Rick Laclaire

The sculptural arts have always confounded me. I can see how Rembrandt spattered black here to bring out a wash of white light there, or how Van Gogh rendered breezes with thick, sweeping brushstrokes, but damned if I can figure out how Bernini, for instance, turned a solid piece of marble into an angel piercing the heart of a swooning St. Theresa. And how Brancusi or Moore carved smooth, lifelike curves out of such harsh, unforgiving angles is beyond me. Hell, I’m even amazed by the old dockside salt who’s whittled a stick into a whistle.

I’ve messed around with my daughter’s Play-Doh a few times and have made an adequate worm, a flattened turtle, and once, a somewhat striking approximation of the Venus of Willendorf, if you squinted and tilted your head to the left ever so slightly. And when I think of the Paleolithic maverick who scoffed at his friends daubing the cave walls with crushed berries, and took a handful of clay to make a small, three-dimensional woman – something you could feel and hold – I’m sure he must have been someone like Melbourne Beach artist and sculptor Rick LaClaire.

I believe that nearly everyone can sketch or paint with some degree of efficiency. Plus, it gives comparatively immediate results; the rest is just a matter of touching up and refining. It takes a more dogged, visionary soul to see the potential of form hiding in a solid object and set out to shape it to one’s own will, to coax curves from stiff, stubborn lines. And it takes a special kind of kid to see the sculptural beauty of limestone cliffs and gorges.

While he and his childhood friends tramped “like Indians” through the Black River woods in upstate New York, hooting, hollering and enacting imaginary chases, LaClaire was absorbing nature in all it variegated forms: clouds billowing overhead, water falling and curling into standing waves, and trees clinging impossibly to weathered stones. The limestone arena surrounding these scenes of beauty impressed him the most, with its rough-hewn profiles and pitted shapes buried in infinite crannies. LaClaire credits that idyllic place with inspiring nearly every three-dimensional form he’s crafted since he first began studying art in elementary school.

I’ve never been to the Black River woods, and while LaClaire’s description of the place evokes a cool, dappled world of hushed serenity and timelessness, I only begin to understand the pulsing heart of the place when I see some of the sculptures they kindled. Here, in LaClaire’s home -- some on shelves, others atop a desk and piano -- are the forms remembered during those childhood wanderings distilled into simple, pithy, almost talismanic shapes.

Sculpted from wood, or more properly, laminated (a process which involves gluing tiers of blocks into a rough shape, then blending them into one with meticulous sandings), these pieces also draw from natural objects he’s noticed during recent beach strolls. An avid fisherman, LaClaire takes inspiration from the stones, shells, and flotsam he comes across during his daily outings. But whether discovered latterly or back in his teenage years, each sculpture is a symbol of a contour nature repeats ad infinitum. And as such, they all speak a common language unbounded by time or geographic constraints.

“I’m inspired by recurring shapes in nature,” LaClaire tells me. “All these forms are abstractions of patterns we see everywhere. They’re repeated in the human body, in plants, and even in man-made objects, whether that’s intended or not. Writers get writer’s block, and some painters can’t seem to come up with an image when they want it. When you’re a sculptor, inspiration is all around you. Everything’s a source of inspiration.”

One particularly graceful piece suggests the smooth, arcing shape of a sea bean. Another captures the instant when a paraffin lamp puts out its first bloom of flame, the upper tips of its crown on the verge of curling under a whisper of sea air. Yet another, a delicately thin curve like a shard of shell whorl, also resembles the looming prow of a Viking long ship, and from one angle, a silenced lyre. In fact, when viewed from different vantage points revealing shapes within shapes, LaClaire’s creations sing with different tones and timbres – which is incredible when you see how clunky they look in their beginning stages.

First comes the idea – the image – whether remembered, or as with the paraffin flame, conceived at the moment. LaClaire then drafts on a grid the contour of the piece from every angle before beginning the long lamination process. Before the sanding stage, the piece looks like an inverted 3-D recreation of Duchamp’s “Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2” – fluid motion caught in stuttered, staggering stasis. Once sanded and smoothed into an organic teardrop shape, for instance, it’s rubbed repeatedly with linseed oil to preserve it and affixed to a sculpted wood base. The result incorporates two thin, parallel lines of red cedar running vertically down one of its lobes. “That’s my signature,” La Claire admits. “I think it helps accent the flow of the piece. I’d like people to be able to notice those two lines and say, ‘I know who did this.’” Yet even without the tell-tale red cedar lines, these sculptures bear the unmistakable impress of LaClaire’s multi-talented hand.

Not only is he a precision silk screen technician (his company, Graphic Promotions, caters to several high-tech firms in need of intricate instrument panels), an experienced furniture craftsman, t-shirt designer, beloved Beachside Resident columnist, and graphic artist who’s produced numerous album covers and concert posters, LaClaire is also a deft guitarist and singer/songwriter with several solo recordings under his belt. Since the age of 11, he’s been playing for the sheer love of it, and is now in the process of writing music for a new, locally-produced surf film.

His passion, though, remains these stunning laminated wood sculptures – and art in virtually all its forms. “I was really considering teaching high school art for a while during a lull in work,” he revealed. “For my first day, I wanted to write ‘What is art?’ on the blackboard and find out from each student what his or her opinion might be. Then I’d give them my answer: it’s whatever the artist says is good or bad. It’s not how pretty it looks; take the horrific images of battle Otto Dix painted. To me good art equals an effort that’s been put forth. Art is art.”

You hardly need that bit of advice to see the inherent artistry and undeniable beauty of LaClaire’s creations.

See a showing of Rick LaClaire’s work at the Melbourne Beach Public Library (324 Ocean Ave.; Melbourne Beach; 956-5642) October 16th through December 4th. Contact him at (321) 728-1944 and visit www.richardlaclaire.com for news, photos and a complete biography of his artistic career.