Rick Monzon: Grand Canyon

Such aerial views always lend a soaring feeling of freedom, and power. Transformations of color in the sky, along with monumental mountains instill respect for nature, but also a kind of kinship, of participation in grand changes; the power and grandeur of nature passes on to the viewer. The contrast between blue and orange hues imparts a nostalgic yearning; emphasized by constant color transition as it occurs in real life, the sense of movement is achieved here by the seeming randomness of paint distribution. This is one of the reasons why we love watching sunsets: every change on such a large scale finds a small echo in our private lives. The formula is simple: we compensate for the difference with an emotional response, and hence the nostalgia.

When I first glanced at this painting, I immediately started imagining myself moving around and inspecting the canyon from a high position. The mysterious stripe of orange seems so tempting: "come closer and look at me..." It remained to determine the kind of apparatus I would use, and I picked a hang-glider. No motor noises; rather, a bird-like maneuvering ability, with the wind blowing right in my face, supporting the wings of my flying machine. It makes sense to entrust oneself to the forces of nature when wanting to pay a tribute and marvel at it -- if only in one's fancy. This piece, though representing a single point in time, accumulates a capacity for projecting a temporal progression, largely due to its saturnine lyricism, ensuing, once again, from the blue, white and orange contrasts.

When two elements comprise a landscape -- air and earth in this case -- it is interesting to study the relationship between the two. Do they cooperate in some way, or do they struggle, and fight for supremacy? Here, it seems, the first example qualifies. It is as though the sky invests in the earth, practically all it has -- the intense and epic palette gradually flows downward, inside the canyon -- a safe that concentrates the wealth of color. The clouds form a triangle that points towards the canyon. In turn, the ridges point towards the vertex of that triangle. Together, they appear to be communicating, striving to reach an "understanding," a kind of a common ground. In pictorial terms, this understanding translates into harmony and unity.

There is enough light to oppose the general gloomy atmosphere: it partially negates the darker tones, and reminds of their temporariness. Though the white occupies a relatively small area on the canvas, its concentration makes up for it. The energy matters no less than the territory: just consider the Big Bang theory, with the whole universe expanding from one singular point. The light enlivens this piece, or rather prepares to do so when the time is right, in a few more hours, lurking between the skyline and the clouds. It adds a touch of day to the coming night, varying even more the palette and its effects. Or, perhaps, to the parting night, as it seems that the artist leaves it open for interpretation.

Rick Monzon: Better Day; Modern House

Compare & Contrast
Though thematically the genre of suburbia unifies these two paintings, they differ in almost every visual aspect within that theme. The serene blue, the calm viewing angle and the traditional house contrast the red sunset, the voyeuristic perspective and the modernistic architecture. But these differences also have a common characteristic: time causes all of these changes. The blue skies change their color as the day nears it end, architectural tastes evolve and, open and hospitable lifestyle retracts to an enclosed, escapist culture. Perhaps, one piece continues the other rather than opposes it. We witness similar tendency in parent and child relationship: often the latter rebels and tries to differ, but eventually succeeds the former. Mutual genes -- the genre -- determine the general resemblance, allowing for contained discrepancies.

Elaborating on the offspring metaphor, and the psychological tension it entails, I would declare the moodier piece as the "black sheep" of these series. The painting is indeed darker -- and I will take compliments for the perfect choice of colloquialism in the comments, red herring notwithstanding. It also appears very private and guarded, a green hedge blocking the view, contrary to the open and welcoming area in front of the traditional suburban home. Who lives in these buildings? Intuition tells me that a conventional and somehow inevitably happy family occupies the house with the visible driveway. But a child who grew up in such an environment will possibly have learned to resent it, and moved into a quirkier, and much more individualistic structure. The protagonist from the film "Donnie Darko" comes to mind; coincidentally, his home was destroyed by an unexpected crash.


