Steve's Writings










In recent years, as an artist, I have become accustomed to people's "reviews" of my work. To discover in this package, my first "reviews", was less than a revelation, but a connection to who I was and who I am. My mother was the first to ever write about me in a "Baby's Medical Record" supplied by the hospital. Her "review" read: "Little Stephen was born a month premature. He was such a tiny little fair baby. He was such a serious little fellow and did not start to smile until he was five weeks old". Was I possibly traumatized by being delivered into this world before I was ready? I'll never know, but I do think about it.
I moved on to the report cards, studying the written comments far more than the actual grades which were, thankfully, uniformly above average except for math. "Stephen" is shy and sensitive. He has few contacts with other children. He prefers to be alone", Grade 3. "I hope Stephen will learn to play with other children. He is quite interested in his environment", Grade 2. "Stephen's greatest asset is his imagination…He has quite mature concepts and does above average work in art. He has a good sense of color, line, and balance", Grade 4. The words were amazingly true then and now. Memories of singular moments and powerful feelings rushed through my mind as I read these words written long ago and far away. Words written by young women teaching young children in a Catholic school in the rural townships south of Ottawa, Canada. I give them credit for their astute observations although I cannot remember anything being done to actually help me.
I will never know whether it was my homosexuality that seperated me from other people or caused me to separate myself. I was aware of an emotional and physical attraction to the same sex as early as Grade 2. I do however know that it did not make life easier or people kinder. I refuse to be destroyed or to destroy. "Stephen is a very sensitive boy who takes criticism very personally…his attitude towards his classmates indicates his concern for the feelings of others".
Moments after studying the contents of the package that my mother has sent me, I pulled out calendars from previous years. It was then that I experienced a moment of clarity similar to seeing your reflection in a mirror before the realization that you are acutally looking at yourself. Flipping through the pages of paintings that I had created, I saw that "sensitive boy" was everywhere. Regardless of how different my life now was, I was still that boy.
Last evening I took a break from writing this piece, and went out to a busy gay club down the street. As I stood there watching both the show and the audience, it was even more apparent how little has changed since I was a child. I really do not feel a connection with gay men anymore than straight people. With someindividuals, yes. As a group, no. I have never pretended to represent, depict, or even understand every homosexual man or the sub-cultures within a gay culture. No heterosexual painter has ever represented all heterosexual people or their life experiences. It would be both naïve and false for me to even attempt to do so with gay people.
Instead, I have worked within the confines of a realist painter, depicting moments. These moments are presented within a gay context because that is the truth of my life or the lives in which they occurred. My paintings are far more about the experience of life, than "gay life", whether it be the power of attraction (Pier Group); the child and adult in all of us and the inter-dependance of the two (Little Man, Big Man); the innocense and beauty of the animals that we share this planet with (The Visitor); the feeling of real life being black and white while the memory of a person glows in color (Table For One); the concept of distance, time, space, and technology (Another Place, Another Time); the universal allure of the sun, water and a person to love (A Summer Place); the concept of cohabitation and the way we define our invironments (The Occupation); the sublimity, power, and timelessness of art (David and Me); the passage of time and the transience of nature's beauty (Twilight); the unending process of thought and reflection (The Thinker); the constant reminder of the existance of our hearts (Crying); and the ability to dream and hope in a world and universe far greater then each of us (On the Edge of a Universe).
I can only hope that the days of the year 2003 bring you moments of happiness that you will carry forever.
I can only thank you for making my paintings a small part of your life.

Steve Walker
Toronto, Canada
April 8, 2002

 

The anatomy of a person consists not only of that which is visible to the eye, but that which appears only upon dissection. To study the anatomy of that person's life is a far more abstract, complex, and illusive project. An obvious approach would be to divide that life into years, months, or days. Or perhaps evene into the events or experiences that occurred over a period of time. Yet still, even these events or experieiences can be further dissected into moments - moments defined by actions, thoughts, and feelings.
Unlike a writer or filmmaker, a realist painter is limited to the capturing and evocation of a singular moment. There is no "beginning" and no "end" - simply the moment. It is a unique challenge and ability to do that which each of us wants to do - to essentially stop time, or even turn the clock back and re-live or re-examine time that has passed. Most people have to settle for what we call "memory".
I believe that I have a good memory - perhaps too good. The same sense of memory that opens doors to rooms filled with happiness and love, also holds the keys to rooms painted with sadness and hate. I cannot really choose which doors open and when. A door was opened recently not necessarily by my choosing: however I did choose to walk in. A few months ago: my mother sent me an evelope containing my "Baby's Medical Record", all of my primary school report cards, and photos of me as a young boy that I did not even know existed. The words and images contained therein were bittersweet.

 


 

 

 

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