Johnny Bench and Paradigms...

In the opinion of many, art serves as a direct visceral connection between sender and receiver leaving both parties moved and effected by the transaction. I paint individuals who have effected me in some way or other throughout my lifetime, with whom have shared, either directly or indirectly, that same "visceral connection."


So I paint them.


I strive hard to recreate a sampling of that connectivity felt between artist and subject, and hopefully allow a separate yet equal experience between my extraordinary viewers and my equally enthralling subjects.


I was 12 years old and watching color TV for the first time in my Grandfathers living room, during the 1972 National League Championship Series when Johnny Bench first came to bat against the Pirates. The red of his helmet blared off the screen against the greenest shade of anything green, let alone actual grass, that my 12 year old had ever witnessed. His tan, focused face seemed oblivious to the camera through which I, and a zillion other 12 year old boys, were watching. His hand shook his helmet into place as he swung the bat single handedly, not unlike a certain man in a black mask I also worshipped had done earlier that afternoon. Johnny Bench taught me, in the next swing, the music of ball versus bat; the sound was almost deafening as he belted the leather bound sphere into the seats in deep left. Not just a home run, it was THE home run. He also taught me that afternoon, in living color, that art lasts forever.
 Because I can still hear that sound.

Sorry Seattle...

Okay, so here’s my problem with Seattle Seahawks fans: they just don’t get it.

I moved to Seattle in 2006 to be closer to family and to attend Seattle Pacific University where I received my Masters degree in education. In the three years that I lived in Seattle I was able to witness socio-geographic differences in the behavior of Seattleites unlike any I had ever seen in any other place I had ever lived. Seattleites are proud of their anonymity in so many ways; it shows in the landscape of the city and its surrounding villages. Looking from the freeways that dissect Seattle, one can only see the occasional rooftop through the blanket of vegetation that can be found only in the Pacific Northwest, hiding the truth of the situation which is that there are hundreds of thousands of human beings existing below the treetops in some sort of chaotic vegetative floor where sunshine is rare and opinions remain closer to the surface through some sort of social inversion based in alienation. Until rush hour. It’s like people in Seattle are happy to be isolated from the rest of mainstream America and, although they’ll scoff at references to “being part of South Alaska,” they also take a certain pride in the culture and subculture that they have created for their isolationist selves.

Which brings me to how Seattle sports fans are inherently different than the rest of the world:

Upon my arrival in 2006, a family member immediately offered me season tickets to the Seahawks and I halfheartedly agreed to attend an entire season of home games, seated in the north end zone bleacher section of CenturyLink Field, which is affectionately known as “The HawksNest.” The infidelity I felt, being a Bronco fan in the midst of the enemy, was unbearable and created the basis of a rift between said family member and I which carries on to this day, so I sold the remainder of my season ticket, found a local sports bar, and gratefully watched my Broncos each Sunday through the magic of DirecTV. But while I was there, amongst the 12^th Man in all its glory, I noticed an unmistakable focus erroneously being placed upon the fans themselves rather than the players that they were there to watch. An infestation of almost narcissistic and attention grabbing behavior was so much more prevalent at the then Qwest Field than in any other stadium I had ever attended in my lifetime, and I quickly became aware that they had even named it: 

"The 12^th Man.”  

The “12^th Man” has become the moniker of the Seattle fan base and, although not original in intent nor inception (see Texas A&M University for more info), it has grown in size and popularity so much so that it rivals Pittsburgh’s “Terrible Towel,” Anaheim’s “Rally Monkey” and even the “Duke Crazies” in scope and passion; however, I question it’s very intent. Why is so much focus being placed upon the fans of a sporting event rather than the players participating in that event? Why is Seattle the only city in America participating in this erroneous placement of attention? Who cares about the 12^th man? I’ll tell you: no one outside of the Pacific Northwest. We love our Broncos here in Denver, just like they love their Lions in Detroit and just like they love their Dolphins in Miami, but nowhere have I seen the kind of self-centered, fan-created, egotistical behavior like that of the so-called “12^th Man.” I’m happy that you support your team, good for you. We all support our team to depths that, frankly, surprise and scare me at times. Just like you. Except, we choose to focus our attention upon actually supporting our team, rather than pointing out how much were supporting our team. Like you do.

The facts are pretty clear when one looks at your "professional" sports history, aren't they?  How's those Mariners playing? Ya say ya got a soccer "club"? And I probably shouldn't mention Kevin Durant's zip code, should I?  So, stop claiming to be such an extraordinary fan base. Would ya? The last time I checked there's only ELEVEN men on the field at any given time.  Quit making yourselves out to be more than you and I, and the rest of the nation, know is true.  You're a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to root there.

