Williams’ “1962” is an ideal example of Karnofsky’s diagnosis. The piece is just over five feet tall and nearly as long in width. It consists of oil on linen and features two seated figures.
The figure in the background is a woman who appears to be either putting on or taking off her clothes while looking back, half at the viewer and half at the main figure in the center.
It is difficult to know whether this is a self-portrait by Kent, as much of the male figure’s face is obscured; however, the intense gaze of one visible eye is directed at the viewer, or perhaps at Kent himself.
They are surrounded by an illusionary world, she is indoors and he is outdoors. A stream of paint ran past his feet and a scorpion crawled across her sheets. Inspired imagery from traditional Japanese ukiyo-e sways on the outer limbs like faint memories resurfacing in the subconscious. Subtle hints of violence and pain found in the deadly arthropods and varicose rivers running down the arms are fully realized through the swooping tiger engulfing the male figure’s face.
“The tiger is used to represent the human need for vitality, which is not always free or scarless,” Kent explains, appropriately noting that 1962 was also the Year of the Tiger.
Whether the tiger represents a relationship between the two characters, or is an episode of introspection, cannot be determined.
Indeed, the role of Williams’ themes in his works – and the public interpretations of them – are often so disparate that, frankly, trying to understand them can be a futile exercise.
In the introduction to Williams Paintings and Monochromes, published in 1991, author John Rieber described his creative process: “I saw one of my favorite paintings, ‘Melissa,’ and my question was, what does it have to do with her? Explain her? Analyze her? Define her? Define her meaning?
I told her to stay put and went outside to admire the soon-to-be-planted magnolia tree. “
Fortunately, there’s enough introspection in Kent’s work that one can at least get a glimpse into his world from time to time.
The artist does warn, however, that he is not an open book. After all, “I think that goes against the ambiguity and suggestion that I like. That being said, most of my work—some more or less—is autobiographical in nature. However, that doesn’t mean that my stories are written like a book. The issues, relationships, and people that are at play in my life at any given time are woven into the composition of the work. Sometimes, I do take the work to some deeply personal places, and boldly so. I will present the pain, but I will leave the reasons for interpretation.”
The final explanation I asked for was about “Fusion: Yumiko”. Even larger than 1962, the painting depicts a Japanese woman whose age is unrecognizable, lying on a brightly colored embroidered quilt. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it was hard to tell whether it was for comfort or just comfort. Sakura petals melt into pink above her, slowly becoming abstract in patterned fabrics and wayward limbs. An orange extension continues the journey begun in Seine’s painting, keeping the width of the crocodile’s jaws in the bed.
Sometimes I do boldly take this work to some personal depths. I will present the pain, but I will leave the reasons explainable.
Kent explained that the skeletal remains “can be viewed simply as a still life or as a reflection of Yumi, her career and her ability to make concise, poignant and deeply rooted statements,” noting that “the model was a Ph.D. and professor of philosophy in Boston. She loved
Tell me about Zhuangzi and how he used contradictory statements to illustrate his views on truth and human nature. That’s what figure drawing is for, right? —shows us some truths about human nature. “
Interestingly, through Kent and Yumiko, the discussion turns to Zhuangzi. The fourth century B.C. philosopher’s most famous work is “The Butterfly Dream.” “Zhuangzi once dreamed that he was a butterfly, a butterfly flying around, enjoying himself and doing whatever he wanted. He didn’t know that he was Zhuangzi. Suddenly he woke up, and there he was, solid and clear Zhuangzi. But he didn’t know whether he was Zhuangzi who dreamed of butterflies, or whether he was Zhuangzi who dreamed of being Zhuangzi.”
At first glance, Williams’ subjects appear to be all part of the same narrative, but upon closer inspection, this may not be the case at all. In “Studio Arrangement,” Natalya appears to be floating above the men behind her more than sitting on them. Sena has already started a new life in “New Spring” without Fumi, as well as the characters in “New Spring”.
“1962” seems completely unaware of the other person’s existence. They are all separated and fragmented, drifting in time, space and imagination. Maybe they’re lying on the same sheet, but they’re both dreaming, tilted between the outdoors and indoors, separated by centuries on a linear scale. Or, in the end, they become nothing more than extension cords to Kent like the ever-present long orange cords everywhere. *
