Sleepless in Chicago

Painting by Rick Mobbs


Sleepless in Chicago


The art that strikes me here, in the city,
and in the alternative magazines,
and on the web
are cutting edge artists doing quick
and awesome things with imagery.
Mixing media, slicing through the old rules
like they were so many knotted bundles of hemp.
Not even in-your-face doing it; just doing it.
This is the art I like. Mine is too White,
too carefully constructed. At times, precious,
which I always try to fuck up when I notice,
but sometimes it takes years to notice.
When I was a kid and found drawings
by Michelangelo and DaVinci
I thought their talent god-like –
no one could draw like that.

I see what these edgy artists are doing
and I have a similar feeling.
I see them rejoice in their strength.

More power to them. I want to paint like that,
draw like that and move so freely between media,
so swiftly and so surely over a wall.

My direction now involves listening
for the voice of a much softer calling.
I remember my father’s eyes welling up
with tears as he told some story that touched him.
I didn’t see his tears as welling
from springs of humanity, compassion, humility,
understanding, a shared, deep awareness
of the human condition. I saw weakness,
and feared them. It was a long time ago.
I’ll give myself that much.

Why am I telling this?
It has to do with my art, my healing,
the awakening trickle of the springs
of my understanding. I don’t think my work edgy.
I’m drawn to the life of the contemplative
but I am still too… still too full of beans,
even if my edges are worn and softened
and the places I am drawn to explore
are places I cannot really see or understand
but have to feel into, and listen.
I sense the work of other scarred hands
and seem to hear the voices of men and women,
the laughter of children.
I try to follow those voices
and communicate what I can.
I imagine their fears and memories
and dreams and passions.
I look for the names beneath the names
of my nameless longings.
My energy will return
and my work will probably always come from
and lead in all directions,
spurred by the moment, by whatever feeling.
But I feel inclined to listen now
for gray murmurings and incantations.


Rick Mobbs

In Chicago, just before his Bravo audition.
Give 'em hell, Rick