Essayist Stephen Bodio declares in The Art of Thomas Quinn, a new book published by Global Interprint:

"He is a Zen swordsman of art who possesses a hunter's eye and can summon a poet's words, a man who knows in life and painting what to leave out and what to do. His work offers portals to an ethic that may delight you, and to spacious places where delight and discovery are not uncommon."

Indeed, mighty Quinn the Samurai of watercolor, who stands as tall as Michael Jordan, has spent decades cutting his own uncompromising path through the brambles of contemporary nature art, arriving in a place of solace —and with a reputation intact—that departs sharply from where most wildlife painters gather today.

The Art of Thomas Quinn serves as a marvelous guidebook to that spot, and it is a volume that should be perused by any serious nature artist or collector.




Rest assured, I am not shilling, for it becomes obvious when you see it for yourself. This book, like Quinn's art, is a reminder why the pursuit of exquisite aesthetics and good taste remains a source of Earthly virtue.

William "Bill" Kerr, art collector and trustee emeritus of the National Museum of Wildlife Art, says he was "overwhelmed" by the quality of Quinn's book and in encountering the full assemblage of his work across a span of decades.  "There is so much more than meets the eye,"  he said.  "Tom Quinn's brushwork and colors lead us into the depths of elegant simplicity."

"They say Quinn's art is different from normal western wildlife art  because it seems so, well, Japanesey," says Ken Coburn, the founder of custom publisher Global Interprint and an art collector himself. "That's true. It is different, and it is influenced not by what you typically see in a hunting magazine but by Asian masters of antiquity."

As any master knows, watercolor can be the most unforgiving of mediums. It punishes those who believe extroverted excesses provide suitable camouflage for hollow thoughts.

Quinn, a naturalist (which means he is a methodical quiet observer) has a special introverted affinity for birds, but he handles all subject matter as if it were wrapped in the whisper of a Taoist koan. 

More than 80 paintings, field sketches and drawings fill the pages. Along with them is some of Quinn's own poetry and prose; ponderances and meditations (from him and other bright minds) on the natural world;  some that would not feel out of place were they recited 150 years ago in the Lake Country of England.

One such musing: "I observe, collect, photograph, measure, repair, rehabilitate, and release birds. I have done so since childhood. I shoot, eat, and draw and paint them too."

In other words, life and mortality as portrayed by Quinn are complicated, like converging washes of paint, full of harmonious ambiguity, confluencing new shades and occasional contradictions rather than unwavering absolutes. They exist, threadbare, in the artist, too.

Quinn, whose portfolio has earned him "master artist" status at the Leigh Yawkey Woodson Art Museum, has said: "Sometimes, the paint can transcend the flat surface of the canvas, and the result assumes the elusive quality of a wild thing."

"When people ask me about Quinn's mystique, which certainly exists, I tell them that in addition to being one of the finest, sensitive nature painters of our time, he is one of the top hunting dog breeders and trainers in the world, a crack shot, a knowledgeable birder, and the author of a popular book on training dogs that many would regard as a classic," Coburn says. "He is also a fierce conservationist who owns guns." 

Quinn's book, The Working Retrievers, is regarded as a lab owner's  bible and his own  trained dog, a Labrador bitch named Nakai Anny, is a member of the Retriever Hall of Fame.

There are countless stories about Quinn's other  feats. They come from all ranks and flanks, from artists, sporting people, avian fanatics, and elitist snobs who appreciate finer things, be it painting, custom-built shotguns, smart, affectionate bird dogs or shots of aged single malt Scotch.

Quinn can be moody and opinionated, imperious and brusque because as those closest to him note, he doesn't countenance nonsense. His paintings have the same feel; they have something to say but they are never menacing. On the other hand, his loyalty to friends is only exceeded by an ursid bigheartedness and generosity for those younger artists who seek his counsel.




Thomas Patrick Quinn, Jr. was born in 1938 and attended the Art Center College of Design in Los Angeles.  In the past, he has called himself "a regionalist" though it escapes the context for which regionalism is typically applied.

