Upper left: Lilly Anne and the Fish Parade (detail), © Joe Sorren;
Upper right: The artist, Joe Sorren, in front of his mural in downtown Flagstaff.

hen I first met artist Joe Sorren, it was after years spent admiring his hypnotic creations from afar. I fully expected him to resemble the moody, asymmetrical characters that frequent his typical canvas. I was wrong. The thirty-three-year-old artist (who insists he "looks more haggard than he feels") is the medium build, slightly disheveled, slightly bearded, guy that is ubiquitous in northern Arizona. He is a family man living in Flagstaff — an eclectic high-altitude burg of 60K, and home to Joe's alma mater (Northern Arizona University). Since graduating with a B.F.A., Joe lived in Oregon, California, and Colorado before coming full circle back to the Grand Canyon state (where he was raised since the age of seven). His studio, located in the historic district of downtown, has a command view of the storied San Francisco Peaks. These towering volcanic cinder cones north of town are sacred to both the Hopi and Navajo Indians. They are frequently described with superlatives commonly ascribed to Joe's work as well — magical, otherworldly, lyrical. We met at a sushi joint across the street. After a simple handshake and a chuckle or two about a shared acquaintance, we wasted no time turning to Joe's favorite topic — his craft:

M: What went into your decision to work primarily with acrylic paints?

J: With acrylic paint it's just you and the image. With oil paints you’ve got fifteen percent linseed oil and a lot of little cups you have to hit to mix properly and yadda yadda. That takes me out of what I’m doing here, and puts me there. I don’t want to be there, I want to be here. I don’t want to process based, I want to be application driven. That’s primarily why I use acrylics.

M: As far as your work ethic goes, how do you approach the work?

J: I always believe that if you lead with your hands, your mind will follow. So if you just put the paint out there and start going, eventually, [cluck noise], you’re locked in. Also, I just do one painting at a time. That way it’s just the painting and me.

M: Do you have the finished piece in mind as you go?

J: I don’t have anything in my head. I just start. It’s fun, and really not that bold. I’m not smart enough to pull off some of the things I’m pulling off. By letting the canvass go, “no, no, you should do this," it seems to work. If I were to go in there and say, “I’m going to do this,” it would come across hokey and contrived to me.

M: And commissioned work would be an exception to that rule?

J: No, no. Commissions are completely that way. The only exceptions would be, for example, something I jut did for Rolling Stone. It was an illustration for the new Radiohead album. I took notes and made a list, and then designed a drawing that was loosely based on the list. You know, this crazy montage, kind of style. Then I took it to them, and because the deadline was so tight, I basically had to reproduce that [version].

Above: Detail from The Butterflies Constantine, © Joe Sorren. Slideshow

M: So typically the client doesn’t get involved in the early stages?

J: If it’s not something like that, with a tight deadline, I’ll ask, “What’s the feel you’re going for?” And they'll trust that I’m not going to put a big penis in the center of the canvass and just go off [laugh].

M: Unless that's what they're looking for?

J: Yeah, unless they’re looking for that. And if they are, I’m probably not working with them anyway [laugh].

J: When I first started doing commissions, and I was really kind of hungry, I began by thinking about what the client wanted — which is really the death of the painting from the get go. So what I do now is talk about size, price and all that kind of thing, and then I make the thing. If they don’t like it, and they don’t think to themselves, “Oh my god, I get to keep this?” then they don’t keep it. By doing it that way I’m only making paintings I believe in. I think it’s actually a healthier way to approach things. As far as approach goes, commissions can really mess your mind up if you’re not careful. This way its just like, “I’m making a painting.”

M: Are commissions the lion’s share of your work these days?

J: Yeah, I think so.

M: How do clients find you? Do you work with an agent?

J: No, they mainly find me through the Web and by word of mouth.

M: Do you draw inspiration from the beautiful natural setting you’re surrounded by in northern Arizona?

J: No, I kind of draw where I wish I were living. I like northern Arizona, but I really like water. If I had it my way I’d be living in Portland right now. I love it here, but I really have something in me that wants to be by water. So I picked one of the most arid regions in America [laugh].

M: Where do you come up with your ideas?

