Henry Taylor’s art is a visceral immersion into the heart of the inner city, a world he knows intimately from his upbringing and continues to inhabit. His paintings and installations are not just representations; they are living, breathing snapshots of “Where The Streets Have” shaped lives, communities, and artistic vision. Taylor’s compelling portraits and vibrant scenes of everyday life pulse with an energy that captures the raw essence of urban existence. His figures, rendered in bold colors and dynamic compositions, seem to leap off the canvas, inviting viewers into their world.
Taylor’s work often draws inspiration from the photographic archives of history – vintage images, news clippings, and moments of African American history – reinterpreted through his unique artistic lens. His style, reminiscent of visual jazz, blends a seemingly naive approach with a sophisticated command of paint, creating pieces that are both accessible and deeply nuanced. Beyond painting, Taylor’s installations incorporate found objects from the urban landscape – street litter, discarded household items, even repurposed trees – blurring the lines between art and the gritty reality of city life. His art is not just observed; it’s experienced, it’s felt, it resonates with the pulse of the streets.
During a visit to Taylor’s expansive downtown Los Angeles studio, the sheer volume of materials and canvases in progress spoke volumes about his prolific output. Amidst the organized chaos of his creative space, Taylor was preparing for an upcoming exhibition at Blum & Poe gallery, featuring new paintings, mixed-media installations, and an immersive video projection. In conversation, Taylor reveals himself as an artist less concerned with dissecting the meaning of his work and more driven by the act of creation itself. While some may interpret his art through a political lens, Taylor focuses on the immediate, the tangible – the late-night hours when “where the streets have” quieted, and the focused intensity of his artistic process takes over.
To truly understand Taylor, we delve into an insightful interview that uncovers the roots of his artistic vision.
Gregg Gibbs: Can you tell me a little about your background? Where did you grow up?
Henry Taylor: I was born in Ventura, California, and grew up in nearby Oxnard. I’m 58, the youngest of eight kids. My dad was from east Texas; his father was killed when he was ten. Two of my brothers served in Vietnam. One was shot on his birthday and passed away seven years later. Another became a ‘tunnel rat’ in Tennessee. I witnessed my dad confronting the police firsthand. That was a defining moment for me. My brother even jumped through a window to protect him. Another brother was a founder of the Black Panthers. I tried to join political groups when I was younger, but they dismissed me as a clown.
This candid glimpse into Taylor’s early life reveals the formative experiences that shaped his perspective and, arguably, his art. The raw realities of family struggles, social injustice, and the palpable tension of “where the streets have” informed his childhood are subtly woven into the fabric of his work.
How did you start painting?
Painting began for me back in junior high. In 1984, I started taking painting classes with James Jarvaise at Oxnard College for about six years. I was working at a state hospital in the mental ward at the time. Jarvaise encouraged me to transfer to CalArts. He was a painter himself, perhaps not widely known, but he was part of the ‘16 Americans’ exhibition at MoMA in New York alongside artists like Robert Rauschenberg, Louise Nevelson, and Jasper Johns. I only learned about his participation in that show when he was 90. He had faded into obscurity. Jarvaise was crucial; he changed the course of my life.
The mentorship of James Jarvaise was a pivotal moment in Taylor’s artistic journey. This image, HT77, perhaps a work from early in his career, hints at the developing style that would later define his powerful depictions of “where the streets have” their unique character. The raw energy and bold strokes are already present, suggesting an artist finding his voice.
Can you name some of your other influences?
That’s constantly shifting. When you’re young, you might be into the Beatles, and then your tastes evolve. One day I might say Picasso, the next day someone else. Someone introduces you to something, and it resonates. Sometimes, I rediscover things I didn’t realize I liked until revisiting them. Life itself is an influence. When I look at art, I’m not necessarily looking for a particular style. I’m simply observing. It’s like listening to Miles Davis. I’m not trying to imitate him; I’m just listening and absorbing. Sometimes I return to things. I hadn’t listened to Curtis Mayfield for a decade, and then suddenly I was drawn back to his music. Why do we like certain things? Who knows? I don’t dwell on it. I could be walking through Skid Row and see a person cutting up paper, and that might inspire me to create an abstract painting more than any established artist. Inspiration is unpredictable; it just happens, man.
Taylor’s open-mindedness to diverse influences, from music to street encounters, underscores his artistic philosophy. He finds inspiration not in the confines of art history alone, but in the vibrant, often chaotic, tapestry of everyday life – especially the life lived in “where the streets have” their own rhythm and stories.
Do you listen to music when you paint? If so, is there any particular sound that inspires you?
Everything. Reggae, ska, rap, classical – you name it. It depends on my mood. I try to keep my mind open to a wide range of sounds. Each painting is unique; I don’t follow a formula. Sometimes I work from photographs, other times it’s purely intuitive. I enjoy painting to music. The music can even seep into the image itself. I paint portraits, I appreciate food – I let everything filter into my work. I just strive to be authentic. What you see is what you get.
