Dennis A. Nawrocki
Ron Teachworth: Abstractionist and/or Realist

One of the remarkable and consistent leitmotifs in the oeuvre of Ron Teachworth over the years is the unmistakable dominance in his paintings and watercolors of either a sky or pure abstract field of color and pattern. Combining the two terms, this phenomenon might be aptly described as a “sky-field.” That is, in his realist world of seascapes and landscapes what one reads as sky becomes in the non-objective images a flat, abstract field (or ground or plane). Though his paintings are mostly modest in scale (ranging in size from 2 x 3 to 3 l/2 x 5 feet), the skies in his sea- or landscapes feel vast, dwarfing the beach, land, trees, lifeguard stands, man standing on his hands, or pole-like markers, all of which populate and humanize the artist’s representational scenes.

However, even in the abstractions that are seemingly devoid of naturalistic references, the geometric shapes (triangles, diamonds, parallelograms, etc.) are animated by tiny lozenge shapes, confetti like squiggles, or blips or daubs of pigment that recall star-studded firmaments, northern lights, or concentric planetary auras. These colorful, molecular elements, visible in both bodies of work, skyscapes and abstracts, tame and intimize these sky-fields and, interestingly, tip the realist paintings toward abstraction and the non-representational examples in the direction of naturalism.

Teachworth’s geometric shapes are, by the way, just quirky, skewed, and off centered enough to further enliven the field paintings. (In the sky views the heavens are usually symmetrically disposed.) Impastoed surfaces and vibrant color energize these paintings as well, whether the more or less accurate local color of the sea or land views or the kinetic clashes and calming harmonies of the abstractions.

Despite the mysteriously animated movements that go bump in these sky-fields, Teachworth’s paintings project a serene and pacific mood. These contemplative compositions are engendered largely by the carefully calibrated proportional relationships between the geometrical forms and the frequently dense, always lively patterning displayed both within and outside their perimeters. Indeed, the artist brings a kind of order to our expanding universe by his segmenting and patterning. The realist works share this quietude as well in part because of the small scale of the represented elements and the spare (one or two per composition) employment of his vocabulary of lifeguard chairs, markers, or figures. Notably, what all the depicted items share is verticality, thereby functioning as wee but emphatically upright indicators of human presence in a seemingly infinite macrocosm.

Thus, just as the diminutive figural, structural, or organic (trees deployed in orchard formation) components suggest human life (albeit a minuscule one), the segmenting and patterning within the non-objective compositions imply as well a human drive to impose order onto the cosmos. This metaphysical balancing act, sensitively and persuasively embodied in his paintings, lies at the core of both Teachworth’s life and art.

Dennis Alan Nawrocki, April 2004

Nate Cavalieri
Of Maps, Mandalas, and Distant Fields

If Ron Teachworth's paintings are windows on the exotic terrain of the imagination—infinite seaside horizons, spectacular night skies, and fields of vibrantly stippled geometry—it's possible to see his mandalas as furtive maps to those distant worlds. From an inch away or across the room, the circular paintings and sculptures are trying to tell us something; they are compasses trying to direct us somewhere.

The signals occasionally seem obvious: arrows lead us to the rough clay edges of some, and many find crosses at their center (a symbol which, like the mandala itself, could be associated with the religious dogma of your choosing). In others, the compass is thrown off by a fragmented letter, repurposed scraps of metal, or brilliantly colored sticks.

Certainly, Teachworth's dedication and repetition of mandalas proves him a committed student of Carl Jung, who first brought the form into Western consciousness. Jung himself obsessively created mandalas during meditation, attempting to "make maps" to the center of himself.

But Teachworth's maps and meditations pursue larger explorations than the long-sought “self”—even if the mandalas rarely eclipse the size of a dinner plate. With brightly colored, fleeting lines, his drawn mandalas spin the ancient form into the hustle of present-day, while his rough hewn mandalas of mixed media – pressed into clay, mounted on slate, and framed in wood—appear as primeval relics.

If they seem to be directing us to different ends of a timeline, when they appear next to Teachworth’s paintings, the mandalas’ direction becomes clear. His earliest acrylics—serene destinations with titles like “Orchard Trees” and “Blue Water Beach,” all in pointillist textures which bring to mind carefully placed patterns of tic tacs—depict languid afternoons of gently surreal, time-forgotten tranquility. Some of his whimsical watercolors find figures at play, but most of these scenes suggest a recently absent human presence. We're invited to curiously deserted lifeguard chairs, shady trees, and colorful burial markers, but Teachworth’s scenes never seem forsaken.

The objects at center seem just as carefully placed as the swatches of color enlivening the surrounding atmospheres. Eventually, as with the casually suggested horizon of “Pyramid Beach,” or the hazily rendered mountain range of “Twin Peaks,” the bright geometry of these atmospheres demands our complete attention. It's as if, overtime, we’ve taken perch in the abandoned lifeguard chair, looked skyward and let our minds do the rest. The energetic mélange of color and shapes that dominates his later work needs little tie to earthly constructs.

Arriving at a recent painting like “A Cross for Helen & Vern,” its hard not to see the lambent shape at the center of the green and blue turf as a sideways X that marks the spot after long travels. Looking at it long enough, it appears to be the enlarged symbol on a map, as if the journey is about to begin.
 
Nate Cavalieri, San Francisco, CA 2006