The road further brings out the accessibility of the fenceless house, but becomes a literally and figuratively hidden motif in the other piece. Because of the hedge, one needs to "approach" the building in order to try and examine it. The viewing angle positions the observer on the road rather than in front of it, which results in a comical paradox, similar to when someone looks for a hat all the while wearing it on her head. On the one hand, by placing the viewer on the road, the artist encourages her to investigate and explore further. On the other hand, the actual inability to trace the path, prevents her from advancing. The artist plays a pull&push game, as he doesn't want observers to find out what's inside but entices them try. Since this painting represents a single point in time -- we will never find the road -- and never access the house. And, even standing on the driveway, closer to the building, doesn't make it appear more accessible; on the contrary, it only seems more alien. I can almost imagine a closed circle camera being installed and concealed in that evergreen tree.

This is a secretive, exclusive or a "friends only" house -- and this friendship is very sought for. Its kind remains open for interpretation: a celebrity villa for one, it can be a haunted house for another. Personally, I like to imagine the artist himself inhabiting it; a mastermind who orchestrates the viewer's reactions and inmost aspirations. While the first painting projects contentment and self-assurance, the second destabilizes and disturbs. Together they combine to reflect the complexity of a single individual and her inner life. They provide a front and a back view of one's mind, the light and the dark side of one's soul. This is the advantage of looking at several paintings from a single series: each piece presents a different side of the theme; eventually, the series gives a more complete overview of the topic. When Claude Monet embarked on painting the Rouen Cathedral, producing more than a dozen paintings, he strove to depict as many light effects as possible. In this case, the artist aims to convey psychological and sociological phenomena. Ultimately, this series is about the people, the people we never get to see on these canvases -- ourselves and our neighbors.

Rick Monzon: Yellow Pears

The unusual arrangement of the pears, which resemble two pieces of a puzzle, sets the tone for this still life. I will avoid dichotomous Yin/Yang preludes, and will simply try to figure out what is going on here. Following the puzzle comparison, the artist tries to achieve a kind of completeness, or perfection, when all the pieces fit in and form a new image. The difference here is that there is no image to be formed, which prompts to look for a meaning instead. Although, there is a basic image involved: an ellipse. I remember reading in William Hogarth' "The Analysis of Beauty," that in order for a perfect face to shine even more, it needs the contrast of a small defect. Here, (though the perfection is of a geometrical kind) we see the defect in the form a the black spot at the back of the higher positioned pear. Clearly, the artist knows what he is doing.

This is an even composition: two fruits and two tails; almost a perfect symmetry between them. It is known that straightforward symmetry (which entails monotony) may appear tiresome to the eye. This painting can be straining despite the beauty spot; Hogarth also claimed that the artist should avoid monotony at all costs (odd compositions are often considered more beautiful). Rick defies hogarthian dogmas, and chooses the more difficult path, but offering a compensation along the way: the circular movement forms something I already mentioned as characteristic to Rick's oeuvre -- a hypnotic pattern that aims at the subconscious. In fact, a degree of monotony is essential for effective hypnosis. Hence the composition assumes an underlying purpose that justifies the repetition -- a purpose that becomes the meaning mentioned above.

This painting mesmerizes. As often happens, when more parts of the mind become involved, following a simple logic, the viewing experience becomes more difficult and intense. This is a heavily loaded piece that asks the viewer's brain to work, offering in return what may be tentatively described as "aesthetic pleasure." Personally, I like complex ideas and paintings that express such ideas. This piece generates friction between itself and the viewer. Interestingly, friction was the first step to the discovery of electricity and, in turn, mesmerism and hypnosis. If you think I just threw a few more unrelated terms into the bag, just think Edgar Poe's "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar," or Marie Shelly's "Frankenstein." The artist does not ask for this piece to endear itself immediately, maybe even trying to repel the casual observer. But, it often happens that things we like right away bore us quickly, while things we don't understand, and are indifferent about, reveal their depth only later on.

