Our friend Patrick Erwin is a retired electrician cum painter who began working seriously
on his art in his later years. I met him in his studio for this interview…

Now retired, Patrick spends most of his creative energies painting, and we were curious to know more about what he’s up to. So we asked him to join us at an art show — and then we invited ourselves over to his house to see his paintings. He graciously gave us a tour of his studio and his home, where his art hangs in every room.

At the time, Patrick was actively working on a landscape of eucalyptus trees that he called La Danse. He had spotted this particular scene on a walk in the Oakland hills and had snapped a photo. That photograph served as the inspiration for a version in pastel — already completed — and then for a larger-scale oil painting of the same scene.

I was taken with Patrick’s work and asked him to let me interview him, so we later sat down in his studio to talk about his life in art. Patrick speaks about his artwork with thoughtful frankness and passion, and it was a pleasure to talk with him. This is an edited version of our conversation.

Did your parents encourage you to paint?

Had there been fewer of us — ultimately, there were nine kids — I think my parents would have encouraged me in making art. But I think that, early on, my mom was really invested in just making sure that we were clothed and that we had food. But I certainly wasn’t discouraged.

My mom was a pastel artist and she also painted in oils, and I watched her when I was a little kid. So it was just intrinsically a part of my growing up. She was a very crafty woman, as well, in terms of making things when they were kind of poor folks, when they were first starting out. (I’m the only person I know of in my generation who can boast of having had an outhouse rather than a real bathroom!) So because of our financial situation, I remember her building things. And she was the favorite Cub Scout mom, because she made these little doll heads out of papier mâché — things like  that I can remember from growing up. 

What memories do you have of making art as you were growing up?

I can remember that back in kindergarten, first, and second grades, the only thing I liked about school was when they’d hand out the paper for art. Nothing else had any meaning or gravitas. For example, I could not tell time until I was almost in sixth grade! I just couldn’t figure it out. It was numbers, you know, and I hated numbers! For me, art was really the consuming thing. And maybe I hid out behind art, because I didn’t want to have to learn how to read — and yet today I love reading.

And I remember one year making — gluing — this little manger for Christmas. Everybody raved about it, and I thought, “Yeah, I made a manger!” The baby Jesus never fit in there, but that was a different story!

Flash forward a few grades and now I’m going to a Catholic school. In fact, all of us did. And I don’t know how my mom put us through, but she did. I can remember in fourth, fifth and sixth grade, where the pressure was really on to learn, they had different reading groups and different math groups. And I always wound up in the Blackbird group,. It’s unfortunate: the visual image is this black bird that was a croaking, dark thing. There were usually two rows of the Blue Jays and two of the Cardinals and two of the Blackbirds. And I was always sitting in the very last seat among the Blackbirds.

But the teachers — the nuns — they would always ask me to decorate the classroom for the parent-teacher night. And I dug that! Oh my god, I didn’t have to do the other shit! Decorate the board and hang up paintings, you know? What freedom that gave me, and I just felt like kind of a superstar. That meant so much to me that somebody saw something in me, you know. It was extremely validating: I was somebody.

I did a lot of drawing in pencil and got some validation by the time I was in high school, winning first prize in a contest sponsored by Wells Fargo. You had to do a sketch of some Wells Fargo thing. And I did what’s called a “scratch board” drawing. You start with a white board, and you paint it with India ink, and it’s a soft material underneath. You take a tool and scratch through the ink, and the white comes through. I did a stage coach and the front of this Wells Fargo building up in Columbia, California. So there were bits and pieces of validation along the way, you know?

It wasn’t until college that I really got into oil painting. And along the way, I would do some chalk — pastel — pieces. I think my mom was the catalyst for my experimenting with pastels. And of course they were cheaper: you could buy a little box of chalky colors and just go to it, rather than investing in the more expensive oil paints.

What happened with your art after college?

In college I was an art major and an English minor. And even then I saw what it was going to take [to pursue a career as an artist]. And I don’t know that I had the internal fortitude to pursue that after graduating. I really didn’t know a process that made any kind of sense to me. 

So I started substitute teaching. And I did that for a couple of years, and then started back [to school], thinking I might want to be a teacher. Then I was teaching at this Catholic school for another three years — a total of maybe six years teaching. And I’m glad for that, because that’s where I met Elaine.

She taught in another inner-city school in Oakland, and when I met her, I just thought, “Oh man, this is the woman. She’s beautiful. She’s got a great attitude, just really open and fun and funny.” She was everything to me. And I just knew that she was the one. And so two years later, we were married.

Through her, I met somebody who remodeled old homes in Berkeley. And that’s where I got my beginning training in electrical — and a lot of other things — but I focused in more and more on electrical. And so that then consumed me, especially because we were starting to have kids and, you know, this wasn’t Pat’s time any longer. This was a family that I’d committed to help keep going. And so then I was off on an electrical adventure…

How did you finally get back into painting?

