Marvin Gates

In jail, I was offered the job of painting a mural.  I overcame my desire, for evermore artistic exposure, and declined it.  I was exposed enough, already.  At night, between the guards’ rounds, I drew with scavenged felt tip pens, and mailed the next day, to my brother, that night’s work.  I grew up in jail: it gave me the structure my parents neglected to provide.  I was a f’d-up kid.  And, when I left, in 1988, I wasn’t a kid, anymore.

In prison, without the ability to do so, I realized how important it is to do what you absolutely want.  I wanted to make art.  I studied optics, in prison, and worked in an optical lab that made Rx glasses for federal prisoners.  Upon my release on parole, I moved to Washington DC, found employment as an optician, put myself through college, and, while taking as many studio classes as possible, received a B.A., begun at Yale, in art history.  Also, during my four years, in DC, I painted every day.

In September 1992, I was released from parole, in DC, moved to NYC, and began my five years of probation.  While finding a place in New York, I recall on the drive into the city, looking at the skyline, from the New Jersey Turnpike, and whispering “home.”  I rented a studio in Brooklyn and, six months later, moved to one on West 14 Street, in Manhattan.  I worked part-time as an optician and the rest of my time in my studio.

Wanting the education, I applied to graduate programs and was accepted, at Boston University.  I moved to Boston, where I remained for four years.  After receiving the degree, in 1996, I taught at Brandeis and B.U.  In 1998, I applied for and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship.  With it, on a remote leased property, in Maine, I built an insulated, 10 x 12 foot studio, with a window and sliding glass door.  I chose the property after making, over the course of several years, dozens of paintings there.  In that studio, I painted for a year.

I hung canvases on three sides of that little studio’s walls, looked out the sliding glass door and painted.  My palette table was beneath the window.  I had two ideas.  The first one was to paint snow.  And, the second was to see what effect the solitude might have on my work.  As for the snow, there was precious little of it.  A storm came: it snowed, moved on, stalled at sea, reversed course and, defying the odds, returned.  The solitude was in abundance.  I finished my probation.

Prior to that, my travel had been restricted.  Outside of a certain radius and without authorization, I could not travel.  Therefore, I used some of the award to finance a very brief trip to London to see my friend, Peter de Francia.   I met him in New York in 1992, while a student of his, for a week, at The New York Studio School.  Since, we had maintained a correspondence.  Back in ’92, I had driven him to my studio, in Brooklyn; he had asked me to come to London; I had mentioned that I was unable to, as I was on probation; and he had replied, “All the best people are.”