Steven Rhude - Paintings/Drawings

                                                Boudreau's Shed, Isle Madame, graphite on paper, 18' x 24", Steven Rhude   “Phillip was sort of a strange genius, because he figured out exactly where the holes were in the system, and he used them. He didn't 'fall between the cracks.' He lived in the cracks.” ―  Silver Donald Cameron,  Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes  

                                                  Leaving Long Island, oil on masonite, 23" x 32", Steven Rhude  The road has mixed feelings for you. One being the love of a place you leave behind, the other being the love of place you imagine. The difference to you is self evident. This is the in between world of the picture making process. You wake, you drive, you imagine, you dream, and then you try to etch the experience in your mind. You press on. Two ferry's out are waiting for you to return. Your reconnaissance is nearly over, but it's hard to let go of it. You have some notes, a few drawings and numerous photographs. You will wait a few months, then recollect the place in oil paint on a substrate surface. But it is not the place you recall as reality challenges your perceptions. You dislike a shed colour so you change it. A type of aluminum siding is discordant, so you remove it. The picture takes on a life of its own outside the slavish document of a brief in

                                                 Two Houses, oil on panel, private collection, Steven Rhude   “I think of Acadian cussing as a form of bilingual folk poetry. I take a powerless battery from my boat to the local garage, and Claude Poirier shakes his head sadly as he announces his diagnosis: 'C'est tout fucké, ça.' 'He's so goddamn cute!' says an Acadian grandmother adoringly, cradling her baby grandson. 'I could just squeeze the fuckin' shit right outta him.' Perhaps my favourite line of all is a disgusted Acadian's declaration that 'That fuckin' t'ing is fuckin' well fucked.” ―  Silver Donald Cameron,  Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes

                                              Woman, Arno River, Florence, Italy, graphite, 5" x 12", Steven Rhude He remembers the winter wind tunnel of Toronto's University and Dundas intersection. Weather there never made falling in love easy. One had to time the insensitive blustery gusts to take in a facial expression,  or just to touch -  on a chilly December day. This was at a time when the clock had several hours left till midnight - while on the way to make a gallery bank deposit at one of the big six ... he still can't recall which one, but he can see the sidewalk slush and her red scarf. Wasn't there a Chinese art supplier somewhere along the way?  For some reason it remains in his mind. He met her forty years ago on December 13th. Back then, they would fall in love, get married, and go to Florence, Italy for their honeymoon. He quit his job in Toronto to do it, and she didn't care -she liked that.  One night at dusk they were on a bridge over the A

                                                  Water Woman, graphite on brown paper, 10" x 13", Steven Rhude When Simone and I lived in Fox Island, water came with baggage. The day we took possession and turned on the kitchen tap... mud came out. Our water came from a twelve foot dug well and was often silted with flooding. Foot valves were constantly being replaced by me as I climbed down into a watery grave of darkness - on one occasion to find out later the replacement valve was indeed faulty and had to be replaced too. The ocean frequently breached the beach into our yard and salt water infected the precious source of our survival - and so needed to be pumped clean - another decent into the pit of darkness. Frost and ice frequently shifted the crocks that lined the well, and in the spring I often found floating, dead voles and other vermin. In the summer guests ran the well dry with showers they thought should be consistent with their urban experience of the eternal sp