J: Well, for example, I just finished a painting called “Eve and the Blind Beloved.” It's a real lush forest scene and Eve is waist deep in water, and she’s looking over her shoulder and there’s this fat snake that’s found throughout the whole composition. It's kind of a blind and messed up snake, and when I started that painting that’s not what it was about. I didn’t title it until the painting was done.

Above: Detail from Portrait of Roger Meanie, © Joe Sorren. Slideshow.

J: I think that was about six weeks.

M: Is that about average?

J: That’s about average. I’d say that most paintings take between three weeks and four months.

M: Do you generally have a feeling that you “nailed” it?

J: Well, when you don’t have a plan going into it you can’t really “nail” it. And the connotation behind “nailing” means that I “nailed” that idea down, and its not only about “nailing” down something in my head. It's more about freeing what wants to be there without me fucking it up in the process [laugh].

M: Without you getting in the way?

J: Right. All that stuff kind of presented itself to me.

M: You've got an unmistakable style. I’m wondering what your thoughts are on the whole concept of style?

J: My take on style [laugh]? I get asked that a lot. I remember reading an interview in Art News in the early eighties. It was an interview with de Kooning. He said, and this is a paraphrase, "A person that rushes into a style is only apologizing for his own mediocrity." I just thought that was so great. The truth is, when I was in college and trying to find myself, and find what I’m doing, I just let it go, and started making the best work I could make. It wasn't like I was saying to myself, “This shit should look like this. And from that this wacky style happens and people say, “Oh!" I don’t see it as a style, but more the way I do things in a way that's completely nimble. And it could go in this direction or that direction.

M: I think that the fact that you are asked that question so often is a testament to the power of your craft. But I'm not sure I understand you completely.

J: Well, let’s say you have a circle. Let's say I’m doing a face that’s circle shaped, and I get the mouth expressing the feeling that I want that person to be expressing. Then I’m working something up, and I’m putting the eyes where I think they should go to back up the mouth’s expression. The eyes may need to be here technically, but they may need to move there compositionally to keep the weight of the overall piece proper, and that’s why my eyes may slide over a bit. It's more to do with composition than with a style. I’m a mouth watcher. I tend to watch peoples mouths when they talk. I think it’s because I have very poor hearing in one ear. So I rarely look at people's eyes when I talk. I’m usually looking at their mouth. And in the process of my paintings I tend to look at the figures mouths and let the eyes be where they need to be. So if they move this way or that way it doesn’t feel weird to me. But if you’re an eye watcher, as most people are, I can see that it might be harder for them to connect with my work because they’re thinking, "I can’t really look this thing in the eye." So that doesn't come out of me making a style, but who I am and the way I make stuff. I mean, everything I do I try to make photo-realistic and it comes out the way it comes out.

M: What artists do you have on your wall at home?

J: I don’t have anything up. They're all blank. My wife hates it [laugh].

M: Is that a considered policy on your part?

J: Yeah. If I’m in the living room and there’s something on the wall, I can’t do anything except stare at what’s on the wall. After awhile it starts to drive me a little batty. It’s better to leave it blank to let [my mind] sort of shut off for a while.

M: What do you do to recharge creatively?

J: I play chess. I draw. I play drums. I play with my kids. And right now I’m learning the poker game Texas Hold ‘Em.

M: Does it take discipline for you to say, " I’m clocking out and going home at five no matter what?"

J: Unfortunately, I’m so selfish that if I had my way I’d be working non-stop. It's great having a family because I have to be home at five, so I go home at five. And suddenly I’m not this guy, I’m this guy.

M: Do you have a studio at home?

J: I have a workspace. I don’t paint there, but I ship out boxes and prints from there. A lot of icky business stuff happens there.

M: How is business these days?

J: It seems like it's going pretty well. I mean, it's so bizarre to think that you can be sitting there and somebody you’ve never spoken to can order something [online]. I think we're really lucky to live in a time when we’re able to stick something up on the Web, tell people about it, and the next thing you know there are four thousand people looking at your Website.

M: Could you pigeonhole the people that are interested in your work either demographically or otherwise?