"Subtle though it may be, I detect an evolving intensity in Quinn's work," Tony Angell, the stone carver, sculptor, naturalist and Quinnian blood brother writes in the book's introduction. "As wild nature has diminished in our everyday lives, his work has taken up the task of revealing more of its complexities. He implicitly designs some of the delicate dynamics between different species as well as those of the individual and its habitats."

In case you don't know it, neither Angell nor Quinn are the type of chaps who dispense with effusive praise easily, believing that most art writing for general audiences is a mixture of hucksterism and pabulum.

Quinn has long believed that much of what passes for "wildlife art"—a limiting term in its own right— is overwrought, undisciplined, and conveys an ambiance that is not unlike the aftertaste one gleans from eating processed food. He is instead a gourmand.

His rebuttal, however, does not flow forth in words but as the counterpoint he exacts. Quinn most definitely does not render Disney narratives that offer a clear or cute beginning and end. Like Bruno Liljefors' portrayals of raptors making their kills, he goes for the transcendental meaning over the quick thrill of gore. For him, nature is about the paradox of providing humans with spiritual sustenance while never leaving us fully satiated. Thus, his art demands that we travel deeper into the mystery.

Quinn's work is never mistaken for anyone else's, and seldom vice versa. He refuses to fill every square inch of his canvas, instead courting universes of negative space, and painting not with garish palette but muted translucency as if you are looking toward the bottom of a pool but cannot gauge the distance with exactitude. It is part of his belief that meaning can emanate from a perception of nothingness.


"As a descriptive term, 'negative' space seems to suggest a refusal on the part of an artist to enrich certain zones of a two dimensional work," Quinn writes. "Parallels exist in literature, dance, and music for the device of emptiness: simplicity before the co
mplex, undemanding eventlessness before brilliant or savage passages. In paint, I don't believe an undeveloped space must be viewed as a disappointment, but perhaps as a place of stillness, a pause that may accompany some surprise of color, some detailed revelation, or some other presentation of cleverness."

To illuminate the point, he adds, "I am of a mind that traveling this road of reasoning brings a contract with some very fine company: the vast dark voids of Rembrandt, the humid pearlescence of Whistler or Turner, the atmospheric vacancies of Thomas Wilmer Dewing, the editing of Hokusai and Utamaro, and the astonishing washes of Mayusura Okyo."
 
Angell, who draws comparisons between Quinn's work and the masters of the Edo period in Japanese printmaking, predicts Quinn's work will earn a permanent place "in the pantheon of brave and talented painters who have distilled a distinct and compelling aesthetic from nature."

Surely a testament is the massing of images present in The Art of Thomas Quinn.

Coburn says he has known the artist, who lives near Pt. Reyes, California, for 25 years. While he praises Quinn for being plugged into his natural surroundings in a way that is exceedingly uncommon, he notes that Quinn, in other ways, is also aloof in the ways of a neo-Luddite.

"I don't think it has been a weakness for Tom to avoid getting involved with computers and blogging because forcing his world to speed up electronically pushes him beyond the pace of where he wants to be, " Coburn says. "Withdrawing himself from the rat race has allowed him the freedom to remain who he is, deciding when he wants to interact and continue to maintain the diverse array of friends he has on his own terms. It aids his originality and authenticity. On the other hand," Coburn adds, expressing friendly consternation, "having no interest, as Tom does, in a digital presence has prevented other people from knowing more about him and I hope this book will help remedy that."

Coburn is astute in that wish. This is indeed a sweetly packaged book, though nothing more luscious than the artwork itself that explains why Quinn is revered by his fellow artists.

Global Interprint has produced a special limited edition set priced at $350 each. The books are signed and numbered, packaged in an elegant wooden case replete with a signed lithograph of Quinn's painting of a sandhill crane titled Rio Grande Pilgrim.  Essentially, a collectible within a collectible. Coburn says interest in this volume has been brisk. There also is a general hardback volume available with a first edition run of 2,000. That sells for around $100.

The Art of Thomas Quinn is a mass of substance that does what any art book should do if it is worth its salt: It should not be mere reference, but validate the character of the artist and remind the viewer/reader why  the art itself is worth remembering at a time when frankly so much is not.