2008 Woodie Awards
Emmett Williams hangs his head and paintings in salute to late, great users
Travis Diehl
Issue date: 1/17/06 Section: Arts & Entertainment
This is not an art review. Emmett Williams is not seeking that kind of confrontation here. "Heroin: A Drug Addiction," his latest exhibition, seeks instead something beyond aesthetic appraisal: some kind of social truth - a truth found at the deadly and oft-visited intersection of youth, talent, and hard drugs.
As popular four decades ago as crack is today, heroin addiction has cut short many promising artistic careers. Says Williams, no amount of ungodly talent can prevent an overdose. Consider the subjects of the five portraits currently on display in the MRC Gallery: Billie Holiday, Charlie "Bird" Parker, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jimi Hendrix. Aside from -indeed, in spite of - their genius, these four have in common death by untimely overdose.
Emmett Williams, DC native and Greensboro painter, knows this all too well. Williams paints jazz. His work takes him back in time in search of a breed of performers not yet equaled. His rhythmic murals and cubist portraits are improvisations of color and form, and often depict the jazz greats themselves: Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis. And wherever Williams looks, heroin is there.
As American as bad TV, heroin has always held a strange gravity for creative personalities, from F. Scott Fitzgerald and William S. Burroughs to Miles Davis and Lou Reed. Drugs are and have always been part of artistic culture. But, far from the explicit freedom enjoyed by contemporary lyricists, mid-century artists had to be more careful. At a time when The Kingsmen's unintelligibly innocent "Louie Louie" stood trial for obscenity, jazz artists slyly swung drug tunes like "Groovin' High" and "Moose the Mooche." "You at least had to be subtle," says Williams.
Subtle, too, is Williams' latest grouping. Considering the heavy message, the portraits shudder with ironic energy. Instead of choosing unglamorous realism, Williams glorifies the dead. There is nothing sinister at all about the vibrant abstract figures until you read the artist statement mounted unassumingly to the left of the paintings. In simple black type, Williams declares his intent: "No matter how talented or famous you become, your skills and your youth will not prevent you from cutting your life short through drug use." His message is one of concern, not condemnation. "[These artists] drive what they want, go where they want, and here they are doing the same drug somebody in my neighborhood might get hooked on."
As popular four decades ago as crack is today, heroin addiction has cut short many promising artistic careers. Says Williams, no amount of ungodly talent can prevent an overdose. Consider the subjects of the five portraits currently on display in the MRC Gallery: Billie Holiday, Charlie "Bird" Parker, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Jimi Hendrix. Aside from -indeed, in spite of - their genius, these four have in common death by untimely overdose.
Emmett Williams, DC native and Greensboro painter, knows this all too well. Williams paints jazz. His work takes him back in time in search of a breed of performers not yet equaled. His rhythmic murals and cubist portraits are improvisations of color and form, and often depict the jazz greats themselves: Dizzy Gillespie, Louis Armstrong, Miles Davis. And wherever Williams looks, heroin is there.
As American as bad TV, heroin has always held a strange gravity for creative personalities, from F. Scott Fitzgerald and William S. Burroughs to Miles Davis and Lou Reed. Drugs are and have always been part of artistic culture. But, far from the explicit freedom enjoyed by contemporary lyricists, mid-century artists had to be more careful. At a time when The Kingsmen's unintelligibly innocent "Louie Louie" stood trial for obscenity, jazz artists slyly swung drug tunes like "Groovin' High" and "Moose the Mooche." "You at least had to be subtle," says Williams.
Subtle, too, is Williams' latest grouping. Considering the heavy message, the portraits shudder with ironic energy. Instead of choosing unglamorous realism, Williams glorifies the dead. There is nothing sinister at all about the vibrant abstract figures until you read the artist statement mounted unassumingly to the left of the paintings. In simple black type, Williams declares his intent: "No matter how talented or famous you become, your skills and your youth will not prevent you from cutting your life short through drug use." His message is one of concern, not condemnation. "[These artists] drive what they want, go where they want, and here they are doing the same drug somebody in my neighborhood might get hooked on."
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