Robert Szot in his studio.
Mia Funk: How did your upbringing in Texas influence your art and your thinking about the world?
Robert Szot: I was born in Morristown, New Jersey, but was moved to Houston, Texas at the early age of 3, so I consider myself to be a Texan in many ways. My childhood was pleasant albeit quite sheltered in terms of broader ideas of art and culture. In my teens, I discovered institutions like the Rothko Chapel, the Museum of Fine Arts, and the Menil Collection, all in what turned out to be my backyard. I have always admired these places and still visit them frequently; they went a long way in developing my interest in art. In particular, the Rothko Chapel, its tranquility and silent nature, taught me a lot about the quiet contemplation that art (especially painting) demands. It was a fascinating discovery.
MF: When did you first fall in love with art and realize you wanted to be an artist? For you, what is the importance of the arts?
RS: I fell in love with art and decided to pursue it as a legitimate career when I first saw the work of Egon Schiele during a visit to Rome with my older brother. I was in my early 20s and, after having spent a number of years as a computer programmer, found myself searching for a bit more meaning and purpose out of life. My inclination was to discover something for myself, something that I could claim exclusive authorship of without committee or outside influence. Schiele's work spoke to me, and still speaks loudly to me now. I could hardly believe someone could say so much in what I perceived to be such a limited vocabulary. Immense things hidden in a single line or a diffuse bit of watercolor or gouache.
I was instantly hooked and believed fully that I could do something as profound. Art was always in my peripheral vision, but not something I ever had much confidence in my own ability to ever execute successfully—but I took a shot at it anyway being young and brash—and I moved to NYC at 25 to make my way as a legitimate artist. Now, two full decades into my career, I am of the opinion that art (and painting in my particular circumstance) is the last great bastion of the individual. It may be the last place where an inclined individual can create singularities that are of their own making and responsibility. It is the greatest thing a person can do short of saving a life or an act of charity.
MF: What does your typical day in the studio look like?
RS: I work 8 to 10 hours everyday, with Fridays off. I don't take breaks and frankly haven't had a vacation in 20 years. It is not that I am a glutton for punishment—I have just worked hard to obtain some small position in the art canon and I want to keep it and stay sharp and relevant. Plus I like to work. My latest studio is a very public storefront on a main thoroughfare in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Atwater Village. Having such a public place to work is unusual for me to say the least—I am not used to being so accessible. I have frankly come to enjoy the exposure a storefront offers, however, and locals from the neighborhood often stop in to ask questions or just to visit this strange person that has set up shop in their neighborhood. The space is a defunct hair and nail salon and I will get the occasional request of a haircut—I am not kidding.
It is a good-sized studio and I consider the space an essential tool for my art making. Having been in and out of so many studios during my NYC years, this new space offers me a great sense of permanence and that is also essential. Outside of this, my go-to materials include a near portrait grade oil primed linen, an endless supply of paper towels and my ever-growing collection of brushes that go back to the very beginnings of my painting career.
MF: What projects are you at work on at the moment? And what ideas are currently driving your work?
RS: I have been planning an exhibition for my NYC gallery that would be comprised of perhaps only four or five paintings. These paintings would be my largest to date, somewhere in the 80-by-130-inch range, a la The Water Lilies by Monet. I've got titles for two of the works, “DREAMLAND” and “Wonders Greatly Reduced,” and these titles have already conjured up images of layered mysteries and shrouded colors. I'm excited by the prospect even though nothing has even begun in real terms, but the concept certainly has gotten my attention.
I don't use ideas or themes in my work. I certainly do not pre-plan compositional outcomes or even color palettes for that matter. I feel like ideas are too limiting and much too specific for my taste. I prefer to work openly, allowing the painting to actively dialogue with me as I respond to it in real time. This process keeps the work fresh and allows a lot of room for searching and surprising results. Intention still runs very deeply in this process despite the rather improvisational nature of how I work, and each mark or bit of information is thought about several times before it gets executed.