I really didn’t steep myself in art until, gosh, until I was probably in my 50s. Because for twenty years before that I was married; I was married when I was 31 or 32. And having kids right away and then growing up with them and doing all the parenting stuff that I loved. But there wasn’t really — I didn’t make time for art. I just set it aside. And that was okay. I wasn’t just freaking driven, like, “God, I gotta get a brush back in my hand!”

But there was one other thing that I allowed to hold me back and that was being undercover with my gayness. I finally figured out recently why I wasn’t that interested in connecting deeply with other men. Not because I was afraid that I would go horny on them! (Laughter) But that they would make this discovery about me that I did not want to have out of the box. I was living a perfect life on the Gold Coast [in Alameda] — a five-minute walk from Franklin Park — and playing tennis with my buddies… Buddies at that level; you know, you’d allow them in so far and that would be it.

So it was a complete Ozzie and Harriet life on the outside. And yet it wasn’t, you know, the perfect thing for me because of this Damocles’ sword — or that ball that’s gonna roll down the hill and smash me… waiting for that to happen.

Did you think that painting was going to reveal your gayness somehow?

No. I mean, I never made a connection like that. And yet, you know, it’s funny. I can remember ideas about being a faggot and a painter and things like that. But no, I just needed to create some kind of — I don’t know quite how to say it. The family was my front, and that sounds like a horrible thing to say. But I think that kept me from being myself — which included painting.

It wasn’t until actually going into my later 50s, when the family was no longer — my kids were going to college, and there wasn’t the same emotional responsibility there. I love my kids, but I just think that there was gradually a sense of freedom that I had never felt before. The reality of who and what I am was becoming more ever-present in my life — the truth of all that. And so I think, in a very big way, when I finally came out that freed me to do what I’m actually doing now. 

The summer that Elaine and I went our separate ways, I moved in with my sister and brother-in-law in Castro Valley. And that summer was spent painting. And it was the first time I was ever so tenaciously focused. And I don’t know if it was to run away, if it was an escape from the emotional business that was going on in my head, and the sorrow — I’d be out there painting and tears would be in my eyes. But I look back and it makes sense that I retreated to something that was home for me — that felt like, “Yeah, this is where I belong.” In a way it was it sad that I couldn’t have a family, be gay, and do art. That would have been perfect. That would be the trifecta of living, but, you know, there was that little difficulty with Elaine and my gayness: “No, Pat, this isn’t gonna work for me.”

My mom never knew [I was gay]; she died before I came out. And when Elaine brought that up — “Well, jeez, you waited till your mom died before you came out” — it cut me to the quick, you know. Like, “Weren’t you brave enough?” And I’m thinking there is probably a ton of truth to that that I didn’t want to admit. But sitting here now talking to you about it, it sure makes sense that I would finally allow myself to be more open to art and to learning — and how psychological shit can really fuck you up, you know, and be such a killer. 

Since college, have you had further training in painting?

I once went for a week with my mom down to Carmel, where a famous dude whose name escapes me [was giving a workshop]. I got out of that what I could, but I think there was still so much blocking me in terms of this issue that it really scuttled my openness to what I could have learned. I was so fearful of what people might think of me: “Hey, Fran, is your son gay?” And I mean, that probably never would have happened. 

It wasn’t until my 60s [that I got serious about painting.] And I’ll tell you why I remember this: my mom was in this life-drawing and painting class at Holy Names. And I always had the feeling — for real or not, I always felt there was kind of a competition between my mom and me. Not so much on my part. I’m not gonna take the hit on that: it was my mom’s fault! (Laughter) And so I never made any inquiry into [going to the life-drawing class]. You know, that was kind of her thing.

It wasn’t until she died in 2004 that I actually started there. [Once she was] no longer in the class, I thought, well, she’s not here, so there’s space now. Yeah, emotional space, as well. So from about 2005 until COVID hit I was in these Friday life-drawing classes. And that’s something that helped me develop with my painting process. 

And actually before my mom died, I was taking Fridays off and going out with my brother-in-law, who’s kind of a famous guy in art, and doing some plein air work at Point Pinole. And so that went on for five or six years prior to my mom passing.

Also, I attended that workshop in Bruges last summer and several others. So, yeah, that’s been kind of my adventure.

So do you consider yourself an artist?

I fight with that all the time. Because art is so much in the eye of the beholder… Number one, there’s a real sense of joy for the most part when I’m painting. And there’s a real sense of interaction between what I’m doing and what it feeds me back, what I give it and what it gives me — you know, back and forth. And so that’s a very powerful and intimate time that I’m spending with paper, the canvas, the chalk, and the oil… So I’m working on it. I’m working on becoming an artist. Maybe that’s the closest to my truth that I can give you. 

What gets you into the studio every day?

Painting for me is sacred time, it’s just — it’s very sacred, very holy in a way. It’s showing up for something that you love and nurturing that. That’s heaven to me. 

When I retired about seven years ago, there was an interim period where this studio had to be reconstructed. I wanted it to have a real sense of place and wanted it to be a place where I desired to be. So I did a lot of extra stuff. And so it wasn’t probably for another couple of years that I just gradually found myself down here, more and more.

