By Show and Tell
By Bree Davies
By Bree Davies
By Cory Casciato
By Emilie Johnson
By Robin Edwards
By Bree Davis
By Josiah M. Hesse
On December 14, I got a call from a good friend. Her tone was uncharacteristically formal, so I knew something was wrong. "Mark Travis was found dead in his studio," she stoically told me. This news was shocking despite the fact that Travis had been in declining health for years, and I think many in the community had the same reaction that I did. Travis had beaten the odds for so long, the idea that he might actually die from his infirmities had been pushed to the back of our collective minds.
Travis's body was discovered by a neighbor, and it's unclear how long he'd been dead. His obituary in the Rocky Mountain News noted that it was either December 12 or 13 when he suffered a fatal heart attack while working on a painting. He was only 55. The obit described Travis in its headline as a "consummate painter," and that's an apt description, though I think I'd prefer to call him an artist's artist.
A chain-smoking, hard-drinking swashbuckler who lived in poverty in his garret-like studio, Travis followed the romantic, if difficult, lifestyle of the starving artistic genius — just like artists in the movies do. He worked conventional low-end jobs only sporadically, earning a living mostly through the sometime sluggish sale of his paintings and the generosity of friends.
And he exhibited a key characteristic of the classic creative persona: He liked to outrage the bourgeoisie. Above all, he refused to sell out, which would have meant cooperating in his own success, a concept that may strike younger artists as bizarre, since for most, selling out is a mark of success. But for artists of Travis's generation, it clearly wasn't.
Here's an anecdote illustrating that. It was maybe five years ago that I found myself at a swank garden party at a luxurious Cherry Hills Village home. There were a lot of smartly dressed people there who were among the art establishment, including curators from the Denver Art Museum and many wealthy donors — you know, the kind of people who could help someone's career.
When Travis strolled onto the patio, he was a sight to behold. He was wearing a beret, as he often did, and one long dangly earring that terminated in a tiny inverted feather. But the pièce de résistance was a T-shirt emblazoned with the motto "Property Denver County Jail" — and it was no novelty-store item, but the real thing. He made an unforgettable impression, but I'm afraid it wasn't a particularly good one.
Born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1952 to a middle-class African-American family, Travis came early on to his calling as an artist. His talent and interests, as well as the support of his family, allowed him to attend Interlochen Arts Academy, the Cooper School of Art and the prestigious Cleveland Institute. Travis frequently told a story about hiding in the Cleveland Museum of Art after closing time and spending the night with all the paintings that he loved so much.
Travis later earned his BFA at the Columbus College of Art & Design and an MFA from Ohio University in Athens. In 1979, he made his way to Denver.
I first became aware of Travis's work in the mid-1980s. As I remember it, his style combined abstract-expressionist brushwork and formalist compositions. Since he made little money for his efforts, he often drafted cheap non-art materials into service. I recall seeing paintings done on foam-core board, carried out in house paints. Travis was always vague about his methods, and nearly everything was labeled as having been done in mixed media. The ultimate expressions of this approach were his "red paintings," created in the early to mid-1990s. In these massive pieces, Travis incorporated found materials including signs, forklift pallets, tires and anything else he could get his hands on. A characteristic example is "Patchwork." In this very sculptural painting, Travis attached a handmade miniature ladder in wood and a ripped section of tire on top of a stunning, all-over abstraction done in gorgeous, vibrant colors. This painting and the other works related to it were unified by violent expressionistic brushwork featuring, of course, a lot of red.
Fifteen years ago, I wrote about a Travis show at Mackey Gallery for a weekly called Icon, saying there wasn't a single false note in the entire exhibit. Travis was at the top of his game at the time — not to mention the top of his fame, with pieces by him winding up in many private and corporate collections.
Then, for reasons known only to Travis, he dropped out of the scene and didn't return until 2002, with exhibits at Walker Fine Art and Studio Aiello. This was an example not only of his renewed ambition, but also his longtime disregard for the norms of the field — since neither gallery knew the other was doing a show! Such behavior also explains why he went through a string of venues over the years, finally landing at Space Gallery (765 Santa Fe Drive, 720-904-1088, www.spacegallery.org), which had planned a summer show to correspond with the upcoming Democratic National Convention here. It is thought that Travis was working on these paintings when he died.