Music is clearly integral to Taylor’s creative process, mirroring the eclectic and improvisational nature of his art. Just as the streets are a melting pot of sounds and experiences, his studio is a space where diverse influences converge, shaping his artistic output.
You worked at a mental institution while going to art school. How did that experience influence the images you painted?
I worked at Camarillo State Hospital for ten years. It was a decent job. I’d dispense medication and act as a mediator between doctors and patients. It provided benefits, but it was a transitional phase. I attended art school during the day with Jarvaise and worked the night shift. It was manageable for a while, but eventually, I had to move on. I left art school and stopped working at the hospital.
This period working in a mental institution likely offered Taylor profound insights into the human condition, adding another layer of depth to his understanding of “where the streets have” shaped individuals and communities. The experiences and observations from this time may subtly inform the emotional resonance found in his portraits and scenes of urban life.
Can you tell me about your installation with the dining room you created? What was the meaning of the dirt on the floor?
It was probably inspired by visits to east Texas, where my parents are from. It was about reflecting on a specific generation, a time in the past. Again, it is what it is. The dirt symbolizes our origins and our destination. Soil is fundamental, everything. Cotton depleted the soil there, and now nothing much grows. It’s about agriculture, our agricultural roots as a country, like nature itself. Thank you. I’m glad you picked up on that.
The installation featuring dirt on the floor, captured in image HT BP 2013 6, is a powerful metaphor for grounding and origins. It connects the gallery space to the earth, evoking a sense of history and the essential elements of life. This earthy element within the pristine white cube of a gallery challenges expectations and prompts reflection on “where the streets have” their roots in the land and in history.
When you go to a gallery, you don’t expect to find dirt. An exhibition space is always clean and antiseptic. Is it your intention to subvert that?
It’s no different than a prop, a material, anything else, you know? It’s not some groundbreaking novelty to simply make my point. Just like an empty lot. Like water – some people have pools, some have puddles. When you look at a Diebenkorn from above, it’s different from that street scene. Everything is what you perceive it to be – everything you see. Whether you’re in a tunnel or crossing train tracks, there will always be a line, a boundary.
Taylor’s use of dirt is not about shock value, but rather about expanding the vocabulary of art. He sees it as another material, as valid as paint or canvas, to convey meaning. This perspective aligns with his broader artistic approach of finding art in the everyday, in the raw materials and experiences of “where the streets have” their own unique aesthetic.
Picasso once said that a painting is never finished, it’s abandoned. Is that the same for you? How do you decide when your paintings are done?
I don’t decide – you decide. I don’t know anything. Some pieces linger. I’ve even worked on paintings in the gallery just hours before a show opening. It’s abandoned when I leave for the day. So I’m not sure what Picasso meant there. Sometimes it’s about capturing freshness, too. Often, I look at my work and can’t tell if it’s finished or not. I keep painting until it’s time to stop. I’ve worked on paintings on the gallery wall in every show because I’m never truly certain if they’re done. I work on too many things at once.
Taylor’s process is fluid and intuitive, resisting rigid notions of completion. This reflects the ever-evolving nature of “where the streets have” their own constant flux and change. His paintings are not static objects but rather ongoing dialogues, open to interpretation and viewer perception.
Some artists work on one painting at a time until it’s complete, then begin another.
That’s not me. Some people wear the same clothes every day. Like Agnes Martin, the minimalist painter. She wore the same thing to avoid decision fatigue. Her mind was so full of thoughts, that simplicity was necessary. That makes sense to me. I, on the other hand, want to incorporate green into everything. I get tired of things quickly. I create something, then I can’t stand to look at it, so I cover it up. I don’t know, I’m just in constant motion. Sometimes I’ll cut out a newspaper image, it doesn’t need to have deep meaning. Sometimes, just finding a good parking spot makes me happy. You know, sometimes I hear the same thing repeatedly, and I get burnt out. It can take the joy out of it. Even sex isn’t always great sex.
Taylor’s restless creative spirit is evident in his multi-faceted approach and his willingness to embrace imperfection and change. This mirrors the unpredictable and sometimes contradictory nature of “where the streets have” their own rhythm and pace.
How do you curate your shows? Does the work go together thematically?
Each painting is like a chance at bat. You aim for a home run. But you can strike out, too. Some pieces might work, others might not. Sometimes the work is very spontaneous, other times you might have a strategy, but you need to stay open. And you also have to produce.
Taylor views each artwork as an experiment, an attempt to capture something real and meaningful. This approach, filled with risk and spontaneity, reflects the unpredictable nature of life and the artistic process itself, much like the unpredictable encounters one might have in “where the streets have” unexpected moments.
When someone says your work reminds them of other artists’ work, do you find that insulting?
