Hernan Bas: TIME TO SHINE! (the salesmen)

‘This painting is an homage to the American mall of yesteryear…’

- Hernan Bas

As a kid I never gravitated towards the novelty shops at the mall that carried items like lava lamps. I was lucky; my local mall had a shop called Art by God. At 11 or 12 years old, alone or with my slightly older brother, I was often asked to leave after a while but I treasured the time I did get to spend marvelling over fossils, gemstones and taxidermy specimens. I dreamed of owning that five-foot-tall amethyst geode. I don't recall exactly when a lava lamp appeared in my bedroom. All I recall is the glow and the shifting shadows it cast across the wall as I drifted to sleep. Like all memories it's slippery, but I can only remember one other form of light invading my room in those days and it was from a small aquarium. The effect was quite similar. I maintained an aquarium of some sorts well into my early twenties. The vision of a silhouetted fish darting around in the night is still fresh but the glow of that lava lamp is distant. It's as though the cliché associated with these novelties has manifested itself true.

This painting is an homage to the American mall of yesteryear, the man behind the counter at Art by God who let me stare at a sabre-toothed tiger tooth for twenty minutes, and a simple invention that helps people relax and forget. 

‘As I worked on this painting I had to reconsider the trope of listening to the sound of the sea with a seashell. I realised it wasn’t a pleasant thing you’re hearing. It’s death’s echo: the hollow cry of a haunted house.’

- Hernan Bas

As someone who is not afraid to indulge in puns and clichés, it's odd to me that I hadn't made this painting ages ago. I've used conch shells in a number of paintings and drawings in the past. I had a print out of Matisse's 1940 Still Life with a Shell on the wall of my studio for most of the mid-2000s.

Most of those past images harped on the cliché of placing a shell to your ear to hear the 'sound of the ocean'. The salesman in this work is wearing a T-shirt with a stark text, 'THE DEAD ZONE'. It is a promotional T-shirt for the movie based on Stephen King's novel from 1979. The book's narrative, a mix of political drama and supernatural forces, has next to nothing to do with why it appears in this work. As I worked on this painting I had to reconsider the trope of listening to the sound of the sea with a seashell. I realised it wasn't a pleasant thing you're hearing. It's death's echo: the hollow cry of a haunted house. Our oceans now have their own designated dead zones, and when you search for the term it tends to result in references to cell phone coverage. Sounds like nobody is listening.  

‘I rolled out some newspaper on the floor, poured out some loose puddles of paint and then employed a handful of paw print stamps in various sizes to paint “like a cat” for an afternoon.’

- Hernan Bas 

A couple of years ago I was at John King, a famous used bookstore in Detroit. The 'largest of its kind in the world,' allegedly. As I held back sneezes due to the dust, I was handed a book that I've been obsessed with ever since: WHY CATS PAINT (A theory of feline aesthetics). Co-written by Heather Busch and Burton Silver, this paperback published in 1994 is the quintessential scholarly study of art made by cats. It is written and illustrated with dozens of photographs in a manner completely devoid of irony or camp. As both an artist and a cat person, I consider it a modern classic. 

The resulting painting gives us a glimpse of an imagined gallery space in the midst of unpacking crates and installing an exhibition at Feline Fine Arts. Two artists (cats) are accompanied by the dealer that represents them as a key collector gets a 'first choice' glimpse ahead of the opening.

One of the biggest joys I've had while painting was creating the 'works' visible in the painting. Taking cues from the book, I rolled out some newspaper on the floor, poured out some loose puddles of paint and then employed a handful of paw print stamps in various sizes to paint 'like a cat' for an afternoon. 

‘This is a character who will be lost to time, a paperboy with a bottle of Chanel N°5.’

- Hernan Bas

Malls are dying. This is a universal sentiment and largely true. This work illuminates one of the victims of their demise well before the doors are finally shuttered. The ground floor of nearly all department stores has been dedicated to perfume sales from the first time they opened their doors. It was a simple matter of transporting the customer from the grimy streets outside to the luxury scents and offerings held within. A true breath of fresh (albeit scented) air. The days of the much loathed 'fragrance model', those hired to accost customers with a spritz of a scent have drawn to a close. The practice has been nearly eliminated after decades of being parodied and complained about. This is a character who will be lost to time, a paperboy with a bottle of Chanel N°5.

‘How many teeth are worth the sweets?’

- Hernan Bas 

How does one 'balance' the act of selling something that may cause harm with the idea that it brings joy? That question raises obvious references to addictive pharmaceuticals, cigarettes etc, but this work is a more light-hearted affair. A dedicated candy shop (thankfully) is still a part of our collective experience. Any establishment that indulges your 'sweet tooth' is apparently bulletproof. Earlier studies for this work depict the salesman as a fortune teller, his hands hovering as if over a crystal ball. The ball being substituted by a round bowl of gumballs. The future is clear: cavities. The final painted version swaps out the role of oracle with that of a salesman (literally) weighing the cost to his customers. How many teeth are worth the sweets? 

‘End of day bargains are typical, but with a storm approaching and this particular salesman, 10% off is as good as you’ll get.’

- Hernan Bas

A limp cigarette dangles off the lip of a young man who would rather be anywhere than at a flower stand in a church parking lot farmers market held on Mother's Day. The flowers on offer are as lax as his vice, listless and downward. It's late in the day for such an affair, the sun has baked away most of the seller's expectations. End of day bargains are typical, but with a storm approaching and this particular salesman, 10% off is as good as you'll get. 

Discussion surrounding my work over the years has always weighed heavily on the perceived melancholy of the characters. Time may reconsider that reading but for now it feels fruitless to counter the narrative. This is a work that directly and intentionally accepts that perception. It is a portrait of apathy.