Robert Williams & The Carouser's Ode To Sentimentality

 

Robert Williams was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, on March 2, 1943. His father was the owner of a local drive-in restaurant called The Parkmore, and so the young boy grew up immersed in the burgeoning car culture of the time, surrounded by hot rodders and their chopped-up roaring monster automobiles. His parents' tumultuous marriage finally ended (after their fourth reconciliation) in 1956, and at the tender age of twelve, young Robert Williams became... a delinquent. He fell in with a gang of local hoodlums and into a cycle of car customization, petty crime and general frowned-upon hi-jinx. A regular no-goodnik, he was even expelled from public school when he was sixteen. A few years later, ostensibly to avoid potential jail time for earlier misdeeds, Williams hit the road and made his way to sunny Los Angeles, California, where he enrolled in art classes at LA City College, even contributing the odd illustration to the school newspaper, and eventually met the young lady who would become the future Mrs. Robert Williams, Suzanne Choma. 

In 1965, Williams scored a veritable dream job when he joined Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's art studio. Now Ed Roth is a capital-C Character in and of himself and I could just write a series of articles about his gonzo life and times, but that's not his name up in the title, now is it? So instead I'll just ask you to learn a little more about the man himself and his work in the legendary "Kustom Kulture" that began in the 1950s and move on, because I'm trying to keep this article relatively simple. Williams even joined the underground comix movement of the era with his contributions to the infamous Zap Comix, joining other luminaries of the industry such as Robert Crumb, S. Clay Wilson and Spain Rodriguez. Rodriguez's seminal Trashman stories are personal favorites of mine. Around this time, Williams began painting what would become some of his most lauded works, including the infamous Appetite For Destruction. 

Not only did the band Guns N' Roses take the title of their juggernaut 1987 debut album from Williams's painting, they also used it for their album artwork, much to the chagrin of their record label, and Williams himself, who knew using his visceral imagery would make a lot of average folks very uncomfortable. In the final commercial release, Williams's artwork was relegated to the interior, with the also-iconic (but not quite as iconic) "cross and skulls" illustration gracing the exterior cover. 

Robert Williams published his first collection of paintings, The Lowbrow Art Of Robert Williams, in 1979, and it became an unqualified success. Williams's art shoved a bloody thumb into the eye of the so-called "respectable" art world by gleefully depicting sex, violence, monsters, robots, robot monsters, apocalyptic imagery, gleaming hot rods, and general scenes of debauchery and depravity, all lovingly rendered in vibrant oils on canvas, snapshots of unrestrained id unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. 

But I'm not here to talk about any of the paintings highlighted in The Lowbrow Art Of Robert Williams, and I also don't really want to talk about his beautiful custom car work, his gorgeous sculptures, his 2010 documentary Mr. Bitchin', or any of the other amazing things Williams has created during his long and varied career. I want to discuss one painting in particular, created by Williams in 1987, that might just be his single greatest creation: The Carouser's Ode To Sentimentality. 

Currently in the permanent collection of the Laguna Art Museum, the painting depicts an image of the bygone drive-in restaurant, forgotten and falling apart as an angelic carhop rests on a cloud, nude save for her immaculate white roller skates and paper cap, holding aloft a serving tray in her right hand, laden with a burger, fries, and perhaps the most delicious strawberry milkshake you'll ever taste. What does it all mean? Is this just an excuse for Williams to paint another naked woman? Hardly. This painting is an encapsulation of the man's youth, a yearning for what has been lost juxtaposed with a realistic view of the world, both as it was and as it is today. 

Williams grew up around his father's drive-in restaurant, and this is where he fell in love with hot rod culture. The place was alive with greasers, burnouts and all sorts of freaks every weekend, and Williams had a front row seat for this amazing sideshow. Who knew what kind of mad, chrome-plated creations would come roaring out of the darkness come Saturday night, each packed with rowdy teenagers who wanted to gorge themselves on greasy burgers and fries before they inevitably lit out for their next adventure? And the carhops were legends in these places, idealized figures for pubescent boys (and some girls) who would come gracefully gliding up to their cars in those ubiquitous roller skates, delivering the food of the gods under the welcoming neon glow of those giant, humming lights. These early days spent at The Parkmore changed Williams's life, setting him on a path that would see him become a figure of legend in his own time, a venerated demi-god of pop art and car culture royalty, to boot. 

But look closer. The wolfish caricature behind the wheel of that hot rod in the lower right is literally burning the candle at both ends, symbolizing the rough and tumble lifestyle of the old school hot rodder that often ended in a violent highway wreck. And speaking of highways, what's that tucked into the middle-left, in the near distance behind the dilapidated drive-in? A brand-new interstate, bustling with traffic that bypasses the derelict restaurant, as forgotten as the old road that lies in ruins before the crumbling edifice. Time and progress literally passing by the fading memories of the past, leaving it all behind without a thought. 

And what about the carhop herself? Gaze at the face of this idealized beauty and what do you see? Apathy. She wears the face of a woman who has been leered at and catcalled by more men than she would care to remember, a blank mask of civility that hides frustration and rage and fear. A level, thousand-yard stare in her cold eyes as she lies on this cloud, objectified, put on display for the male gaze. A fantasy, the angel of the drive-in restaurant ascended to her throne in the dreams of every horny boy who ever laid eyes upon her as she toiled day in and day out, made to deliver fast food to hundreds of customers each day while balanced perfectly on unforgiving roller skates for hours at a time. Often when her shift was over for the night, her feet were in so much pain when she finally unlaced those damned roller skates that she would just sit and cry quietly until she could regain her composure and make her way home with whatever meager tips she had collected from her customers. 

The fantasy of this idealized world breaks down entirely when you just take in the totality of The Carouser's Ode To Sentimentality. 

Robert Williams is being completely earnest with this painting. That fantasy still resides within the recesses of his own mind, and this fantasy shaped his entire existence. But he also understands the reality underneath that alluring façade, the reality he never saw in his youth. That reality is laid bare within this work, slowly unraveling the fantasy for the viewer as they gaze at this lowbrow tableaux. The inexorable march of time leaves us all behind eventually, and the vibrant drive-in restaurants of the 1950s and 60s are all gone now, along with Zap Comix and Big Daddy Roth. Williams has created something monumental with The Carouser's Ode To Sentimentality, a work that depicts the conflict within Williams himself as he thinks back on his cherished memories and realizes, as time keeps ticking by and sweeping away the last remnants of those memories in this world, that there was always darkness creeping in at the margins of those garishly lighted fantasies. Decrepitude and death juxtapose the beauty and nostalgia, making a powerful statement, indeed. It's a masterpiece, perhaps Robert Williams's greatest work, one that can tell you just about everything you may want to learn about the man himself by just gazing at its beautifully rendered subjects. 

Williams is still alive today, still making art on his own terms, and still married to Suzanne, living somewhere in the San Fernando Valley. Take a closer look at some of his lurid, lowbrow art sometime, and you might see hot blood pumping in the veins underneath that canvas, you might hear the staccato rhythm of the heart of a frenzied artist with something big on his mind, and you might just smell gasoline and burning rubber in the air.

Blessed be, Grand Mistress Mika