Author: echarlesrolwing3
Chicago artist April 4, 2016 E. Charles Rolwing Statement Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly. Franz Kafka The making of art is for me a journey of construction and destruction. Each brush stroke comes out of my very soul, a place deep in my subconscious. I paint with my heart on my sleeve. The most I can offer that is unique is honesty to my emotions, to lay out that which makes me human. My imagery comes from working in my sketchbooks. That is where I work out the intellectual aspects, symbols and the problems of composition and color theory. There is a place between the intellectual (classic problems of composition and content), and the ethereal (subconscious) where true meaning emerges. It is here that new ideas emerge. I work an idea in dozens of studies before I begin a he painting. Then, when I begin the painting I have a library of ideas and a basic idea of where to start. From that point the painting becomes an idea in itself. It is a reaction to a self contained idea of itself. Each movement follows another, each a reaction to the previous stroke. It is here that the image begins to emerge. I am careful to allow the subconscious to breathe freely, to be open and honest to what is happening, to be in the moment. It happens sometimes to destroy the painting in the process. I wipe out, scrape, repaint, and over paint the image. No painting in my studio is safe. The finished painting is that idea in itself, something to be experienced as a self-contained entity. The viewing of a painting physically changes the chemistry of the brain, and it lives with the viewer in memory. It is the private language of the artist and the viewer. We share that time together.
Balloon Dog, 2005, oil on canvas, 5′ x 7′
On the Possibility of Being Arrested in Provincetown (poem)
He had given an earTo any harebrained idea- Laborious facial ticks weighing Gold mines, health care products And safe combinations. An old sea dog never Got to sea, but he might have If he ever wanted to And he’ll tell you in a second That he didn’t. Never mean but inflexible, Horny- like he might … More On the Possibility of Being Arrested in Provincetown (poem)
Refugee, 2016, oil on canvas, 3′ x 5′
Babel, oil on canvas, 2014, 30″ x 60″
Liar and Fool, oil on canvas, 2014, 4′ x 9′
Head with Planes, hand carved wood, wire, paper airplanes, c. 2004
Governors State University show
Tree with Fences, 2012, oil on canvas, 3′ x 8′
Babel #2, 2014, oil on canvas, 6′ x 7′
The Intersection of the Intellectual and Emotional
It’s all about emotional honesty. It is the one thing that I have that is truly unique. There is a need to create something that comes from the heart and soul through the filter of the intellectual. It is where a lifetime adds up. Something of the times, of the world through an … More The Intersection of the Intellectual and Emotional
Guston’s Clock, oil on canvas, 2015, 36″X 48″
Sleeper, 2004, oil on canvas, 4′ x 5′
Lemmings, 2016, oil on canvas, 36″ x 48″
A Plane Crashed Here (poem)
A heavy, humid air Settles on the city today, Distant buildings are erased From the top down like An unfinished drawing. An airplane crashed within fog Of this city, and birds flew As if they could do no other- Each’s fall unfathomable To each. I pause, and hold my breath For twenty-nine seconds, a lifetime, … More A Plane Crashed Here (poem)
Big Pants, 2012, oil on canvas, 3′ x 12′
Man with Topiary, 2014, oil on canvas, 4′ x 5′
Scream, 2015, oil on canvas, 20″X30″
3 Sides, oil on canvas, 2017, 36″ x 48″
2 Little Generals, c. 2003, oil on canvas, 4′ x 5′
For Pussy Riot (poem)
Sideshow geek Charmers of snake Freaks of dance, for The sisters of mercy, Righteous freaks Fucking kicks. A terminal waking Between concrete and altar Thumbing knuckles and Naming the beads Of a rosary. Chewing lips, hysterical Flash of teeth beneath Woolly disguise. Putin go away! Mad, arms pumping, tortured Mouth full of snot Spasm of … More For Pussy Riot (poem)
The Diplomats, oil on wood, 3′ x 7′
Awakening Somewhere (poem)
A vacant comber, Beach gypsy, shrilly-shally Along then out of sight As the heat of the sunrise Grows flirting. The ocean springs up And rolls out In continuous eruption As to take her back, and Isolates the rest With the meanness Of a dream. Garland of the sea’s refuse Lace of foam, she continues The … More Awakening Somewhere (poem)
Man with Explosions, 2014, watercolor on paper, 20″ x 30″
A Fiction
The man stands, staggered, disoriented, beaten but still standing. Punch drunk. Mickey Mouse ears, cartoon bullets, bird masks, empty voice bubbles, the Everyman, his voice not heard. He is surrounded by all the detritus of the world. He looks out over the landscape and is immersed in a sea of fences, … More A Fiction



















