Whether searching for everlasting love or a cafe that takes AmEx, life is full of mind-bending unknowns that often call for abstraction. New York-based painter Andrew Baron rises to the existential challenge with atmospheric works that delve into themes of impermanence, desire, and defeat with heavy brushstrokes and steely shades. With each piece featuring a piece of text that reflects the painting’s meaning – a purposeful addition by Baron to pull viewers out of the subjective space – Andrew belongs to a rarer group of Narrative Abstractionists. With a show coming up this fall in the Lower East Side organized by Salon Ciel called “Get It While You Can” and a Best in Show win at the recent SOHO20 group exhibit, Baron is poised to go from under the radar to prominent artist. FABRIC sits down with the Ohio import to discuss the human urge to paint, the wonder of Zen meditation, and why stale candy bars aren’t worth returning.

FABRIC: I read that you enrolled in art school inspired by a love of comics. Do you still read comics?

Andrew Baron: I still like and read comics, and there’s a great deal out there that I enjoy and admire. On the more adult end of things are works by Crumb, Chris Ware, Dan Clowes, Charles Burns and the Hernandez Brothers. I also like to read “junk” comics. These are typically the superhero comics of my youth and they can be really great. One thing that you realize about comics, if you really look at them: they take a great deal of time, effort and craft to produce, even the mediocre ones.

Do you find your work influenced by comic art?

My earlier work was figurative and was made to have a very strong impact, like a good comic book cover. It didn’t really try to ape the look of comics, but it did try to tap into the vitality of comics – something that I found missing from much of fine art.  I think my current work still tries to tap into a sort of vitality that comics have. And on a formal level, comics are words and pictures –and my current work also combines words and pictures. However, unlike most comics, my images happen to be abstract, and there isn’t always a clear narrative.

What are some of your recent inspirations?

Subway commuting and urban life are a constant source of inspiration. I just got back from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. It’s very different than what I’m used to here. The people were really kind for no apparent reason. Not sure if that will filter into a painting.

Cloud, Andrew Baron

A broader question we’ve been hearing: Is painting dead?

Painting is a very human activity, along with drawing, that involves smearing pigment against a surface. It has been with us forever and probably comes from an infantile urge to smear our feces against a wall. I am not sure that you can declare such a basic, instinctual activity “dead”.

But I guess the real question is, “Is painting important?” I would be foolish to say that it occupies the same cultural primacy as it did in the 1950s. There is far more out there in terms of entertainment in general and “fine art” in particular. It’s kind of comical to think that people once came to blows over the value of cubism. On the other hand, does any medium inspire that kind of partisanship today? I guess rap artists still feud, but I think even that may be a bit passé. I think we live in a very fragmented culture today where nothing seems to really occupy the highest spot. We’ve lived through modernism, then post-modernism, and we’re now sort of post-caring. The good thing is that there isn’t just one thing that is the hip thing. On the other hand, I think there is less of an ability for one person to make a difference in the culture at large.

Your work often seems pretty philosophical. Are there philosophers or books that have guided you?

I would love to give you a list of philosophers that I have read and digested but, sadly, my reading is comprised mostly of novels and a bit of non-fiction. I used to meditate quite a bit and even practiced in a Zen monastery for a year, but most of what I think of as “Zen” art is a bit too earnest and dignified for my taste and inclinations. The way I make paintings does require a fair amount of introspection, so this may be why they strike you as philosophical. It’s a process of making something from nothing, so I think it naturally gives rise to thoughts about desire and impermanence  – the whole thing about being alive.

Pill, Andrew Baron

On a personal level, you strike me as pretty optimistic – but you’ve said before, something in the process of creating leaves you with work that has a more sobering message. Why do you think that happens?

The bare facts of our lives are sobering. We are born. We die. I don’t believe in God, but my wife tells me that those who do are happier and most of our culture seems to buy into an idea of an afterlife. I understand why it’s comforting, but I would prefer to try to exist and feel whatever happiness there is without this safety net. I really try to get at something in my paintings that feel like the truth. It just might be that the most true things about our lives are those things that negate us completely, things that negate our means of comfort. That said, I’m not going to mope about it – well, not too much.

Do certain words resonate with you on a regular basis? Do you ever think “I want to create a piece around this word/idea”?

Yes, there are words and phrases that I have wanted to use, but every time I try to use them there is something that doesn’t quite seem right, something a bit “off.” There is a difficulty of creating the appropriate relationship between word and image. I usually cycle through about three phrases before I get to the right one.

What’s your work process like? Do you only paint when you “feel like it” or do you treat it as work?

If I always waited for inspiration or when I felt good, nothing would ever get done. It’s always work. Because of my process, it’s typically the beginning and the end that are the most fun. The beginning is fun because it’s all play. The end is fun because it’s just a matter of tying up the loose ends. The middle part is always a hard slog and sometimes the dread can be paralyzing.

How about any rituals or ways in which you psychologically “prepare” to paint?

I don’t, but this might be a good idea, something to help me focus. I typically just jump in. I used to have a lucky t-shirt that I would wear.

DMZ, Andrew Baron

Your wife is also an artist. Is your process of creation collaborative at all? Or do you ever feel bound by each other’s aesthetics?

Suzanne and I don’t really collaborate, but we share a studio and often comment on each other’s work. It’s not always easy to be in that situation, but we have developed a sort of protocol and it has worked out. Our aesthetics overlap quite a bit – we wouldn’t have gotten together if we didn’t share many of the same likes and dislikes. But there are areas where we diverge. This can cause some insecurity for both of us, because while we’re supportive of each other, we can’t always help but be a little critical of each other’s work from time to time.

Any unusual projects you’re working on?

So that I had something to do when waiting for paint to dry on my larger pieces, I started a series of small paintings this year that are abstract portraits of my grade school classmates. The complete series should number between 10-20 when finished. It’s something a little different for me–they are portraits, after all. I’m trying to get to the interior life of these children–nothing is more intense or intensely fucked up than the feelings of a child.

In your 2007 painting “Biography,” you seem to be making a strong statement on human futility. Did you actually eat the stale candy bar (text featured in painting: “Born / Stale Candy Bar / Die”)?

I bought the offending candy bar (a Snickers) at a corner store on Divisadero Street in San Francisco over 10 years ago. The chocolate had turned a powdery gray and I really shouldn’t have taken a bite, but I did. It tasted the way a mothball smells. After I spit it out on the street, I returned the rest to the store. The cashier asked if I wanted another one, but I asked (and received) my money back instead. It was a trivial incident, but one that I can recall quite easily – more easily than many incidents that were more important and more pleasant. What would Proust say about that?

Biography, Andrew Baron