Charles Arnoldi

By: Heather Kirkpatrick | May 21, 2008 | Art

Aaron Lippman
The outside of Charles Arnoldi’s Venice studio on Hampton Drive seamlessly blends into its neighborhood, right down to the graffiti scrawled here and there on the aluminum siding. Without the conspicuous yellow door, it would be completely overlooked. Two tie-dyed-in-the-wool hippies pause outside to take pictures, paying homage to the man who has been an icon of the art world since before Jimi Hendrix became a household name. Mr. Arnoldi — or Chuck to his myriad friends — is as humble and unassuming upon first encounter as his studio. A prodigy who moved to California with only $6 to his name, he took his mechanical inclinations and applied them to construction work in Thousand Oaks, where a builder and his wife encouraged him to pursue art. Dropping out of three art schools – junior college in Ventura, Art Center and Chouinard – he took the road less traveled by refusing his teachers’ behests to make “commercial art.” The payoff? Becoming one of the foremost Los Angeles artists with shows and pieces on display all over the world. However, Arnoldi insists: “I don’t feel particularly successful.” After his wood constructions put him on the art radar in the 1970s, he continued to evolve and now employs old-fashioned paint on canvas to create colorful geometric abstractions, which he thinks makes him a “dinosaur.” Nevertheless, the Dayton, Ohio, native speaks about his life and work with the contentment and confidence befitting his incredible achievements.

MM: Why did you initially come to California?

Charles Arnoldi: When my father left us, he met a woman and they ran away to California. I got into a little bit of trouble in high school. The authorities were threatening to put me in a foster home and take me away from my mother. My father said, “Come out and live with me in Thousand Oaks.” I was a hood from Ohio with a ducktail haircut, greased-out hair, peg pants and all that stuff, so I didn’t fit into the environment here. I got into a little trouble, so they sent me back to Ohio. But once I had seen California, the only thing on my mind was getting out of Ohio and going back. I had a ’55 Chevy and no money. I went to my mother and said, “After graduation I’m leaving for California tomorrow.” She had about $6.40 — it was all the money she had — and she gave that to me. My buddies and I, there were five of us altogether, took off for California. We blew the engine up in Needles, Calif. I ended up having to trade my Chevy for a four-door, old, green beat-up Cadillac. This is a long, screwball story … but we made it to Thousand Oaks.

MM: How did you get to Malibu?

CA: I started making a living — small — but I managed to survive by making art. My wife, Katie, was studying art history along with other things, and writing some articles for art magazines and stuff, and she knew about me. I had an artist friend who met a girl on Friday and married her on Sunday. I went to his wedding party downtown in a big loft, and there was this pretty young girl and it was Katie. She came up to me and introduced herself, and a couple of days later, she showed up at my studio in Venice. She said she just happened to be riding her bike in the neighborhood, and so I invited her in and we got together, and one thing led to another.
Her father was a surfer in the ’50s and he loved this one [particular] surf spot at Little Dume. There was a little tiny house in the cove with a boathouse beside it, and he dreamed of owning that because it was right at the surf break. He asked the people several times if they would sell it. In those days in Malibu, there were hardly any houses. They agreed to sell him the house. So, he bought this beautiful hunk of land in Malibu at Little Dume, and it’s been in the family for a long time. Katie and I picked part of the site and we built a house there about 20 years ago. We love living in Malibu. We sleep every night with the doors wide open. We feel like we’re right there, so it’s very nice to live there, but I find it much more comfortable to come down here and work. I’d have this perfect view of Catalina, and I’d watch the surf all the time. It’s much easier to drive away at 6:30 in the morning and drive back at the end of the day.

Aaron Lippman

MM: Can you talk about the art and social scene in Venice in the 1970s?

CA: When I was going to Chouinard, that must have been about 1968, I heard about a party in Venice. It was actually on Brooks Avenue just up the street here. That was at the height of hippie, free love and “anything goes.” It was the land of the lawless. Everybody was afraid of Venice. It was like a hippie haven. The beat generation was still here, the poets, the Hell’s Angels were all over the place. You’d have to be an idiot not to realize what a great little community this was. It’s a combination of commercial, residential, industrial — it’s spectacular. At the time there were other guys down here: Billy Al Bengston, Bob Irwin, John Altoon, Larry Bell — [who were] a generation ahead of me. A lot of my generation of guys – Laddy Dill, Jim Ganser, Ron Cooper and a bunch of those guys – all gravitated down here, too. We had this little art community. It was cheap and it was fantastic. The Doors had a place on Brooks Avenue. It was so bad that the cops ignored it; you could really be a hippie here. It became the Venice art scene, and it became very popular. Normal people were just afraid of the place, but we could all see that it would change eventually. It’s shocking to me that it’s taken as long as it has. Now, Venice had radically changed, but it still maintains a little bit of that rawness. It’s getting overdeveloped, but you can walk or ride your bike here and go to lots of great restaurants. The type of people that are buying into Venice is little bit more liberal and freethinking, and us art types kind of feel comfortable in that environment.

