Clayton James Studio
I was very fortunate to be able to spend a year sharing Clayton James’ studio in the last year of his long life. The first thing one notices walking up to the studio is the charming rustic simplicity. Several of Clayton’s sculptures stood guard with some hiding beneath the relentless plant growth of the Northwest as if to ambush any intruders or art critics. Looking like a building that Henry David Thoreau would have chosen if he had been an artist. It was a hundred year old wooden building that was maybe originally a house or brothel or even a school. It was hard to say. The building had never seen a building inspector or drop of paint on the exterior in all that time and it never had running water or toilet which was an issue for me not having access to a nearby toilet. I felt fortunate to have electricity. The interior was shockingly minimal for being used as a studio and wood shop for sixty years, looking like a zen lumberjack and devotee of wabi sabi was maybe living in the space. There was still a pile of firewood and a well worn ax next to where the wood stove had been before the roof had caught fire years ago. All along the studio walls were stacks of paintings unfinished over many years and also the optimistic fresh wood panels in waiting just in case Clayton got the urge to paint again. I was impressed by the well loved paint brushes and how carefully maintained they were because even so I could see they were from another era.
I got to know the man not so much by spending time and talking to him but from what he had created over his life and more interesting to me; how he went about it. Such as what he chose to keep and store in the closet or under the building or in the attic. What books he kept on a shelf in the studio or newspaper articles of fellow artists. What post cards and posters he had hung for inspiration and most significantly all the objects he had brought back from nature for admiration and inspiration. I’d spend time looking through the old shoe boxes of photos from Clayton’s life. They were all mostly photos he had taken to base paintings on. Some were of him and with other painters in the mountains on painting expeditions. It was fun finding photos that became paintings. The studio had dozens of rocks inside and outside which I realized were the inspirations and models for many of his ceramic vessels. I also perhaps got the added pleasure of getting to know Morris Graves. In some strange way Clayton’s cat, named after Morris Graves was a reincarnation. Sometimes sweet other times moody but always curious what was happening in the studio. Once dragging his shitty butt across one of my paintings that was on the floor to clean himself and make a clear critique. A few times Clayton would matter of factly mention seeing Morris’s human spirit standing in the room.
Clayton would often come over, slowly and determined with his walker and a caretaker helping him up the steps into the studio. He’d have to carefully make his way through the section of the studio where I was set up which had been his clay working area originally into the smaller room that was set up as his painting studio. At this point in life at 96 the painting had stopped and he used the room to take a nap and look through the boxes of photos that would trigger his memory of art that he had created. He’d occasionally pull a photo out to show me and say proudly, “I made that.” Our relationship was an interesting mix of highs and lows. Some days he’d complain to me how he “didn’t appreciate this invasion of his studio”. Other times he’d sit down and look at what I was working on and talk about the paintings and what he liked. But most days he didn’t want to talk about art at all. It seemed to me it was painful because he knew he just wasn’t able to paint any longer. I felt it was not because of him not being physically able to paint but that he didn’t have the focus anymore. So it just sometimes made him feel bad and clam up about the subject of painting.
I loved using his mid-century wood shop with all it’s vintage tools. Seeing all his clever repairs and adaptions on his tools, many of which had been worn down to nearly unusable or seemed perhaps illegal. I imagined he had bought all the tools he needed in the 1950’s and felt no need to purchase another tool as long as it could still perform it’s original job and if not then some other clever new specialized function. Now the wood chisels and saw blades had dulled as Clayton was no longer actively using and maintaining the wood shop. I’m indebted to him from learning how he made his frames. My father and I repaired some of his damaged frames and so got to see his unique and very economically efficient way of making frames which we studied to make my own frames.
It was fascinating seeing perhaps eighty paintings in various stages of completion stacked randomly around the studio. Seeing the bones and behind the scenes. It’s the best way to understand and absorb the process and effect of a style and approach to painting. Clayton painted in a very direct unfussy way. I imagine he and Cezanne applying the paint in a similar fashion, never over thinking or overworking it. His paintings are influenced from painting in the outdoors where one must work with a sense of urgency. He painted with a combination of directness guided by intuition. Really maybe the most interesting part of my time at the studio was discovering all the ceramics, paintings, and wood sculptures that he considered failed or just not up to par. It’s truly perhaps the most intimate insight into any artist.
I came away with a couple thoughts.
-One, Allowing space. The importance of space both physical and mental that allows room for the ideas to grow and sink deep roots that may not come to fruition for years.
-Secondly, the insight into a dedication of a life of art making. And that is the point. It’s very much about a lifestyle, a way of life that allows for the doing and thinking of a creative pursuit. And that forces one to make some difficult life choices that come down to one’s priorities.
-Thirdly, “Stick-to-itness”. If one can stick to it long enough it will pay off. After all, someone has to do it and luckily most artists don’t stick to it.
-And Lastly, I’m amazed at how under appreciated Clayton’s painting is. To me, he is a painter’s painter, actually one of the truer painters in the canon of the Northwest Mystics. His paintings are a direct and pure synthesis of the region, through both color and application a natural growth of the terroir. They have that combination of raw directness as the land itself and the bold clear confidence of a haiku or summer’s day. Much more so than the frenzied chaos or heavy beefy stew of many of Clayton’s more famous peers whose work are more akin to an anywhere urban environment. Which is the final lesson I should most consider for myself. An Artist must find that balance between one’s principles and the business of a successful career in art. Some artists have too much of one and not enough of the other.
Like the sound of the moon rippling across the night river…..
