Home

Today I’ll not sing to you about the acne of young wild trout, nor of the teething of bonefish, nor of the legendary rudeness of tarpons.

And I’m sure that you are already saddened. But whatever… I am inflexible. With rage seething in your eyes you might well ask: why is this?

Well, watch carefully and read well what follows, I am sure that you will understand readily and bestow, even more laurels upon my brow when you have finished.

This morning, by the greatest chance, I fell nose to nose with the work of a funny fish. His name is William Hawkins (1895-1990).

In 1916, William took off running from a marriage where he was a guest in Columbus (Ohio). I must say that a number of other guests, perhaps slightly tipsy, had drawn their revolvers and were opening fire all over the place.

Well, to continue, William took on a shitload of small jobs; horse trainer, truck driver, etc. It was around 1930 that the demon of painting bit him. He had no education in classical art, just an irrepressible desire to tell about his life as a “black american” using terrible industrial paint on pieces of plywood.

And there, immediately, was a miracle. Painting until the end of his life he produced 500 paintings and drawings of an incredible vigor, spice and invention.

A real Artist? Hot damn, Sam! One could say: one of the best! On looking at his masterpieces, it is difficult not to think of major artists of the XXth century: all of the German expressionists as well as James Ensor, Gaston Chaissac, Kandinsky (during his youth!) and on and on.

In 1975 he is finally “discovered” by Lee Garret, another american artist, and recognized across the country by a great number of shrewd collectors.

It’s strange but all of these works, which in the 1950’s Jean Dubuffet labeled “Art Brut” (outsider art), continues to enchant me, to overwhelm me.

These artists didn’t give a damn about being “recognized”, they didn’t care a fig about careers nor about money. The only thing they lived for was to tell their story as well as possible. What grace! You have to agree, these guys were angels,

I can just hear the grumbling: “Again, all these things “American”, blah-blah.”

To which I reply without hesitating: “Error! Big error, sirs.” Art Brut (Outsider Art) is international. For example: do you know about a little village in the Drome by the name of HAUTERIVE? No? Well then, I beg you, put on your sneakers and get yourselves over there.

There you will discover one of the most beautiful monuments in France, a monument to the independence of spirit,a thumbing of the nose at the high-minded bourgeosie and “The Academy”; it was built in the early 20th century by a simple postman who made his rounds on foot or on bicycle. A man a with luminous imagination, an artist unlike any other: the postman Ferdinand Cheval. In his garden, for 30 years, he built an immense and glorious “Palais Ideal” (Ideal Palace) made of stones that he collected on his rounds and a bit of concrete to hold it together. I won’t say anything else. But, if you don’t shed tears of joy when you see this miracle created by a barefoot visionary, I’ll never speak to you again.

A 1,000 times thank you, M. William Hawkins; a 1,000 times thank you… to all you artists. You help us to live as much as the trout with juvenile acne and the teething bonefish.