Christopher-Clark Fine Art Abstract Paintings

The artist constructs his spirit animal through mixed media. 48" x 60" Spray Paint, Oil, Construction Paper, Acrylic, Pastel, Marker

Shortly before Walt Esslinger died a few years ago, we talked in his small yellow painted studio in Bakersfield. Sixteen years my senior, he’d been my close friend, mentor and running mate since 1960. “You still writing?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered, taking in the space’s renovations he’d recently sub-contracted. Ninety one years old, and he was thinking ahead. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Write the Andy Warhol story.” Walt was a Central Valley guy, an L.A. guy, a Las Vegas guy. A man who knew his way around. “I want you to put on record what happened back then when I bought the soup can painting.” Back then was the fall of 1962. The two of us had been exhibiting our paintings in the L.A. Art Institute’s gallery for locals only. Walt had given legendary Ad Rhinehardt a story about how he and I had been working in both Edward Kienholz’s and John Altoon’s studios (false—we’d only been visiting). One morning, the Institute’s Director, who hadn’t suspected us to be charlatans yet, introduced us to a reed thin, tow headed young man leaning against the main gallery’s wall. “Meet Andy Warhola,” he said. “Andy is from New York.” “Warhol,” the boy/man said. “Painter?” Walt asked him. “Shoe Illustrator.” The director made a snorting noise I took to mean that Warhola or Warhol’s modesty was posed. He mentioned something about Andy having a show on the La Cienega strip of galleries. We exchanged mumbles about how the art world was in flux, nothing more than that, and Walt and I moved on. If this strange cat had anything to look at, we’d see it. It was a Monday, and La Cienega’s twenty some galleries would be opening new shows and serving champagne that evening. North La Cienega Avenue, laid over a network of oil veins decades before, had become the street for the Cool School, a group of artists and gallery people trying to bring Los Angeles’s art scene to life. The galleries were small but proud. Sure, Jazz was born on the Delta and raised in New Orleans, St, Luis and Chicago, but L.A. had fifty-three jazz joints according to Chet Baker, who’d blown with the best. Why then should the West Coast be lagging behind New York in the other truly American expression, abstract art? At the Ferus Gallery that night we found Warhol’s exhibit. “Shit,” I said. Walt grinned. “You no like?” “Not exactly my can of soup,” I said, peeking into the small space, loaded now wall to wall with paintings of Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Walt stepped into the space. “How about the idea of it?” I made my way through spectators looking at once to be confused, amused, enthused and abused. When I came back to Walt he was still smiling. “Why didn’t he silk screen ‘em?” I asked. “That’s probably his next move,” Walt said. “You wanna stay?” Walt’s keen eyes cased the joint. “I see Irving Bloom over there,” he said. “Believe I’ll stick around and talk with him.” Bloom had been operating this popular gallery for some time now. “One hundred a month,” he’d told me. “It’s not like I’m getting rich.” I stood around for a bit, heard a fellow abstract expressionist I’d met tell a young lady who looked to be lost, “Okay that’s the soup. Come with me, baby, and I’ll show you the juice.” Two doors down I stopped at the Primus-Stuart Gallery. A group of people had gathered around a display of soup cans, stacked grocer’s pyramid style in the window. All Campbell’s. All Tomato. A sign leaning against the grouping stated: “Get the real thing. Thirty cents each.” That’s the way it was. Twenty-four galleries forming a gauntlet between La Cienega’s 300 block, all the way up to Barney’s Beanery at the corner of Santa Monica. Hollywood types dressed to the nines, Beats dressed for the times just gone. Champagne popping...

The Dorians played a significant role in the development of the Greek city-states during the Bronze Age -- and Doves are widely recognized as symbols of peace, primarily in the bibli...

SHORT SPURTS 2021 Paris, France This piece is a visual interpretation of a poem the artist wrote around frenzied, short-sighted behaviors: “That part usually stays hidden. Those colors are not known for blending. Us? We come from a rib. And we tangle ourselves in the traps we set for our prey.” - Nicholas Evans The painting is composed of plaster, oil and acrylic, with the main detail shape, in white, positioned over wood glue, leaving a slightly raised effect. Embracing the unique imperfections of reclaimed objects aged over time, Evans uses antique found...

The Dorians played a significant role in the development of the Greek city-states during the Bronze Age -- and Doves are widely recognized as symbols of peace, primarily in the story...

Original piece, ,mixed media circa 2003. signed dry mounted 50cmx50cm. painting 32cm x 32cm. Plein air study from the portfolio of his travels in Sardinia. Chosen by the artist to e...

Entitled 'Il Passato Imano,' translated to 'The Past Remains' in Italian, this artwork on cotton fabric showcases a statue of a man, accompanied by an abstracted shadow. The bust, pa...

Michael Pemberton (b. 1974, England) is an emotive abstract painter, focussing on the energy and form of the human subject. Michael was educated at Chelsea School of Fine Art in London and later studied at Slade School of Fine Art, University College London and The Ruskin School of Art, University of...

Josette Dubost is a French artist born in 1936 who lives & works in Solliès-Pont, France.

Original Artwork ~ Sugar, Coffee, Wax and Oil onto Steel Each steel sheets hangs onto the wall with a bracket which is fastened to the reverse of the steel. The painting therefore s...

The painting is corresponding most closely to the first photo on the 1stdibs page. A professional photographer took this photo in his studio with good lighting. The other photos were...

In this collection, British painter Michael Pemberton (b. 1974) suggests we each have a personal HUMAN ATMOSPHERE. An ether where we truly exist, unseen by the naked eye but as real ...