In the Studio: Joseph O’Neal

Joseph O’Neal sits down with Erik Sommer to talk about skateboarding, creating ambiguous work, moving pigment around, and calling attention to the seams.

I am fascinated by what occurs in the spaces between.

(ES) Describe your work for us.
(JO) I make non-objective paintings, almost always incorporating words, and often names and dates. There is a play that happens within the seams, those spaces between text and form, that I have been exploring for well over a decade. Beyond charging the material with memory and emotion, I am fascinated by what occurs in the spaces between. This idea of creating ambiguous works that include text, names, and other elements creates a sense of being caught between channels, how these things relate, or why certain text was chosen. There is opportunity in the seams, a place for contemplation.

For over a decade, I have also been painting Jackie Onassis diptychs. These serve as a counterbalance to my other work. I have used the same form and composition for these since around 2008. For me, they are resting spots, more like color studies than anything else. But even here, the space between remains central. The diptych format, presenting two nearly identical pieces, creates a back-and-forth that highlights subtleties, once again calling attention to the seams. At the end of the day, it is all just a reason to paint, to move pigment around. We come up with these gambits and processes to drive the work, but if I were not painting these, I would be painting something else.

Tell us a bit about your background. Where did you grow up?
I grew up in Wilmington, NC, a coastal town. The art I saw as a child was typical of beach towns—sand dunes and seagulls, or the standard Barnes & Noble coffee table books on Renaissance painters. Nothing I saw resonated with me emotionally. But, like most kids, I was an artist in my own way, be it scribbling on homework or building tree forts …all artistic endeavors.

Around age 12, I put down the soccer ball and picked up a skateboard, and that changed everything. Skateboarding gave me a new way of seeing the world, or maybe it matched the adjacent way I was already looking at things. It became a vessel for exploring my feelings and a way to engage with a subculture that introduced me to music and art I would not have found otherwise. Skateboarding expanded the world for me.

At 16, I started working at the local skate shop. Occasionally, we would get promo copies of Juxtapoz magazine, published by the same company as Thrasher. That was the first time I felt truly connected to art. It spoke to where I was, and I could not get enough. The feeling was similar to when I first started skating, like it had always been a part of me. I did not understand everything, but I knew I wanted to be part of the conversation, whatever that was.

Like with music, I wanted to know what artists inspired the ones I was into. Juxtapoz led me to Warhol and Basquiat, Basquiat led me to Twombly, Twombly to Monet, Monet to Turner—it just kept going. I started painting every day, another vessel for exploration.

At 21, I moved to Charlotte, NC, and worked as the Art Director for Saturday Skateboards. The company let me set up a studio in the warehouse, and for the first time it felt like I had a proper space to work. A few years later, after a skate trip to NYC, I was exposed to what I call the “contemporary conversation”, and again felt that visceral urge to take part in something I did not fully understand but wanted to engage with. Soon after, I packed up and moved to Brooklyn, where I had a studio for many years. I also spent time working in Newark, NJ, a city with a beautiful and vibrant art scene that I am grateful to have been part of.

Where do you live and work now?
My partner Colleen and I bought a row home in Easton, PA, where I now live and work. We have a small but supportive scene here. My studio building, Eleven 20, is just a few blocks from our home and houses 21 artists. It is a great place to make work.

How do you think this has influenced your work?
I think different times in your life call for different environments. In my twenties it was important to be out in the world, filling up my little canteen with life to bring back to the studio and pour out. Now, I fill my canteen in more subtle ways: sitting in our garden, morning coffee with my partner, and the occasional jazz night at The Lafayette Bar. Perhaps the work has gotten more reflective of these subtleties.

Do you remember any artists as a child that captured your attention?
I cannot recall any as a child, but in my early teenage years it was the work of Mark Gonzales I connected with most.

Any artists today you are looking at?
Honestly, I spend a lot of time looking at Monet, especially the ones with garden motifs that feel like something you would see in a relative’s bathroom. I am also drawn to artists like Katherine Bradford, Stanley Whitney, Rose Wylie and more direct contemporaries like you, Erik Sommer, as well as Stefan Wiens, Lance Rautzhan, Julie Torres, and Maurizio Pibia. Lately, I have been diving into poetry, especially Diane di Prima, whose work has been very inspiring to me.

You have described yourself as a text based painter, and your work often features text that is used as a compositional element as well as for its literal meaning. What relationship do you see between the two?
The relationship is a kind of vibrancy or static between the non-objective forms and the text. This back-and-forth creates an opportunity. I do not have any intent with the text, no matter how literal it seems. I am drawn to text as an anchor, or a piece of concrete, particularly names and dates play this role, while I see the non-objective forms as more like a kite. The tension between the two is what interests me.

I enjoy the literary references in your work. Do you write as well as paint?
I would not say I write. I keep a running list of words and phrases, texts I come across and feel drawn to, or things that float into my head. But I see that more as a palette than poetry or writing. A painter romanticizing the idea of being a poet. I have probably thought about this more than I should, but I do feel that I use literary references as a way to examine my own solitary pursuit outside the prism of painting.

Your use of color is striking and at times unexpected. How much of this is planned and how much is reactionary?
The color almost always starts with an idea from something I saw in the world, like the way a leaf looks against a certain wall, or from local flora and fauna. But I see this as just a starting point. From there, it becomes a game of tuning the colors to match the way my nervous system feels, aligning a visceral frequency with the material in front of me through color, form, and text. The works rarely end with the same color scheme they began with. All the underpaintings and shifting colors throughout the process contribute to the vibrancy in the seams.

Your work has a certain immediacy to it. You are able to capture a fervor and vivacity that jumps off the canvas. Would you describe your work as being optimistic?
No, I like that they can be read that way, but I do not have any intent when working. It is
the possibilities that ambiguity enables that I am after.

You have begun curating shows of other artists. What drew you to this and how do you think it has affected your own work?
Chasing happiness. The neighborhood I grew up in was a developing suburb surrounded by woods, with new construction happening all the time. In the summers, my buddies and I would liberate lumber from construction sites and drag it into the woods to build tree forts. I was always excited about the next day, ready to bang on some nails and continue the project. I think about this a lot in terms of my studio practice, and when that feeling is absent, I look for ways to bring it back and keep the window open. After my exhibition, scattered poems, opened at Galerie Rompone last year, I felt a little lost—not an unfamiliar feeling after a solo show. Curating Praxis: PaintingForFucksSake was my attempt to revive that feeling, and it worked. The conversations with the artists about why we get up every day to go to the studio and why we push pigment around were what I needed. It also feels good to showcase the works of artists I admire and champion.

Are you more concerned with the process or the end result?
For me the process drives the result, and the process is not complete until that inner tuning fork matches the material. I never have an idea of what “finished” is until it arrives.

What is your normal studio practice like? Any routines or superstitions?
My only must in life is coffee and one banana every morning.

Do you have a preferred size or scale?
I work in 5 sizes: 60” x 48”, 56” x 40”, 20” x 16”, 10” x 8”, and 5.25” x 3.25”, and it is
important for me to build and stretch all of my canvases and panels. Every step is an
opportunity to charge the material.

Any recent or upcoming projects?
My solo exhibition, Lilacs, just opened at The Drey Gallery in Toronto on October 12th.
They have a great scene up there, and Drew Simpson is a wizard at community building
through art. I also always have something going on with Galerie Rompone in Cologne,
Germany. Shout out to Claudia Cosmo at Rompone- appreciate ya, Claudia!

Finally, what is your favorite color?
Honestly, this is the hardest question.