At first, I’m wondering how the hell am I going to get better at this, if I’m just exhausted after an hour or 45 minutes? But it’s like a muscle, I realized: I had to really develop it to get to the point of being down here for five or six hours. And learn to take things more in stride and not allow myself to get so fucking frustrated. Like, “Why isn’t this coming out? I’m out of here!”

But I just thought, “I have to stay here in front of this and work this out. I just can’t quit!” And now I’m thankful that I stayed and didn’t cop out, didn’t allow myself to get so frustrated. For some reason, that would have felt like a betrayal of myself, you know, “You say you want to paint and you want to become a better artist. What is this going to mean, if you just step away?”

These days, if I’m on a roll, there ain’t no problem getting in here. It’s like coming down [to the studio] and seeing a friend. And then sometimes, you know, it’s like coming down and seeing an unhappy family member. And all of the above and everything in between. That’s what it’s like.

But it’s a great feeling when you’re on a roll. And yet, when it’s going so well, I want to stop. I want to leave, because I’m afraid if I stay too long I’m gonna jinx it. I’d rather leave on a high and have that high feeling when I come back. 

If I’m stumped, oh, man, I find every excuse to stay upstairs, you know, not come down here. And that’s a real fight on those days. When it’s not going well, I’m thinking. “Okay, Pat, listen, you’re down here and you’re putting the time in. And whether you know it or not, there is something you’re learning.” Maybe it’s just being present in front of the painting.

I try to spend at least a couple hours a day and sometimes as much as maybe five or six — rarely more than that, because it’s such an exhausting process for me. I don’t know where the exhaustion comes from, but I think there’s that interaction —  that tug from the painting: what I give it, and what I’m feeling back. The adrenaline rush that happens when something is just going spectacularly well. And then hoping that I don’t screw it up, you know, and wanting to keep it fresh and all of that.

What do you most like to paint?

I like to paint anything and everything!  I was talking with Kim Lordier [another painter and friend] about “finding my lane,” and she said, in a way, that there’s no such thing. And that kind of relieved me. But at the same time it seems like everyone I know who has managed to move on to whatever the next level is for them has done it with a specific format in mind, a specific direction — portraiture or the body or still life or plein air. And, Honey, I’m just all over the map: whatever grabs me, that is what I like. Like that little kid standing waiting for his mom. Yeah, that is just absolutely — I want to say priceless, but it’s just pure humanity at its best.

What grabbed you about the scene that inspired La Danse?

The picture was complete. In my sensibility about color and composition and all the other stuff, this scene was already a complete painting right in front of me. I can’t let that go. I’m gonna grab on to nature every time, and this is nature to me at her best. So I just responded to it. I’m sure other people might just walk by this scene, but for me, it was complete, just utterly complete.

How does working in pastel differ for you from working in oils?

When I finished the smaller pastel version, I thought, “Oh, god, this is so complete. I can’t do anything lovelier.” And I think that might be true in pastel. 

Normally I don’t work in pastel at all. And the only reason I did this time is that I thought maybe I’ll get a new groove on with the oil painting, if I start in this other medium —  pastel — which is more direct for me. Because the material is so close to my body as I’m applying it, it just makes it a lot easier than being a paintbrush-length away. It’s intimate because you can really get down there and turn the chalk to a plane that’s going to give you a sharper edge or a softer edge.

When I started the oil painting, it just didn’t have the same intimacy, the same warmth, you know — and of course, it’s not gonna because it’s a different material. The nature of the application, I think, keeps me a little distant. And I’m wondering if there’s also then an emotional distance that’s created. When I’m working in oil, the challenge is: how do I hold the intimacy and the sense of love that seems to go into it in layering these colors? It just seems like oil for me is, in some ways, it’s a little harder-edge. And I was also kind of at odds, since the oil painting is four times as big. 

How will you know when the painting is done?

You know that old joke about it takes two people to paint? Well, it takes the person who’s painting to paint, and it takes the second person to say when to stop. (Laughter) That used to be a much bigger question in my mind. But as I’ve gotten older and more mature and just painting more, there is a certain gravitational pull toward an end, and I feel like I internally get that when I get there. When I find myself fussing with things, I’m like, “Okay, Pat.” And what’s good is that I don’t do so much fussing. I don’t have to get to that fussy stage to realize, “Hey, you’re done.”

With this particular painting, after I finish the lower-right-hand corner, I’m gonna go back over everything and just look and see, “Are these relationships, these values, working? Is it just too pop-y? Or is it kind of boring?” And I might dibble-dabble in there, but then get on with it. I think the structure of those central trees — the dancers — is working.

Since our conversation, Patrick has finished the painting. He told me, “I looked at this painting, and I was thinking, ‘Oh my gosh, this bark, these trees look like they’re dancing.’ So it’s called La Danse (The Dance).”

What makes you feel satisfied with a painting?

What are you working on now?

Here’s a blessing for Patrick,
who’s had the courage to find his own voice
and follow his path wherever it leads.
May his journey inspire the rest of us!