MM: It sounds like a great time.

CA: It was … we’re still recovering.

MM: The great New York abstract expressionists inspired you. What was it like to meet so many of your heroes and have them acknowledge you as an artist?

CA: I had an opportunity to meet [Willem]de Kooning, but I was so intimidated that I didn’t, which is one of the big regrets of my life. But I did meet [Robert] Rauschenberg, [Jasper] Johns, Warhol, [Claes] Oldenburg, Frank Stella and Donald Judd. I was so young and naive that when I met these guys, they were friendly and nice, and I never thought of them as art gods or great things. They were just guys that made art. And they were all really friendly to me and made me realize that making art is basically just a human activity that people actually do. There are stories and there are myths and exaggerations, but the pyramids were actually built; Bernini actually made those sculptures. Basically we’re all the same machine. It’s just that some people see things differently. A lot of people live in a fantasy that those people are somehow better than you are, or different. As far as I’m concerned, a great gardener is just as good as a great artist in a certain way. We’re all equal. 

MM: Do you think Los Angeles is on the rise artistically?

CA: I think that in L.A., from when I started making art, there’s a lot more interest and a lot more people involved. I think there’s a terrific potential. Where art’s going is a little scary to me because I don’t quite understand it. I’m kind of a dinosaur; I like paintings and sculpture. That’s what I do. A lot of the young kids are doing stuff that to me has been done before; they don’t see a problem with recycling. I don’t know what that’s about. I think that’s why you die. You get old; you die, and let the next generation take over. L.A. is definitely a bigger art scene than it used to be.

Aaron Lippman

MM: You were inspired to make your wood constructions after visiting a burnt grove in Malibu. Do you find things that are inherently creative in destruction?

CA: When I ended up at art school at Choinard, they had this attitude at the time that painting is dead — you can’t make paintings; it’s not a valid statement. And for me, this dumb kid from Ohio, art is painting and sculpture. I understood performance art and all this stuff that was going on, but I just didn’t feel comfortable with that. So, I was trying to figure out a way to make paintings and objects that were justified.
I just happened to be out in Malibu after a fire and I was just looking at these trees — Eucalyptus trees — that had been burned to charcoal, and all that was left were the branches. They were just these beautiful gestures, hand-drawn lines against the sky. It just dawned on me that that was a beautiful hand-drawn line I could appropriate from nature so I wouldn’t have to make that mark. And because it existed, I could justify somehow using them. So, I took them to the studio and played around with them. Later, I made the chainsaw paintings, which I guess you could call destructive, but for me it was just drawing in negative space. I was carving lines out rather than applying them to a surface. I don’t intellectualize and figure them out and try to interpret them; I just present them. If you can make something that has enough energy and presence to preserve its own life, then I guess you’ve pulled off what makes art art. Art is a just human activity that basically reflects somebody’s attitude and interest at any given moment in their lifespan. Your life changes; you don’t see the world exactly the same way. You can’t escape yourself, the stuff you produce, if you really honestly just produce it from some core thing; [it] is going to have a cohesive honesty. If you’re imitating or stealing ideas, it’s going to be really obvious. That, to me, is what art is. It’s not the individual paintings. The stuff that Frank Stella did when he was 20 is a lot different than what he’s doing at 70. Jasper Johns – his work has changed radically. That to me is integrity.

MM: Why do you think you’ve had such enduring success over the years?

CA: Well, first off, I don’t feel particularly successful. There are always people above you. I think I’m pretty good, but I’m not sure. You have to have a certain amount of doubt to be good. I think I’m going to be better. I don’t mind when I see my old work; I’m not embarrassed. In your mind’s eye, when you see something, it’s perfect. When you have to transpose that from your mind to reality, it takes on a life of its own. It’s a battle. Everything I’ve ever made, if I could do it over again, I would do it a little differently. When I’m painting a painting, I’ll make a decision and it works, but I go, “Oh, I could have done this.” So, they’re never perfect. I like them, but the only thing I’m thinking about when I’m about two-thirds or three-quarters of the way done is when can I finish, so that I can start the next one.

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