After Helm left Pratt Institute in 1978, he eventually settled in Kentucky, where he established his first professional studio. During this period, he began developing an artistic style strongly influenced by his admiration for Vincent van Gogh. Within two years, Helm had created a body of work that led to his first one-person exhibition at the Owensboro Museum of Fine Art in 1980. The following is a selection of works representative of this early period. Although the quality of some of the images is less than ideal, the photographs presented here are digital reproductions made from the original Kodachrome slides.
Landscapes in Plein Air
It was during my freshman year of college that I decided I wanted to be an artist, and once I made that decision, I was all in. I consumed as much information as I could and began creating a body of work that has now extended over fifty years.
I learned a great deal about art and art history and became particularly absorbed in the work of Vincent van Gogh. I made many copies of his paintings and drawings, and for a time, became utterly consumed by his work. By the time I reached graduate school in New York City, however, I began to set that influence aside and explore different directions. I concentrated primarily on learning to draw the human figure, developing my understanding of color, and working with intaglio printmaking.
The work in the upper left is The Thalo Forest, approximately 30 × 40 inches, painted on location directly in front of a stand of tall trees near the president’s home at Kentucky Wesleyan College. During this period, I began painting landscapes en plein air. These paintings were normally smaller in scale and were painted directly in front of the subject, always in oils and usually completed in one or two sessions.
The paintings shown above include The Thalo Forest — Kentucky, Entering Green County — Indiana, Portage Point — Michigan, and By the River — Indiana.
Ribbons of color not impasto
What I enjoyed most about Vincent van Gogh’s work was the movement. I liked the thick paint too, but that wasn’t for me, at least not at the time. I didn’t realize it then, but what I was searching for was something closer to the Japanese quality of line.
I would mix my paint to a very creamy consistency on the palette and apply it with the point of a sable watercolor brush. Rather than building up the surface with impasto, I created ribbons of color—an almost searching movement of line that brought to life something of what I was feeling when I looked at the landscape.
At the time, I was working full-time in my studio and was fortunate enough to be selling my work for good prices. This allowed me to produce a very large body of work within a relatively short period. Today, I have only two paintings remaining from this series.
The painting above, The Daviess County Field, is particularly representative of the style. Painted on location in Daviess County, Kentucky, in 1979, it shows the development of this restless approach to landscape, with the field and storm clouds seemingly moving through the air.
The Daviess County Field, 1979
Oil on canvas, 22 × 28 inches
Painting what's there not what you see
I learned early on that I wasn’t a copier of nature. I learned how to copy what I saw, both from life and from photographs, but for me that was too painful. That wasn’t what my artwork was about. I was out in nature living it, and that was how I was going to paint it. Sure, I looked at what was in front of me, but I was doing a lot more than simply looking.
The painting above, Forest with Ferns, is a good example. I spent most of the day working on it in my parents’ forest in northern Michigan, one of my favorite places to paint.
When I returned from the woods, one of my father’s business associates commented on the painting. He liked it, but pointed out that I had forgotten to put the bark on the tree. He was right. There was no bark.
At the time, I found his comment upsetting, although I couldn’t really explain why. I still can’t today. I hadn’t forgotten the bark. That was simply how the painting turned out.
This is the second painting from the series that remains in my collection.
Forest with Ferns
Oil on canvas, 24 × 30 inches
Manistee, Michigan
The Marlin
I was living to make art, and when I wasn’t away on some painting trip, I was in my studio. It didn’t take me long to learn that if you draw enough from life, eventually you can begin making things up in your head. And I did that too.
It was Hokusai, along with my ribbons of color, that led me to the wave series. Of everything I did during those few years, the wave series became something of a hallmark of my approach. It wasn’t really the waves themselves that interested me, but the movement of water—the possibility of something moving without ending.
I was only 24 years old, and I decided I needed to make a masterpiece. And, of course, it had to be big. So I stretched the largest canvas I possibly could and began The Marlin.
Like all of my paintings that came from my imagination, it had to begin with drawings. I carefully worked out the composition and then began to paint. It took me two years and three different studios to finish.
There is something wonderful about painting big—bigger than yourself. It naturally seems important. More importantly, I began learning to paint with my arm instead of my hand.
Unfortunately, The Marlin has disappeared, and I have no idea where it is today.
The Marlin
Oil on canvas, 48 × 96 inches
Owensboro, Kentucky
Two different waves
The painting at the upper left is The Wave Superior. This was perhaps the biggest breakthrough of the series. The painting was still wet when David carried it down the stairs of my studio. He recognized what I was doing with my art and became my first patron.
David Gorrell was a successful jeweler in Kentucky. He not only took a liking to my work, he began buying it regularly and inspired others to do the same.
Paintings are not art without patrons. And patronage does not necessarily mean purchasing a work of art. Patrons are those who seek out art—not necessarily to own it, but to experience it. Art is, after all, one of our oldest forms of communication. The cave painters of Lascaux are still communicating with us today.
Which leads me to the second painting, Lamb Chop Wave.
No plan. No preliminary drawing. No ribbons of color. Just a large canvas, big brushes, and heavy loads of paint. Compared with The Wave Superior, it was chaos. And it became my way out of the series. A good friend encouraged me to simply let loose, and once again I found a new freedom and a new approach.
If you look through the other work on The Studio Arts, you might sometimes wonder whether it was all made by the same hand. I’m a bit of a chameleon. I tend to take an idea to a point of enormous intensity, until I find something different and move on.
And just like the waves, my art continues to move—to reform, change, and take on different shapes and forms.
The Wave Superior
Oil on canvas, 36 × 48 inches
Owensboro, Kentucky
Private collection
Lamb Chop Wave
Oil on canvas, 48 × 60 inches
Owensboro, Kentucky
