As I sit in Brian Colley’s studio, a small plastic stampede of dinosaur figurines gathers in the corner, suspended above plush eyeball masks and a dim light bulb the size of an adult head. Asked how the dinosaurs play into his art practice, Colley mentions a watercolor series of “Dinosaur Rodeos” he made a few years ago. He remembers thinking at a rodeo event, “This would be more fair if they were riding an animal that could really get you.” We move on to discuss a “Disco Bomb,” an ACME-looking cartoon artillery fully bedazzled. A curious inversion of tactical camo that goes for maximum visibility.
Colley grew up in Dallas, Texas, in an artistically minded household. His father worked in furniture sales and was passionate about the Eames chair variety of modernism. His mother was a music teacher, whose influence on Colley can be seen in the band “Sweet Jessup and the Dirty Buckets,” where, among other instruments, he plays his grandfather’s violin.
Art became unavoidably at the center of his life at Principia College, a small, 500-person liberal arts school in Illinois. He recalls the immersion of multiple three-hour studio sessions each week becoming a habit and a need. Like every art student I’ve ever met, Colley found himself with the credits to graduate in the arts before knowing what he would do with the degree. As he recalls, “I just kept taking art classes until my advisor was like, ‘Um, maybe you should major in art …’”
After graduating and returning to Dallas, the post-college drift mixed with the rocket fuel of a deep experience in art brought about an astronaut theme in Colley’s work. Throughout our conversation, the astronaut held different facets: the space cadet, the armor, the distance from society, the explorer. It can hold both early-career isolation and unbound curiosity. There’s plenty of room out there.
Outside Colley’s studio, one large spacesuit sans helmet drifts aloof, cut on a shaped panel to its exact contour. There is no background. Nine different helmets orbit around it, on shaped canvases placed on spinners that allow them to face any direction. Each helmet holds a different self-portrait of Colley, the number matching the categories available from the Enneagram personality test. Space way out there and in here merged.
In 2022, Brian had a show at The Art Base with local artist Andrew Roberts-Gray, themed around Godzilla. He explained how the fictional Japanese monster carries complicated historical and existential DNA. Commonly referred to as an allegory for nuclear power in the aftermath of World War II, Godzilla can wield atomic breath as a weapon to level cities and/or defeat other, more threatening monsters. Colley referred to his use of the motif as “a mirror of mankind” in its destructive and redemptive potential.
One large Godzilla is a dominant presence in the studio. It is on a shaped panel, with LED lights below, blowing its atomic breath in a wide berth across the room. The constellation of nuclear discharge is made from multiple plexi-cut illustrations of origami cranes. Like the myth of Godzilla, the origami practice of senbazuru — in which folding 1,000 cranes is said to grant a wish — was popularized in Japan after WWII. These two parallel myths are asked to coexist, the atomic breath populated by the individual prayers in each origami crane. Across the room, a large illustration of an origami crane seems to match Godzilla’s size. A new Kaiju that could be an equal friend or foe.
Like many individual cranes accumulating to a larger end, Colley has grown to serve many roles in the art community. He is a host for KDNK’s Express Yourself, doing cultural programming, co-founded the Roaring Fork Drawing Club, which meets every Tuesday, draws for The Sopris Sun (“Unparalleled Universe” — a concept that toys with absurdities persistent across dimensions), and, of course, works with Carbondale Arts managing their gallery. He collaborates with locals and for events like Mountain Fair, designing the 2019 poster, and Bonedale Bike Week in May.
When asked how these roles affect his art practice, he said, “I think supporting other artists is a way for me to be part of a rich cultural community … I think, recently, I’ve come to think of myself as having a relationship with Carbondale.”
Regarding his next foray into the stars, Brian let me know he is one of the artists creating murals for Main Line Social, a restaurant due to open this year. His mission is to transform a bathroom into a galactic portal, complete with a “you are here” signpost near the exit. For an artist concerned with the lonely trials of space travel, this coordinate quietly confirms a place on the map.