June 20, 2017
West Edison on the Samish River
Todd Horton
I was very fortunate to be able to spend a year sharing Clayton James’ studio in the last year of his long life. The first thing one notices walking up to the studio is the charming rustic simplicity. Several of Clayton’s sculptures stood guard with some hiding beneath the relentless plant growth of the Northwest as if to ambush any intruders or art critics. Looking like a building that Henry David Thoreau would have chosen if he had been an artist. It was a hundred year old wooden building that was maybe originally a house or brothel or even a school. It was hard to say. The building had never seen a building inspector or drop of paint on the exterior in all that time and it never had running water or toilet which was an issue for me not having access to a nearby toilet. I felt fortunate to have electricity. The interior was shockingly minimal for being used as a studio and wood shop for sixty years, looking like a zen lumberjack and devotee of wabi sabi was maybe living in the space. There was still a pile of firewood and a well worn ax next to where the wood stove had been before the roof had caught fire years ago. All along the studio walls were stacks of paintings unfinished over many years and also the optimistic fresh wood panels in waiting just in case Clayton got the urge to paint again. I was impressed by the well loved paint brushes and how carefully maintained they were because even so I could see they were from another era.
I got to know the man not so much by spending time and talking to him but from what he had created over his life and more interesting to me; how he went about it. Such as what he chose to keep and store in the closet or under the building or in the attic. What books he kept on a shelf in the studio or newspaper articles of fellow artists. What post cards and posters he had hung for inspiration and most significantly all the objects he had brought back from nature for admiration and inspiration. I’d spend time looking through the old shoe boxes of photos from Clayton’s life. They were all mostly photos he had taken to base paintings on. Some were of him and with other painters in the mountains on painting expeditions. It was fun finding photos that became paintings. The studio had dozens of rocks inside and outside which I realized were the inspirations and models for many of his ceramic vessels. I also perhaps got the added pleasure of getting to know Morris Graves. In some strange way Clayton’s cat, named after Morris Graves was a reincarnation. Sometimes sweet other times moody but always curious what was happening in the studio. Once dragging his shitty butt across one of my paintings that was on the floor to clean himself and make a clear critique. A few times Clayton would matter of factly mention seeing Morris’s human spirit standing in the room.
Clayton would often come over, slowly and determined with his walker and a caretaker helping him up the steps into the studio. He’d have to carefully make his way through the section of the studio where I was set up which had been his clay working area originally into the smaller room that was set up as his painting studio. At this point in life at 96 the painting had stopped and he used the room to take a nap and look through the boxes of photos that would trigger his memory of art that he had created. He’d occasionally pull a photo out to show me and say proudly, “I made that.” Our relationship was an interesting mix of highs and lows. Some days he’d complain to me how he “didn’t appreciate this invasion of his studio”. Other times he’d sit down and look at what I was working on and talk about the paintings and what he liked. But most days he didn’t want to talk about art at all. It seemed to me it was painful because he knew he just wasn’t able to paint any longer. I felt it was not because of him not being physically able to paint but that he didn’t have the focus anymore. So it just sometimes made him feel bad and clam up about the subject of painting.
I loved using his mid-century wood shop with all it’s vintage tools. Seeing all his clever repairs and adaptions on his tools, many of which had been worn down to nearly unusable or seemed perhaps illegal. I imagined he had bought all the tools he needed in the 1950’s and felt no need to purchase another tool as long as it could still perform it’s original job and if not then some other clever new specialized function. Now the wood chisels and saw blades had dulled as Clayton was no longer actively using and maintaining the wood shop. I’m indebted to him from learning how he made his frames. My father and I repaired some of his damaged frames and so got to see his unique and very economically efficient way of making frames which we studied to make my own frames.
It was fascinating seeing perhaps eighty paintings in various stages of completion stacked randomly around the studio. Seeing the bones and behind the scenes. It’s the best way to understand and absorb the process and effect of a style and approach to painting. Clayton painted in a very direct unfussy way. I imagine he and Cezanne applying the paint in a similar fashion, never over thinking or overworking it. His paintings are influenced from painting in the outdoors where one must work with a sense of urgency. He painted with a combination of directness guided by intuition. Really maybe the most interesting part of my time at the studio was discovering all the ceramics, paintings, and wood sculptures that he considered failed or just not up to par. It’s truly perhaps the most intimate insight into any artist.
I came away with a couple thoughts.
-One, Allowing space. The importance of space both physical and mental that allows room for the ideas to grow and sink deep roots that may not come to fruition for years.
-Secondly, the insight into a dedication of a life of art making. And that is the point. It’s very much about a lifestyle, a way of life that allows for the doing and thinking of a creative pursuit. And that forces one to make some difficult life choices that come down to one’s priorities.
-Thirdly, “Stick-to-itness”. If one can stick to it long enough it will pay off. After all, someone has to do it and luckily most artists don’t stick to it.
-And Lastly, I’m amazed at how under appreciated Clayton’s painting is. To me, he is a painter’s painter, actually one of the truer painters in the canon of the Northwest Mystics. His paintings are a direct and pure synthesis of the region, through both color and application a natural growth of the terroir. They have that combination of raw directness as the land itself and the bold clear confidence of a haiku or summer’s day. Much more so than the frenzied chaos or heavy beefy stew of many of Clayton’s more famous peers whose work are more akin to an anywhere urban environment. Which is the final lesson I should most consider for myself. An Artist must find that balance between one’s principles and the business of a successful career in art. Some artists have too much of one and not enough of the other.
Like the sound of the moon rippling across the night river…..
June 20, 2017
West Edison on the Samish River
Todd Horton