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"I've found it interesting to trace how the chapters of my life have knitted themselves into my art." —Jerry Pinkney In its purest sense, the act of artistic creation is a bit like looking at oneself in the mirror and leaving one's reflection behind. All that an artist is, all that he believes, and the many things that he has witnessed in his time, become one with his art. I’m pleased to announce that my recent retrospective, Witness: The Art of Jerry Pinkney, will begin traveling nationally in January 2012. Organized and first exhibited by the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, this collection of more than 160 original works looks back at my fifty-year journey as an artist, from graphic designer to narrative picturemaker, spanning my professional career. Though my art has evolved through the years, some important things have remained the same. First created for the covers and pages of periodicals, postage stamps, greeting cards, product advertisements, and well-traveled historic sites, the images in the exhibition celebrate life’s small but extraordinary moments, the wonders of classic literature, and the wisdom of those who have gone before us―themes that have been at the heart of my work for more than five decades. I hope that you’ll stop in to see Witness: The Art of Jerry Pinkney at one of six fine museums that will be hosting the exhibition during the next two years. The Old African, John Henry, Black Cowboys/Wild Horses, Uncle Remus: The Complete Tales, The Lion and The Mouse, The Sweethearts of Rhythm, The Little Match Girl and other books, and historical commissions for the African Burial Ground Interpretive Center, National Parks Service, and the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center, are just some of the things that will be on view. I look forward to your feedback and observations, and I appreciate your interest in my art.
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There is a story that was told by my mother of when at a very early age I was often found tucked in a corner beneath the keyboard of our upright piano, making pictures. My sisters all state, "There was something different about Jerry." From as far back as I can remember there has been this overwhelming need to draw. There was no artist in my family, among our friends, nor in our neighborhood that I was aware of. I didn't meet a professional artist until my twelfth year. It was at that time that the idea of practicing art saw the light of day and gained traction. Now at the age of seventy after fifty years of making images, it is a curious matter to trace those introductory steps that led to my being open, thirsty, and equipped to take on this novel notion. I grew up in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Our home was a small two story red brick row house on a dead end street. Residing at 51 East Earlham was my mother, Willie Mae, my father, James H., three sisters and two brothers. I was their youngest son and middle child. We all shared five rooms with a single bath which was without a sink.
My mother's reading chair was alongside our living room window, one of the few that let sunlight in. There on a table beside it, my mother grew tall houseplants. As a young boy I was fascinated by her small patch of a flower garden. It was an oasis in our urban setting. Those plants and their blossoms with sunlight filtering through became the inspiration and subject of an early painting in art school. My father was a fiercely independent man who relished his job selling produce in a local grocery store. However, after some time, he left steady employment to become his own boss. His work time was in radio and television repair, electrical work, plumbing, house painting, lawn care, and refinishing furniture. Dad would attempt to fix or paint anything. At one time, he had some leftover pink paint, and used it on our piano.
Both of my parents encouraged my interests and exploits. To this day I am not sure where or why this support was given. Neither parent went further than elementary school. They showed little curiosity about the visual arts. Our family never visited an art museum or gallery. I wonder if supporting my interests was simply a way of my parents feeding me with something they saw as a positive thing for me to do in my spare time. With family and friends having migrated from the South, it is perhaps no surprise that I became well acquainted with the oral tradition of storytelling. The stories that I so fondly remember, like John Henry and The Tales of Uncle Remus, were told to me as a boy.
I attended an all Black elementary school. After school and during the summer months, the children of Earlham Street had more than enough time to fill. It was not only where I lived, but where I played. There were no boys clubs or swimming pools available. Once you left our block the surrounding families were Italian and Jewish. There was little socializing in my growing up years, though I did on occasion play with the children of my father's wealthy clients. The families of color on Earlham Street became my world. With an irresistible urge to make things, I spent hours at a time in my room drawing or out on the block with friends. It was a creative time. We invented games, whittled things out of wood, and built club houses out of found materials. Then there were those special days when we ventured to the local movie house. Captivated by cowboy movies, me and my buddies would attempt those narratives when we returned home by fashioning costumes out of things we made or purchased at the five-and-dime store. Earlham Street became our wild west. We explored the new frontier, founded up cattle, and put bad guys in jail. We took turns being Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and Daniel Boone. I even carved a bowie knife modeled after the one Jim Bowie wore on his side at the Alamo. In later life, I learned that one out of every three cowboys was either Black of Mexican, and that people of color were also a part of the exploration of the west. There were Black stagecoach drivers, sheriffs, mail carriers, and saloon proprietors.
Everybody in our tiny house had to stake claim to private space. My mother had her reading chair with its island of plants, and my father had his basement workshop. I'm not certain how my brothers and sisters found their personal spaces, but for me it was my small sketchbook.
John Liney (1912-1982), the Philadelphia cartoonist of who drew the syndicated comic strip Henry for forty-four years, bought his newspaper from me daily. One day he took note of my sketching. He asked if I might share my drawings with him. I don't recall if he critiqued my work. However, Mr. Liney did extend an invitation for a visit to his nearby studio. My time with this generous person, and witnessing his creative process, is where I found my must…art.
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