Artistic Statement
From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been an artist. I have been drawing or painting from the time I could hold a crayon, pencil, or mislaid tube of lipstick (sorry, Mom). I have come to understand that as an artist, I am wired differently. I see the world, experience the world differently. There is no choice in the matter. It is in my DNA. I am compelled to do the work. I am compelled. For me, art is undeniable. It pulls me from my sleep, fills my daily thoughts. It is the air I breathe. I am driven to express. By my tongue, through my fingers, or with my pen. It is how I navigate, how I process.
I come from a tough, working-class neighborhood with precious few resources, and very limited information available about art or artists. As a kid, I learned very quickly that who I am and what I do is considered to be of little value. A waste of time.
When I was in my early teens I heard the term “gay* suicide” applied to the murder of a young man found, hands tied behind his back, ankles tied backward around his throat, who was left to strangle in a local park. He had been charmed to the spot, stripped of his clothes, and then slaughtered. There was no follow-up. There was no manhunt, no effort to find the killers. The incident was dismissed. Swept under the carpet. “He was gay*. He asked for it.” There was no room for “different” in my part of the world. No room for artists. To survive I would have to keep my head down, find my way out, and cobble a life together as best I could. At twenty-two, a chance meeting put a letter of introduction into my hand. Three months later, I moved to New York. I was one of the lucky ones. New York took me in, honed my skills, and gave me my voice. Not as a painter, but as a writer.
Over the years I have come to know so many of the disenfranchised. Gay people, people of color, immigrants. The physically challenged, emotionally challenged, mentally challenged. All of whom have been pushed to the sidelines. Many of whom found they could no longer stay, and were lost along the way. I remember them. And I mourn the loss of their company, and of the love and talent they brought to the table. We are far less rich without them.
The driving force behind my work is to find the others. To reach out to them, in the only way I know how, and tell them they are of irreplaceable value, let them know they are loved, and to shine a light for those who have dismissed them or given them no thought at all so they might see the treasure they are overlooking.
This is my job. It is my privilege. I will continue.
With love,
EJ Stapleton
*gay is not the word used. However, I refuse to use the original
I come from a tough, working-class neighborhood with precious few resources, and very limited information available about art or artists. As a kid, I learned very quickly that who I am and what I do is considered to be of little value. A waste of time.
When I was in my early teens I heard the term “gay* suicide” applied to the murder of a young man found, hands tied behind his back, ankles tied backward around his throat, who was left to strangle in a local park. He had been charmed to the spot, stripped of his clothes, and then slaughtered. There was no follow-up. There was no manhunt, no effort to find the killers. The incident was dismissed. Swept under the carpet. “He was gay*. He asked for it.” There was no room for “different” in my part of the world. No room for artists. To survive I would have to keep my head down, find my way out, and cobble a life together as best I could. At twenty-two, a chance meeting put a letter of introduction into my hand. Three months later, I moved to New York. I was one of the lucky ones. New York took me in, honed my skills, and gave me my voice. Not as a painter, but as a writer.
Over the years I have come to know so many of the disenfranchised. Gay people, people of color, immigrants. The physically challenged, emotionally challenged, mentally challenged. All of whom have been pushed to the sidelines. Many of whom found they could no longer stay, and were lost along the way. I remember them. And I mourn the loss of their company, and of the love and talent they brought to the table. We are far less rich without them.
The driving force behind my work is to find the others. To reach out to them, in the only way I know how, and tell them they are of irreplaceable value, let them know they are loved, and to shine a light for those who have dismissed them or given them no thought at all so they might see the treasure they are overlooking.
This is my job. It is my privilege. I will continue.
With love,
EJ Stapleton
*gay is not the word used. However, I refuse to use the original
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EJ Stapleton
Artistic Statement
From as far back as I can remember, I’ve been an artist. I have been drawing or painting from the time I could hold a crayon, pencil, or mislaid tube of lipstick (sorry, Mom). I have come to understand that as an artist, I am wired differently. I see the world, experience the world differently. There is no choice in the matter. It is in my DNA. I am compelled to do the work. I am compelled. For me, art is undeniable. It pulls me from my sleep, fills my daily thoughts. It is the air I breathe. I am driven to express. By my tongue, through my fingers, or with my pen. It is how I navigate, how I process.
I come from a tough, working-class neighborhood with precious few resources, and very limited information available about art or artists. As a kid, I learned very quickly that who I am and what I do is considered to be of little value. A waste of time.
When I was in my early teens I heard the term “gay* suicide” applied to the murder of a young man found, hands tied behind his back, ankles tied backward around his throat, who was left to strangle in a local park. He had been charmed to the spot, stripped of his clothes, and then slaughtered. There was no follow-up. There was no manhunt, no effort to find the killers. The incident was dismissed. Swept under the carpet. “He was gay*. He asked for it.” There was no room for “different” in my part of the world. No room for artists. To survive I would have to keep my head down, find my way out, and cobble a life together as best I could. At twenty-two, a chance meeting put a letter of introduction into my hand. Three months later, I moved to New York. I was one of the lucky ones. New York took me in, honed my skills, and gave me my voice. Not as a painter, but as a writer.
Over the years I have come to know so many of the disenfranchised. Gay people, people of color, immigrants. The physically challenged, emotionally challenged, mentally challenged. All of whom have been pushed to the sidelines. Many of whom found they could no longer stay, and were lost along the way. I remember them. And I mourn the loss of their company, and of the love and talent they brought to the table. We are far less rich without them.
The driving force behind my work is to find the others. To reach out to them, in the only way I know how, and tell them they are of irreplaceable value, let them know they are loved, and to shine a light for those who have dismissed them or given them no thought at all so they might see the treasure they are overlooking.
This is my job. It is my privilege. I will continue.
With love,
EJ Stapleton
*gay is not the word used. However, I refuse to use the original
I come from a tough, working-class neighborhood with precious few resources, and very limited information available about art or artists. As a kid, I learned very quickly that who I am and what I do is considered to be of little value. A waste of time.
When I was in my early teens I heard the term “gay* suicide” applied to the murder of a young man found, hands tied behind his back, ankles tied backward around his throat, who was left to strangle in a local park. He had been charmed to the spot, stripped of his clothes, and then slaughtered. There was no follow-up. There was no manhunt, no effort to find the killers. The incident was dismissed. Swept under the carpet. “He was gay*. He asked for it.” There was no room for “different” in my part of the world. No room for artists. To survive I would have to keep my head down, find my way out, and cobble a life together as best I could. At twenty-two, a chance meeting put a letter of introduction into my hand. Three months later, I moved to New York. I was one of the lucky ones. New York took me in, honed my skills, and gave me my voice. Not as a painter, but as a writer.
Over the years I have come to know so many of the disenfranchised. Gay people, people of color, immigrants. The physically challenged, emotionally challenged, mentally challenged. All of whom have been pushed to the sidelines. Many of whom found they could no longer stay, and were lost along the way. I remember them. And I mourn the loss of their company, and of the love and talent they brought to the table. We are far less rich without them.
The driving force behind my work is to find the others. To reach out to them, in the only way I know how, and tell them they are of irreplaceable value, let them know they are loved, and to shine a light for those who have dismissed them or given them no thought at all so they might see the treasure they are overlooking.
This is my job. It is my privilege. I will continue.
With love,
EJ Stapleton
*gay is not the word used. However, I refuse to use the original