David "Spooky" Harris
- 18 hours ago
- 4 min read
David "Spooky" Harris is a mixed media artist based in Manhattan Beach, California. He worked in theatre and television for years before he started painting. He works in sumi ink, acrylic and oil stick, from small drawings on paper to large paintings on canvas and linen. He starts strong, then loses the plot on purpose, paints over things, and drops anything from his work that he catches himself repeating. He says he wants to live in a Jim Jarmusch film.
Q: You came from theatre and television before painting. What did that world teach you that still shows up in the work?
A: Storytelling is central to everything I do. Painting is the purest, most collaborative storytelling format I have found. I look for ways to connect and tell not only a story that I want to tell, but to include the viewer in that process. There are so many interpretations when a viewer is looking at work and we need that. We need to create our own maps to navigate it, and to remind us why we want to be here and what we have to do.
Q: You do small ink drawings on paper and large paintings on canvas. Are those different modes, or the same impulse at different scales?
A: I use the small ink pieces as part sketchbook, part exploration of shapes and themes. As all my work comes from storytelling and words, I find it helpful to juxtapose images in ink with words that link in ways that I haven't thought of before. It's good exercise, and often leads to a bigger idea or abandonment of any preciousness I may be wrestling with. Pivoting between small works and bigger works helps demystify and normalize area and scale for me.
Q: Liberation Legs keeps appearing. Strong feminine legs, standing their ground. Where did that image come from?
A: It is no small secret that the future has been female for as long as cavemen have been acting like dummies. And by female, yes, I mean women, but also the feminine sides to all men and women. These legs are sexual but not in an objectified way. I am attracted and amazed by strength, confidence, and the incredible odds that all marginalized humans face. The legs stand firmly, with the table set, and defy the male gaze while retaining all of their sexuality. They represent the strong women I know. They represent the repressed who are unwilling to take it anymore.
They represent celebration in the face of oppression. With the current state of things, they represent an exit to a better future.
Q: You paint over things, eliminate, lose the narrative to find a stronger one. What does that actually look like in the studio?
A: It's about those little rules you make up when you find your style. The little sing-songy narrative going through your head as you get in the zone. The rules don't really have words, classifications, or even make sense. I try everything with the idea of being ready to abandon it. Abandonment is a huge part of my practice. If I repeat a fetish too often, I eliminate it from my visual vocabulary because it starts to lose its potency. Losing the narrative is very important to me. I start strong, then lose the plot, which I think lends to a piece's true originality. Not that that is the aim, I've just gotten used to it. The answer is always there, hiding sometimes, obvious in other moments. While working on a piece, it's important to me to walk away and reapproach by peeking through the door at it. Seeing if it has more things to say or if it's shouty and overexcited. You have a romance with each piece you make. It requires all the messy stuff that creates a solid foundation for others to reflect upon.
Q: Come Out of Hiding has this longing for analog life, simpler things. Where does that come from?
A: It's not news that the modern world has us hostage to the loudest ass-hat in the room. Analog was better in so many ways. We need to be everywhere and in everything all at once and it is causing us cost to our mental health. I do believe nostalgia can be toxic, but slowing down to truly absorb what we hear and feel is a good animalistic trait. The piece is more about conscious repair. The need to connect. The want of beauty. The loss of innocent free time.
Q: What are you working on these days?
A: I'm really attempting to become more honest in my work, and by that I mean eliminating what I think people want to see or what they want from me—from the actual work. Not exactly working against what people want, but attempting to further uncover the unconscious and ask everyone to come along. Sometimes I think artists are fighting for a guest spot on the Love Boat, while I want to live in a Jim Jarmusch film. Messy, complicated, human and cosmically connected. I have love for the art world; it's a complex sideshow of circus mirrors and snake-oil salesmen, but I belong here and you do too. The artist, the viewers, and the subjects. As there are no real truths to it all, it comes down to intuition and we sell that intuition, give it frame, and sell it to the world. It's a hint that something is out there that may be enlightening. And that is the value, no matter what the asking price.
