“Where does meaning come from? What sources feed the well of an artists mind? How, in turn, is the artist’s toil sustained? The answers are ineffable and yet we can still know them. In the context of this exhibit, going back to when the Beatniks first howled in bars and cafes and a coterie of surfers were howling in the sea, living the metaphor, seeking to embody the excruciating freedom of riding a wave, offers a jumping off place. Like the flap of a wing, a ripple set sail and the thing was born. It churned and burned inside those amphibious beings, its ebb and flow like a wave’s incarnations, sacrificing anything for the weightless glide. In bricks of sweat and penniless passion, instruments were crafted to till the source and nothing more—wood, saws, sandpaper and paraffin. Then like a wind chime to a breeze, like a fish crawling out of the sea, its inertia spilled across pavement. Caressed the metropolis. Contours of concrete. Another sphere to ride. And the walls began to crumble. The pioneers, our Rushmore, and their disciples exposed, jumping off one canvas to etch another. While keen observers absorbed—a blue blade of water in a sculptor’s hands, sand forged into glass, refracted light in a photographer’s eye—the mystery recorded. Indelible. Spilling further and farther where a painters touch might shed fresh light, carving an arc where you never thought to. A new perspective peeled back. Its echo feeding the source and the source howling in response. Generations conceived. Cradled and dyed by that enigmatic terrain, drift, zephyr that can never be explained. You don’t always see it but you always feel it there in the work. Humming like a fever dream never shaken from its moment of inception. Pow. And here we are.”
– Norman Ollestad