Scotty Stevenson

Once apon a time my dictionary fell open to the Morse code entry. It had a tiny translation of the alphabet into the dots and dashes. It reminded me of Boy Scouts and spies, of the railroads early western expansion, of dueling cryptologist in the theater of world wars, the rhythmic fist signatures some retreating Viet Cong patrol. Morse code was the tom-tom drum of the industrial revolution, and like all the obsolete tongues, falling on hard times and deaf ears. I started painting these dots and dashes into knobby grid-like landscapes recounting in the Morse code the memories and stories of people in my life. Juggling the dots and dashes into a nests of colors and punch drunk patterns I paint my memories of the ones who raised me, loved me, in a language meant to be heard, not seen. Like a P.O.W. tapping out news to an empty cell as the turnkey laughs I accept that the original text is lost, slowly encrypted out of my control with the constant layering of revised intrusions. Where the drama of somber and prime colors in rigid or hapless designs sets the tone of the narrative. In the end I am left with an undecipherable painting of colors and pattern, conveying to the viewer that hidden here, in the mystery of code, is the story of a life hopefully well lived. I strive for a painting that makes amends for forgetting and spitting at its elders, that rises face first out of the mud carrying a limp and bruise in every incontinent brush stroke and color.