Lewis Evans has been a fartist for as long as he can remember. It just naturally seemed to flow out of me, he said, when asked how he managed such a prodigious output.
His personal statement is simple and succinct. I look at my wife and think, ah, yes, lovely, and then I go and paint her, or a house or whatever else I can fill with the passion that I feel for her. It doesn’t really matter what. It could be a garden hose. It could be an armadillo. It could be a cornflake.
But what about the depth in his work? It’s as deep as your own projections, he says. Or as deep as the paint on the canvas. Or as deep as your pockets. Depending on how much you want to read into it. Of course, ideally you read everything into it and then go deep into your pockets, he says. If you feel good about what you see in my painting, then I feel very good about you paying me a fortune for it.
A simple man, Evans. And direct. He shakes your hand and then gives you his bank account number. No trivial, time-wasting conversation about the meaning of art. Just straight to the point and then on to the bank. Quite refreshing, really, in the teeming sea of pretentious artists eager to impress upon you the deeper meaning of their mystical, enigmatic painterly endeavours.
A load of crap, says Evans. Art is nothing if not a purely personal experience. You cannot make it mean anything for anyone else. It just is. Or isn’t. Words just mess it all up.