Rick Monzon: Filter

Introduction
Usually I follow a fixed patten when preparing to write a review. I look at some paintings and make notes on predominant characteristics, elements of style, color preferences, brushwork and so on. I brainstorm and write down first impressions. Then, using this data, I try to deduce what the artist seeks to express and what should be the general direction of my interpretation. Finally, I strive to construct a coherent argument and make conclusions about the paintings I examined. But, sometimes, the artwork resists direct analysis. I receive a different kind of inspiration, one that is difficult to put to words -- all I have is a vague sensation that morphs and pulsates inside my head and psyche. Such is the artwork of Rick Monzon.

Rick paints mostly landscapes and suburbia. It is fascinating to observe how the gloomy and troubled palette he uses in the former genre shifts towards the serene and soothing in the latter; darker tones towards the lighter. The artist communicates a complete world view that opposes the precipices of nature to the security of the city. His paintings flow and float, and, to experience them optimally, the best strategy, so it seems, would be to entrust yourself to the artist's world, and simply hop the adventure. Furthermore, in order to fully enjoy Rick's art, one has to let go of the desire for conventional understanding. Not all art was made to be understood; sometimes it is made to be felt, experienced on another level. Here it is the subconscious: his pieces transmit on waves unregistered by standard perception but duly absorbed by what resides under or behind it. They are akin to David Lynch's strange realm, particularly as it was displayed in the film Mulholland Drive, where we witness utopian urban landscapes being shown as the other side of sordid slums -- literal, as well as figurative, those of our psyche and ego.

Eventually, his paintings claim a mind -- following the subconscious -- of their own, and they speak for themselves. And this what I will try to do in my review of his artwork, to let it speak, adding not so much a critique as a commentary, sidenotes and impressions, in an endeavor to uncover the common denominator of the audience and the collective psyche that the artist addresses. Rick Monzon lives in Ojai, California, USA. He is relatively new to the online frequent painting scene, having usually displayed his work in galleries. You are invited to visit his blog and his website.



This painting displays a complex interplay between the light and the trees and the ground that hosts them. The light is filtered by the streaming growth; the result is a series of rhythmically positioned spots that create a pattern of hypnotic quality, aiming to tap into the subconscious. This device is further accentuated by the incredible sense of movement, as every trunk is somehow curved and recurved . It is as if the trees are trying to confuse the viewer, while, in fact, withholding a secret agenda: to force the observer into a somewhat delirious state of perception. At this point I already feel the need to apologize for my probably too serious tone but, following my vow expressed in the introduction, I am merely trying to follow the will of this piece. With this painting, I am a always a step behind, and the sense of uncertainty can be pretty severe.

But not all is harsh. Just as the artist's oeuvre propones a dichotomy of light and dark, this piece contains it on a miniature level. There is a captivating horizontal symmetry: three sections, one entirely green (the bottom), one black (the top), and another one combining these colors (the middle); the two outermost stripes are shown how to deal with in the middle section, where the green tames the black and vice versa. In fact, there are two major areas of color that intersect in the middle, and this arrangement is not at all alien to the Freudian scheme of the ID, the Ego and the SuperEgo. The imposing sense of distortion may imply on how things can go wrong and how difficult it is to retain one's sanity. Indeed, the line "How you suffered for your sanity" from Don McLean's "Vincent" comes to mind.

It is almost possible to see the wind in this piece. This is not a coincidence. The line of trees may be serving an agricultural purpose of blocking winds and hurricanes, to prevent soil movement and loss. It is particularly interesting to see that the wind, in fact, blows in the viewers' direction, practically into our faces. The artist creates an illusion that the trees are trying to protect the audience, forming a hedge between them and the element, dragging observers into a live, powerful experience along the way. The protective intent recurs in other paintings as well, and, it occurs to me that the painter, while violently stirring the hidden parts of the mind, assumes artistic responsibility, and guards the audience from excessive cataclysms. Looking at his art may seem like a risky venture -- but you are in safe hands, and it's a risk worth taking.