Of course, I look at a lot of artists. I compare artists all the time, but nobody wants to be pigeonholed or restricted. It’s not that serious. One artist uses purple, another uses white. It’s not a big deal. If you overthink it, you lose the fun. The enjoyable time is when you’re not under pressure – other times you just have to get it done. You work on things you enjoy sometimes, or you switch to something else, and then come back, you know. The whole process shifts. Sometimes I’m thinking about logistics, like numbers. It’s like being a short-order cook and needing to feed 20 people. I have a friend who cooks in a prison, and he says, “If I don’t get the meals right, they’ll riot.” So you have to get it right. You might love cooking, but sometimes it becomes manufacturing. But some people are okay with that, with repetition. You know, I used to build guitars myself, but now I have people working for me, making them for me.
Taylor’s perspective on artistic influence is balanced and pragmatic. He acknowledges the lineage of art history but resists being defined by it. He emphasizes the importance of the creative process itself, the need to produce work, and the ever-present tension between artistic freedom and the demands of the art world – a tension that mirrors the complexities of life in “where the streets have” both opportunity and constraint.
What do you think about artists like Jeff Koons, who employs other people to make his work?
I don’t care what they do. It’s their business. I went to therapy today, and I’m still learning. I’m not trying to be universally accepted. You know how some people say, “Rappers aren’t musicians, they’re not making real music.” I know people my age who have that mindset. I don’t. Sometimes you see someone’s shoes and think, “Those are ugly.” Then the next day, you’re wearing similar shoes yourself. Sometimes you don’t know what will resonate with you. I remember my son gave me a record, and I said, “I hate this.” Then I called him back and said, “Actually, I like this album.” I had to listen to it again. I have opinions, but I’m not sure if they’re right. It’s like having an album you never play – you just look at it. That’s all I’m saying, because I don’t want to shut anything down. I don’t want anyone telling me, “You’re listening to ‘white-boy music.’” I’m just making a point. Do you have a James Brown record?
Taylor’s tolerance for diverse artistic approaches and his rejection of rigid categories reflect a broad-mindedness that extends beyond art into life itself. This openness to experience and different perspectives mirrors the rich diversity found in “where the streets have” people from all walks of life.
Yeah, I do. I listen to the Hardest Working Man in Show Business.
That’s my point. Some people like Chinese food, others prefer tacos. I try to vary the menu. I’ll have fish, or I’ll ask, “Where’s the hamburger?”
Taylor uses the metaphor of a varied menu to illustrate his embrace of diversity and his avoidance of artistic dogma. Just as a balanced diet is essential for physical health, a diverse range of influences and experiences is crucial for artistic vitality.
A lot of your paintings feel like memory recall, sort of like moments in time rooted in the past. Is that your intention when creating an image?
I hear you. They’re like memories of family – each one is different, but some paintings aren’t about memory. If I find a photograph that evokes a feeling, I’ll paint it. It’s about the composition. They’re not about the street, they’re from the street. I like that Bob Dylan song “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” which probably inspired my first show with dirt in the dining room.
Taylor clarifies that his work is not solely about nostalgia or personal memory, but about capturing the essence of lived experience. His paintings are “from the street,” meaning they are born from the observations, encounters, and raw energy of “where the streets have” shaped his perspective.
What are you working on for your upcoming show at Blum & Poe in L.A.?
I almost want it to be a surprise and not tell you right now. It’s just about what I see. To be specific, it’s about all the disparities that exist. Here I am on Skid Row. This side of the street is different from that side of the street. This room is different from that room. It’s about life, that’s what it’s about.
Taylor’s upcoming show focuses on the stark contrasts and inequalities of urban life, directly confronting the realities of “where the streets have” both beauty and hardship, privilege and poverty, side by side.
Some people say the art world is elitist, that most of the important collectors are part of the one percent. Do you agree?
It’s not my job to make them wake up. They can be naive, but that’s not for me to judge. I hear it all the time – everyone has an agenda. I’m not just talking about the art world; I’m talking about the real world. I guess I don’t get interviewed that often, they don’t call me to ask about the latest shooting. I don’t really need to comment. Everyone knows what’s happening. It’s not like I need to add to the noise. Don’t think I’m indifferent – I’m just not protesting in the streets about it. Often, I want to tune out the political noise and just paint. We all want to get paid for doing what we love, whether it’s right or wrong. That’s it, plain and simple. You can quote me on this: tell the truth.
Taylor’s final statement is a powerful affirmation of his commitment to authenticity and truth-telling through his art. He acknowledges the social and political realities of “where the streets have” their struggles, but he chooses to engage with them through his creative practice rather than through direct activism. His art becomes his form of truth-telling, a way to make visible the lives and stories often overlooked.
Henry Taylor’s solo exhibition at Blum & Poe in Los Angeles will run through November 5, 2016.
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Originally published in the November 2016 issue of Juxtapoz Magazine, on newsstands worldwide and in our web store.
