edited from his journal entries by Lloyd D. Graham. Danny’s art can be seen at
http://kolaboy.deviantart.com/gallery/ and http://beinart.org/artists/danny-malboeuf/?GID=746 .