J: Californians seem to have the greatest interest. Also people in England and Australia. I'd say people in California about my age would be my biggest audience. But then you’ll also have this little old lady in Georgia who'll say things like, “Here's my credit card number. Hold on, I can’t see if that’s an eight or a six? When I was a little girl I used to dance in the forest, and your painting reminds me of….” You know? That's just amazing.

M: Any idea how many paintings you’ve made in your career?

J: When I first started I used to average about 120 to 150 a year. And its slowly been going down and down. Last year I did fourteen, and this year through July I’ve done six. Less quantity better quality [laugh]. Recently I took about thirty or forty paintings to the dumpster and threw them away. It felt great. They were all on what I call the “death rack," you know, death row. Loads of paintings that were almost done or almost good and I could almost look at them and they had moments that were good and the rest of it was just [fart noise]. Very much C-rated work, you know.

M: Did it feel good?

J: Oh yeah [laugh]! I even stuck brooms through them so nobody else would find them.

M: I’m going to have to take up dumpster diving.

J: The work wasn’t worth having around. The way I see it is, when you make a piece of art, you either make trash or you make something that holds its value. And I don’t mean value as in money. I mean, if I give a piece to someone and they think, “Wow, this is dear to me, and I love waking up to this." If you’re not getting that kind of emotion, and they're thinking, "I have this piece and I don’t know what to do with it?" it’s as if they’re hanging something on their wall that doesn’t really challenge them. It doesn’t have to be beautiful, but it’s not giving anything except "blah." It’s trash. In the end it will be thrown away. It’s like you’re forcing people to save trash. But if you really, really, really, kill yourself and make it where someone says, "Wow!" it’s all worth it.

M: Do you have the ability to step back and see your work with a fresh eye, unencumbered by the weight of your previous projects?

J: Again to quote somebody else, because most people have more interesting things to say than I do, Tom Watts was once asked what’s the best part of writing a song? And he said, “When you first write them and nobody’s heard them, it’s like having a mouse in your pocket that no one knows about. And you feed him, enjoy him, and eventually you take him out of your pocket, put him down on the ground, pat him on the butt and say “go make daddy money.”" The point I got out of that is that these paintings are mine while I’m making them. And then I’m done with them and they go to somebody else. It’s like your children have grown up. And of course they’re still your children, but they’re living their own lives now, you know. And I’m really good about finding good homes for these paintings without having to turn to people that are like, “Hey, I’ve got a bunch of money.”

M: Or, "It’s got to be big because I’ve got a really big wall?"

J: Well, I mean, that’s okay. People do say that. It's more the attitude, “What’s your stuff worth now?" You know, their concerns are obviously [about art as an investment]. To me, if people want to invest in art to make money that’s fine, but there needs to be another reason. I mean, some people might say, “I have to have this in my life!” They connect with a painting like that. There are lots of artists you can invest in, but I want my work to go beyond that. I want people to be invested emotionally in it as well. Boy does that sound hokey [laugh]?

M: Not from where I'm sitting.

M: Where do you see the field of fine art, in general, headed?

J: I have some general thoughts about it, but in the end its, "Artspeak blah, blah, blah, artspeak, artspeak." What really matters to me is that I’m getting better. Artworld schmartworld. I mean my perspective is, "What am I approaching?" Not to say the word “I” a thousand times, but at that moment when you’re considering [the world of art], from my perspective, that’s what matters. It's like everybody can go and fall off a cliff, and I’m still going to be trying to make these things better. Make it the best you can make it and the rest will take care of itself. No matter what you do it’s always going to be something that nobody else can do. If I give you a pencil and you start drawing, nobody else can make what you’re making. You may not like it or enjoy it, but nobody else can do it [in just the same way]. If somebody gave me a crayon it's going to look different than what anyone else can do with a crayon. Same for you, same for him. We all have our quote-unquote "style" but you shut up and just make art.

© 2003 Mike Buchheit

Mike Buchheit is a writer, photographer, conservationist, and avid outdoorsman living in Grand Canyon National Park. His freelance articles and Southwest images highlight the transformative quality of wild places, and the aesthetic beauty and social importance of the arts. When not directing one of the country's leading outdoor education programs, Mike enjoys discovering what makes some of the design world's most creative minds tick.

You can view and purchase Mike Buchheit's Grand Canyon photography at: www.GrandCanyonPrints.com