About The Artist
Thomas St Thomas includes the process of life within every aspect of his work. Whether painting, landscaping, designing homes, furniture or fixtures, writing, travelling, surfing, motorcycling or creating cannabis infused beverages; the collective conscious is his playground.
Growing up in Southern California in the 1970's, he was a professional skateboarder and surfer in his youth, where a strong allegiance of subculture was born. One of ten children in his home, he was given his first painting studio at 16 by Arthur Ruddy, (a lighting engineer and architect for The 1940 New York World's Fair).
Throughout his life Thomas has nurtured a love of surrounding and nature that reveals itself in the beach-culture landscapes prevelant in his work; ocean horizons, sunsets, birds and heart trees compliment the easily curated self portraits amidst dreamlike tapestries of colored works on paper and canvases. One can also immediately interpret his affection for Pop Art and synicism in the candy colored glass sculptures that re-emphasize the playfulness, if not impish workings of a clever mind. These latest works are a reminiscence of the joys of "California dreaming" at a time when both surfing and skateboarding were considered a reckless, illegal nuisance; they celebrate society's reclamation of an entire generation's local culture that has now become a global, Olympic sport.
Video
In the studio
Written Word
Why I hate Phoenix
Why I hate Phoenix
Why I hate Phoenix
The heat
Repeat
The boring ass bars
with out a living soul, whom trolls
the lonely ass halls removing the grubby, sticky ass do not disturb signs.
In Phoenix the only thing rising is the heat; drunkass god fuck Mercury in May. Populated proper, formal attire Botoxed boulevards scuttling.
Air conditioned cadavers .The parking lot known as
The heat
Repeat
The boring ass bars
with out a living soul, whom trolls
the lonely ass halls removing the grubby, sticky ass do not disturb signs.
In Phoenix the only thing rising is the heat; drunkass god fuck Mercury in May. Populated proper, formal attire Botoxed boulevards scuttling.
Air conditioned cadavers .The parking lot known as Phoenix.
The pit stop, rest stop between there and no where.
The arid nest of snowbirds whom know of flight not.
Coiffed and encovened, salon bound blondes encrypted within Twitter, twat’n on about the beloved podiums of mediocrity.
Somewhere on the mesa out of town unhindered by the crimson canyons ...somewhere out there obscured by a mirage. Lies a crater repudiated to vault one to heaven. Those of us in this valley, the dander of the Phoenix will hesitate to rise to that occasion. We just want to get to fucking L.A. Thomas St Thomas
Drinking Alone
Why I hate Phoenix
Why I hate Phoenix
Drinking alone
In a double tree
In the desert
In mid-May
At happy hour
With twenty seven tv screens
Wall mounted
All with the sound down
Each one a different channel
Displayed as a prototype
For DJ Trumps new wall
The bartender huddled under the bar
Playing candy crush
Slowly yet frequently
Patrons position themselves
Drinking alone
In a double tree
In the desert
In mid-May
At happy hour
With twenty seven tv screens
Wall mounted
All with the sound down
Each one a different channel
Displayed as a prototype
For DJ Trumps new wall
The bartender huddled under the bar
Playing candy crush
Slowly yet frequently
Patrons position themselves
Every one on a cell phone
Silently.
They sit
They drink
They stare at their hand
Screen dreamers
Searching for lost dreams
Within hand held screens
Some find love
Some find hate
Others file their taxes
Myself, I do the same
Writing with my thumb
Staring at my screen
Shuffling my thoughts
Updating my dreams
Digitally deconstructing
Anything or anyone
Cause I have nothing else to do.
Thomas St Thomas
New Mexico
Why I hate Phoenix
New Mexico
Doesn’t make any difference.
Where you go in New Mexico...cause there you are: Upon a windy mesa or in a timeless plaza. Inertia,as in existential, always by your side. A Cosmic Kemosabe.
Formless, weightless...not so....as an overloaded bag at check in, no amount of discarding yields unto....
Some blame the altitude, the manana attitud
Doesn’t make any difference.
Where you go in New Mexico...cause there you are: Upon a windy mesa or in a timeless plaza. Inertia,as in existential, always by your side. A Cosmic Kemosabe.
Formless, weightless...not so....as an overloaded bag at check in, no amount of discarding yields unto....
Some blame the altitude, the manana attitude....or the Californians . Regardless,there you are. Like blondie on a mule in a mirage, so thirsty. In New Mex we are all living our own private spaghetti western. “Nice hat....too bad about the head full of noodles"
Red, green, Christmas? Doesn’t make any difference either burning sensation momentarily. Thaws the mind, not unlike a rogue iceburg calved free to melt elsewhere only to be obliterated by the titanic sense of nothingness. Constant as tinnitus, the wailing toil of a restless siren, broncs bareback within the center of the cerebral corral. Sadistic muses like rodeo clowns distract and redirect oneself to the Reality of life, the snorting confused tortured bull, pursuing the last curtain call. If you are a newbie to this land of ancients, be warned. This land of enchantment will pummel you into mentorship; by observing the space between the chants you will find yourself. Alone.
Thomas St Thomas
Thoughts on life
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