JAMES HAYWARD RIDES FOREVER
I idolized him. I met James Hayward when I was still in diapers. He was a God. And like everyone who I love, he had a sense of humor. Not only was his laugh wholly memorable and distinctive, his words were pearls.
I was going to compare him to a standup comedian, but realized he actually was one. Every decent opening in town had a gaggle of fascinated people standing around and leaning in to hear what a tall guy in a cowboy hat was saying.
You got the vibe of a campfire. Of great orators of yore. The adventurer who stands on a candlelit stage and shares the dangers and follies of his travels for the price of a ticket. Hayward was that good.
As a matter of fact, Hayward was at every good opening in town. He had a well-educated eye. His presence was a sign of approval. Now that I think about it, he supported the team and went show-hopping with frequency. Hauling ass all over LA, is no mean feat. Commuting from his horse farm in Moorpark, in Ventura County, fifty miles north of LA.
It just so happens, we feature an insightful memoir piece from Jimmy, which also happens to contain some very fine tips on jail cell etiquette and custom. As we are a family arts publication, it would be bad manners if I told you the title of the essay, but I will send you a link. Just click here. It's epic. A must read.
In today's Sunday Lounge!, we feature a memorial from our friends at Artnews with a spot-on headline, "James Hayward, West Coast Painter with a Cult Following, Dies at 82."
Art Report Today .com
