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Publishing Art:
Dallas, 1962
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I learned to sculpt in Santiago, Chile. Like all artists, I sold my one-of-a-kind pieces. When I returned to the United States, I continued working in Dallas, Texas.
About this time, I met a plaster caster who was making latex molds - Eugene Schutza. When I met him, he was painting rubber on several plaster statues out in his front yard, letting the sunlight dry them (which is an absolute no). Eugene wasn't a sculptor, an artist, or any such thing. He was strictly a mold maker. He'd get his hands on a plaster piece and paint rubber over it one layer at a time until he made a simple rubber shell. But he was completely generous, showing me his techniques, walking me through the whole process.
Plaster casters are an interesting group of modern-day pirates. You've probably seen them, selling sculptures and such on the side of a highway somewhere. They'd run out, and steal a piece right out from under its designer, paint a latex mold over it, and then make cheap knock-offs for pennies a piece. I mean, as much as I loved Gene, I look back on it now and think, "Man! I'd slice you to bits for doing that."
I say that as a sculptor. But Gene was strictly a plaster guy. The stuff he made was just awful - a copy of a copy. And each time he'd make a mold off a copy, the whole thing would deteriorate. But Gene was a sweet guy - a hard-core pirate, but sweet. It never occurred to him to make something original. Nothing worth anything was done in plaster back then. Artists worked strictly in bronze. So from his point of view, I was an absolute nut wanting to invest my time and energy into making my original, sculpted pieces and reproducing them though his medium.
But for me, this was a light bulb moment.
I'd been making original sculptures for two or three years by the time I met Gene. I'd created hundreds of one-of-a-kind characters - sculpted them, fired them, painted them, and carted them off on my motor scooter to neighborhoods all around Dallas.
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 Hundreds of characters wove through my hands and disappeared. They're long gone, these one-of-a-kind little pals of mine. I don't know what happened to them. I held onto a handful of them. The rest vanished from my life. To this day I miss them. I used to have recurring dreams of finding them in an attic and my heart would soar. Then I'd wake up and feel that tremendous loss again.
This yearning to keep my own work became fuel for a philosophy of what I believe art should be. It began in a very, very personal way. I wanted to collect my own work, but as an artist I couldn't. The only way to live as an artist, or at least this is what gets drummed into you, is to sell the very pieces that you love, that you made with your own hands and sweat and imagination.
So this was when I began considering ways to reproduce my own work.
Other artists do it, too - publish their work. In fact, it would be inconceivable if they did not. Imagine if John Steinbeck had only produced one copy of The Grapes of Wrath, or if Francis Ford Coppola created only one copy of The Godfather. Only one person owned the film, and he alone determined who, if anyone, could view it. Imagine if no one ever recorded a Johannes Brahms concerto, or even worse, if the music was never published, if only one concert was performed ever. It is unimaginable!
So why not visual art? Why can't we perfect the mold-making process, eliminate all the flaws, reproduce the paint process color by color, brush stroke by brush stroke, reproduce the texture, the weight, the gravitas? The truth is, we can. And that is what I set out to do.
It's been over 50 years since I began publishing my art. My sculptures are created here in my studio in Colorado Springs, but they are sold around the world, purchased by vagabonds and celebrities, soldiers and U.S. Presidents. I've never once regretted the decision to publish my work. It has allowed me to tell my stories - and yours.
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