Sometimes painting isn’t painting at all. Sometimes painting is just, Where’d I put that blue? Do I have that blue? I swear I put it here. Do I need it now? I think I need it now…
Who’s this GAT fellow?
Here’s the shortest version: my name is Gregory Alan Turner (GAT). I paint, draw, write, live and work. I’m from Gainesville, FL and live in Gainesville, FL, though I have lived and travelled elsewhere. Because my god, why wouldn’t you?
I can be verbose.
Longer version: Gregory Alan Turner (GAT) is an artist, writer and filmmaker who lives and works in Gainesville, FL. A rouser of rabble, raconteur, good person to have around, he’s kind to kids and pets, and flowers bloom in his footsteps. He hates, hates, hates writing about himself. Throughout his teen years he was consistently described by peers as “weird but cool” in year-end yearbook scrawls. Some might say that assessment still holds true. He has been a non-professional skateboarder since 1978.
What’s his (art) deal?
At my core, I’m a story teller. My artworks reflect this core need through their existence as narrative moments—art as time-sliver in an ongoing narrative—and within the broader story of my life, American narratives, and even art itself.
Here are some things I believe:
The thing should look like the thing. Paintings should look like paintings, drawings should look like drawings, cake should look like cake. We are long past spectacle. But I’m also not here to yuck your yum. You dig ballpoint illustrations that look like black and white photographs? Great. Get giddy on Instagram videos of someone tearing into a gravy boat only to reveal it’s angel food? Outstanding. I’m here making paintings and illustrations that look like paintings and illustrations. I celebrate mediums (of size, psychic ability and material components), and don’t want any tomfoolery or unnecessary trickery. You look at a GAT and think, “Oh! Painting!” And all is right with the world.
The work is in the work. Tom Sachs famously (?) said, “I can never make anything as perfect as an iPhone, but Apple can never make anything as fucked up as my sculptures.” The comment resonated with me then, and resonates even more so now. As AI generated art becomes more and more accessible and more and more pervasive, the human hand becomes more precious in all its curiosity, excitement and failed attempts. Every false start, every version, all pencil marks, stray paint splatter—all of it. It’s all evident in my paintings because I am a human telling a story to another human. And I want you to know it.
The work is visually arresting. Part of me can’t help it. I grew up loving comic books, skateboard graphics, advertising and Japanese animation. I like shit that looks cool. And what good is a story if it can be ignored? I use bold colors and big shapes to grab the “reader’s” attention. They are my good opening sentence. The themes and subjects (the paragraphs, so to speak) then have time to do their magic. Or not. If someone sees my work and does the Obama “not bad” meme face and moves on? That’s a win for me. I get to say, “Made ya look!”
Simple doesn’t mean simplistic.
so, Just another white guy copying Basquiat?
Maybe (probably) true? Definitely influenced. And hopefully stealing. Having come of age in the 80’s and early 90’s it’s almost a given. He’s not the only one, though. We also have:
Craig Stecyk
Vernon Courtland Johnson
Roy Lichtenstein
Jack Kirby
Jim Phillips
Frank Miller
Andy Warhol
Keith Haring
Barbara Kruger
Jenny Holzer
Zines and Fliers
Ray Gun Magazine
Renee Magritte (everyone’s favorite surrealist. You think it’s Dali, but you’re wrong)
James Earle Fraser
Tom Sachs
Pablo Picasso (was never called an asshole)
Marcel Duchamp
Plus a whole slew of people whose work impacted me in some way both consciously and unconsciously and whose names I’ve sadly forgotten or never even knew in the first place.
Where’s the part where you talk about interiority and shit?
You’re sure you need it? Yeah? Ok, fine:
My work, steeped in a distinctly American lineage of pop art, advertising, graphic design and commerce, examines personal narrative through iconic images and bold color. The work invites with a vibrant immediacy and involves the viewer in an ongoing dialogue: the push and pull of Americana and mythos. The examination of shared stories, history, personal narrative. Each captured moment unfurls time, backwards and forwards. “How did we get here?” “What comes next?” The work asks what it means to be a part of something. Compels us to be aware of our stories: the ones we tell others, the ones we tell ourselves. Examination and speculation. History and future. Truth and fiction. A frozen moment spinning eternities.
But here is a secret: Sometimes I make things just to be pretty. And who doesn’t like pretty things?