By the way, I chose to move back to Denver away from Seattle and I’ve never been happier in my life. But enough about me: GO BRONCOS!

"I'll be your groupie, if you'll be mine."

Me & John Elway Canton, Ohio 2004

I am such a huge groupie. I have loved that moment of meeting someone famous or infamous for most of my life.   Some people call me insecure. They say that I’m not happy with who I am and so I have to connect myself with people who I will never be. I think that’s sad. I just like to meet famous people; people who’ve accomplished extraordinary things in a very difficult life. I realize how hard it is just to survive in this world, let alone achieve and prosper. When I meet someone who has excelled in whatever realm that they exist in, I can’t help but be impressed and want to share a moment with them to express my respect for what they have accomplished. That’s why I love to paint athletes and celebrities and political figures and great moments in history: they are a reflection of the excellence that I have witnessed in my lifetime.

"Red 98" by Rick Long ©2013

Painting, for me, has become somewhat of a rush unlike any other that I have experienced in my half a century alive. I learned at an early age that I had a skill in something that a vast majority of people were afraid of: public speaking. Speaking in front of strangers taught me to be motivated by the fact that I had to create an environment for both me and my audience where we could communicate bilaterally through one form and/or another, and where we would all benefit simultaneously from the interaction. It was my responsibility then as a speaker, and now as an artist, to create a sensory “bubble” around both my art and my audience were outside influences were minimized in order to heighten the connection to what was being communicated inside that “bubble.” My experiences for a decade as a professional actor on stage only fortified my belief in the necessity of that environment. Whenever the case was that the bubble had been burst, by fault of either the artist or the audience, the message which was intended to reach that audience was the first thing to disappear.

I hope that my painting show an intended connection between not only my audience, but also the audience of those whom I have painted. When I sit down with an empty piece of watercolor paper I really hope to strengthen the connection which my subject is already established between them and their audiences.  I am hoping to celebrate that connection through my work and I hope you enjoy it.

Visit me at www.richardjaylong.com

Buy my work at: https://www.etsy.com/shop/RJLDesignz

Inaugural BLOG: Charley and I come full circle.

People ask me why I love this game with the passion I do and it’s because of days like today. Because not only are these men professional athletes, they are real humans as well, with insights and perspectives unknown to the rest of us. Here is just one of many many stories I have in my cranium after spending the day at the course with my childhood heroes.
So my day began at five o’clock in the morning When I packed the car and drove across town to a beautiful country club called The Ranch, where the tournament was going to be held. I had gathered up the funds to attend this tournament by parlaying an old home theater system into a pair of Dr. Dre Beats which I had Demaryius Thomas autograph and then sold them to a good friend of mine for the $200 which was the cost of my ticket into the tournament. I knew that my pal Becky McKernan was going to be volunteering at the tournament and I immediately heard her laughing when I turned the corner into the courtyard. I walked around watching the players mingling with the golfers until eight o’clock when the shotgun start for the tournament began. I decided to walk from the clubhouse to the tee box at the seventh hole where Becky was keeping records for a closest to the pin contest; a longer walk than I had anticipated. I heard a golf cart rumble up behind me and a man with a southern drawl yell, “you need a lift?” I turned around and looked at it was Charley Johnson, Broncos Ring of Fame member and longtime star of the team when I was a young child.
He looked older and more frail than I would’ve liked but my memory served me well as I sat next to my childhood idol and we rambled down the cart path until we came to a crowded area and had to pause while a number of golfers hit their first shots off the tee. I decided that I would share a story with Mr. Johnson about my mother and how, when I was younger, she would often come home from work and proudly announce that she had met one of several celebrities or athletes during her day. I told her of the day she said that she had met him, the great Charley Johnson, and of how exciting it was for her to shake hands with someone like him. She then extended her hand to me and said, “Shake the hand that shook the hand of Charley Johnson.” I told him that I could almost feel his DNA in her handshake and I had never seen my Mom look so proud. Sitting in that golf cart, I knew I had the opportunity to finally tell him what had happened, truthfully and honestly and I was so happy to have the chance to share my story. Finally, we arrived at the tee of the hole in which he was scheduled to drive and I said my thank you’s for the lift and the chat and he said, “Well, let me shake your hand this time.” And he did, and I know it sounds corny, but I felt a strange sort of triad around me as I gripped that hand that had thrown all those touchdowns and I thought about my mom who had passed away 11 years ago and who would’ve given anything to be standing where I was at that moment, when he smiled that football card smile that I recognized immediately and said, “You say hi to your Mom from me too, huh?”
And as he more hobbled than walked away, I did just that. He is, after all, the quarterback..
But then again it’s just football.