You know the saying – “If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” That’s exactly how we, here at ARTWORKS Magazine, are handling this economic storm. A little bit of humor, a good dose of hope and a whole lot of great art! From the color-filled landscapes and still-lifes of Raimonds Staprans (he’s the guy responsible for the lemons on the cover), to the provocative propaganda of street artist Shepard Fairey, the Spring issue has something for everyone.

THE WESTONS: Beckoning ten slouchy teenagers into his living room, Kim Weston announces with a sweep of his hand, “Don’t be shy, look around. This isn’t a museum – this is my home!” In fact, it’s both. Kim does live in this rustic little cottage in the Carmel Highlands along with his wife Gina, but he has turned the house into a monument to his grandfather, Edward Weston, who built the place in 1938 and lived there while amassing a body of work that would make him one of the fathers of American photography. On this sunny February day, Kim is entertaining a class of aspiring photographers from the Stevenson School. The kids have clearly been doing their homework, and have no trouble recognizing on the cottage walls prints of Edward Weston’s iconic images, among them Pepper No. 30, Head Down Nude and Shell. They are a staple of every photography textbook, but it is being here at Wildcat Hill that brings to life a man who died in 1958. A ghostly chill sweeps through the room when Kim says, rather nonchalantly, “Edward died right there, sitting in that chair, looking out the window.”

But so many mementos that Kim has preserved offer a window into the soul of a man who died before photographers were fully embraced by the art world, unlike his friend, neighbor and rival, Ansel Adams. Taped on the bookcase is an old handwritten note left by Edward: “I do not lend books to friends. I do not want to lose books – or my friends.” When Kim opens the doors to a low-slung pantry, a riot of dry goods and cooking utensils are revealed. But look closer and these racks were once used by Edward to catalogue his prints. Notched into the wood are abbreviations for some of his favorite locations to photograph: PL for Point Lobos, DV for Death Valley.

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SHEPARD FAIREY: Armed with an armful of posters, a bucket of glue and more messages than an “I Hate George Bush” voicemail box, Shepard Fairey’s creative guns are blaring. Loud and proud, he’s literally sticking it to the world by launching assaults on capitalist creeps, corruption at our nation’s capitol and giving a capital SCREW YOU to bigots of all kinds. His artistic aim is targeted at those unable to find their ass with both hands in the dark.

From OBEY to OBAMA, Shepard Fairey was born OUTSPOKEN. This punk rock listening, skateboard riding, homemade sticker pasting, unclassifiable artist has ridden to the top of the counterculture elevator, which ironically remains on the ground floor. His red, white and black PROPAGANDA posters are made to stand out amid urban clutter. To Fairey’s followers, his products breed content; to his haters they evoke contempt. The two letters that separate the emotions are beyond EXPLOSIVE. Cops call him a criminal, critics say he’s a copier and cynics think he’s a Communist, but millions of his images have stretched all seven seas to adorn buildings, lampposts and the jean pockets of many good people everywhere.

Click here to read the entire Shepard Fairey article

RAIMONDS STAPRANS: By Eastern European standards he was a child of privilege. The family had a nice third floor apartment overlooking the hospital where his father worked as a surgeon. A mortuary was located next door for obvious, practical reasons, and as a young child, the people coming and going fascinated Raimonds Staprans. Looking out the window, pencil and paper in hand, he would draw funeral processions. “People who saw the drawings would say, ‘What a morose child,’” Staprans recalls. “But really I had a happy childhood until the war. The war changed everything.”

Raimonds’ family survived the terror of World War II, eventually immigrating to America. He took a full slate of art classes and got involved in theatre in college – the two things that would set up his parallel careers as a painter and playwright. Today, Staprans lives and works in San Francisco, California, but his roots are still firmly planted in Latvia. He still speaks with a thick accent and has the gray demeanor of a stereotypical Eastern European, but yearns for the “brightness” of San Francisco when he is away too long; and he paints to satisfy the sensual side, and writes to satiate his intellectual half. It may be a bit schizophrenic at times, but it works for him. “Painting helps with anxiety because it requires focus. I forget about everyday life. Writing, though, is very connected with real life and real people. It requires a different kind of organization.” Painting and writing are the ying and yang of his creative soul, and it’s clear he desperately needs both.

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GREG MILLER: Greg Miller is a modern-day pop artist determined to document the disappearing cultural landscape of America. Through his vision, the elusive eye of a pinup and the reassuring wink of an alienated hero are preserved. He prevents the weathered words of old roadside billboards from continued fading. Nostalgic portraits of true romance and simple beauty are given eternal emotion. Image meets language in Miller’s art as though John Steinbeck and Ansel Adams were conjoined twins. Or, as Miller says more succinctly, “They left me behind to tell the story. Whoever THEY are. My paintings are edgy with sexy smeared all over them.”

GWYNN MURRILL: The big cat sits quietly in a kind of artistic purgatory, but clearly closer to damnation than salvation. His paws have been severed and dried epoxy oozes from the crack around the neck. The artificial glue is the only think keeping his majestic head attached to the body. The pose is relaxed but the scene is chaotic. There has been violence here, and it is hard to see how even an accomplished artist will put it back together. But that is Gwynn Murrill’s challenge. Seemingly calm and reserved, this L.A. sculptor admits that the mangled life-sized cat in her studio is a product of her anger and frustration. “I just got so angry I threw it against the wall. Actually I kicked it against the wall. I thought I would just start over, but then I thought I might be able to save it. But I’m still not sure,” she says quietly.

CHRIS JORDAN: Chris Jordan is one artist who doesn’t mind if you’re disgusted by his work. In fact, he might prefer it. His photographic art is intended to evoke a response, whether it’s one of abhorrence, rage, shock, or horror. “What I hope happens is for people to simply stop. I’m trying to bring people to a halt for a moment,” he says. The pictures might be difficult to look at but not because they’re hard on the eyes – just the opposite, in fact. The striking images draw you in; but as they do, you discover the appalling subject matter – a sea of cell phones, a web of jet streams, a galaxy of light bulbs. The subjects on their own are not particularly noteworthy. Their quantity is what astonishes: 426,000 cell phones represent the number Americans toss each day; 11,000 jet trails show how many commercial flights take-off in the U.S. every eight hours; 320,000 light bulbs depict the number of kilowatt-hours of electricity wasted every minute.

WOLFGANG BLOCH: The breeze whistles carrying with it the cleansing smell of sea salt. Fine grains of warm brown sand funnel through bare toes. The sun dances on a blue-green foreground giving way to navy and then an eternity of dark gray in the distance. White caps create abstract forms and the cascading spray patterns Pollock’s drips. Waves crash like symbols and rumble with bass to a never-ending rhythm. The true taste of freedom is introduced to a yearning palette. The harmony of life can be heard here… the art of Wolfgang Bloch.

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