About Leroy Miranda
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Event: Unveiled: Part Two | Figures in Form
Dates: 22 Jan 2016 - 1 Apr 2016
| Where Y'Art Pop-Up Gallery at The Old No. 77 Hotel & Chandlery , New Orleans
Event: Tribal 2015
Dates: 12 Mar 2015 - 12 Apr 2016
Tribal 2015 by Leroy Miranda Jr
Event: Line + Form
Dates: 5 Mar 2014 - 5 Apr 2014
Guy Lyman Fine Arts , New Orleans 2014
Biography
As a self-taught artist Mr. Leroy Miranda has found a new vocabulary for life.
Mr. Miranda’s work is a reflection of the world around him, the moments of opposition and fluidity. Mr. Miranda was born and raised in New Orleans and finds that his culture and identity plays an important role is his artistic pursuit. Currently Mr. Miranda lives and works in the vibrant Marigny area of New Orleans. With his new passion for painting and drawing Mr. Miranda has created copious amounts of art and is currently represented by Guy Lyman Fine Arts, New Orleans. His works can be found in over a dozen private collections and was recently acquired by the L.S.U University Medical Center public collections.
I approach my work with spontaneity, quickness, and—when I
chance upon it—wit. The emotion or atmosphere of the day influences the work, and
I consider the images that result a story of myself. Am I telling the same
story over and over? Am I telling new stories? I have not figured it out
exactly. What I know, for now, is that the works are both simply and not so
simply works of myself, meaningless and meaningful as any emotion can be when
rendered as an image. My process often begins with some familiar image, with a way
for me to warm up to the page. I find myself coming back again and again to the
image of a shrimp, in part because the image bears sentiment, a “meaning” that
has lingered. However, if pressed to express that meaning in words—or even the
meaning’s origin—I could do nothing but point back to the image. The shrimp are
a trope, a touchstone, a familiar grip from which my work can expand. And,
because my process is often very fast, I am painting my way through a vast
number of emotional landscapes. At the end of a day, I can sift through the
pile of images, swift as a river, and see what catches my eye. But it is the
subconscious mind that is in control; it is the subconscious mind that has
recorded and understood everything I have done in my life. Vigilant for a
glimpse of meaning, this process of selection is a bit like panning for gold;
the process is rote—the constant sifting and sorting through the mud—but I
might uncover something that shines. This fluidity, this flow, is essential to my work—and the
mediums I choose to employ are derivative of that fluid nature. Paint is one,
though there are many others. I can press on charcoal, ink, motor oil, dirt,
blood, or urine—anything that will readily flow—and, through experimentation,
produce new colors, new images. These mediums help to keep me astray from
convention, which is where I’d like to be. When one is astray, he is situated
on the outside convention, which allows him to view the inside as well—though,
admittedly, from a different perspective. Sometimes I like the view inside and
sometimes I like the view outside, but it is when I feel astray that I can
allow my attention, my perspective to drift. When I begin a new work, I begin with the medium. Some
artists collect images—and I do reference photographs on occasion—though more
often than not, I do not know what will emerge. The unknown, that not knowing, is rooted in the nature of
any experiment, and I am deeply interested in experimentation: how burnt paper
or dirt can produce an unexpected image. In the end, these images might present
a reflection of myself, though that reflection is not necessarily a narrative or
even my own emotion. Instead, the image might reflect a plant, a body, or a
memory outside of myself that, because I notice it, becomes part of me through
the act of my noticing. I consider a piece to be complete when the lines, shapes,
and figures are placed as I see them in nature—like a sleeping child or a tree.
In nature, lines are not confirmed, not straight. When a tree (or a child) is
growing, it doesn’t grow straight up or down. It grows exactly how it wants to
grow: all over. I ultimately want my work to arise from natural instinct, from what
is going on inside of me in relation to the outside. That instinct is the flow
I am trying to capture, our subconscious, our second nature. Though when
someone else looks at my work, they are seeing a part of their story, not mine—which
seems to me an utterly natural end.
Mr. Miranda’s work is a reflection of the world around him, the moments of opposition and fluidity. Mr. Miranda was born and raised in New Orleans and finds that his culture and identity plays an important role is his artistic pursuit. Currently Mr. Miranda lives and works in the vibrant Marigny area of New Orleans. With his new passion for painting and drawing Mr. Miranda has created copious amounts of art and is currently represented by Guy Lyman Fine Arts, New Orleans. His works can be found in over a dozen private collections and was recently acquired by the L.S.U University Medical Center public collections.
I approach my work with spontaneity, quickness, and—when I
chance upon it—wit. The emotion or atmosphere of the day influences the work, and
I consider the images that result a story of myself. Am I telling the same
story over and over? Am I telling new stories? I have not figured it out
exactly. What I know, for now, is that the works are both simply and not so
simply works of myself, meaningless and meaningful as any emotion can be when
rendered as an image. My process often begins with some familiar image, with a way
for me to warm up to the page. I find myself coming back again and again to the
image of a shrimp, in part because the image bears sentiment, a “meaning” that
has lingered. However, if pressed to express that meaning in words—or even the
meaning’s origin—I could do nothing but point back to the image. The shrimp are
a trope, a touchstone, a familiar grip from which my work can expand. And,
because my process is often very fast, I am painting my way through a vast
number of emotional landscapes. At the end of a day, I can sift through the
pile of images, swift as a river, and see what catches my eye. But it is the
subconscious mind that is in control; it is the subconscious mind that has
recorded and understood everything I have done in my life. Vigilant for a
glimpse of meaning, this process of selection is a bit like panning for gold;
the process is rote—the constant sifting and sorting through the mud—but I
might uncover something that shines. This fluidity, this flow, is essential to my work—and the
mediums I choose to employ are derivative of that fluid nature. Paint is one,
though there are many others. I can press on charcoal, ink, motor oil, dirt,
blood, or urine—anything that will readily flow—and, through experimentation,
produce new colors, new images. These mediums help to keep me astray from
convention, which is where I’d like to be. When one is astray, he is situated
on the outside convention, which allows him to view the inside as well—though,
admittedly, from a different perspective. Sometimes I like the view inside and
sometimes I like the view outside, but it is when I feel astray that I can
allow my attention, my perspective to drift. When I begin a new work, I begin with the medium. Some
artists collect images—and I do reference photographs on occasion—though more
often than not, I do not know what will emerge. The unknown, that not knowing, is rooted in the nature of
any experiment, and I am deeply interested in experimentation: how burnt paper
or dirt can produce an unexpected image. In the end, these images might present
a reflection of myself, though that reflection is not necessarily a narrative or
even my own emotion. Instead, the image might reflect a plant, a body, or a
memory outside of myself that, because I notice it, becomes part of me through
the act of my noticing. I consider a piece to be complete when the lines, shapes,
and figures are placed as I see them in nature—like a sleeping child or a tree.
In nature, lines are not confirmed, not straight. When a tree (or a child) is
growing, it doesn’t grow straight up or down. It grows exactly how it wants to
grow: all over. I ultimately want my work to arise from natural instinct, from what
is going on inside of me in relation to the outside. That instinct is the flow
I am trying to capture, our subconscious, our second nature. Though when
someone else looks at my work, they are seeing a part of their story, not mine—which
seems to me an utterly natural end.
