Thursday, March 1, 2007 | 7:10 a.m.
What: Artwork by Daniel Pearson
Where: Circadian Galleries, 1541 S. Commerce St., Suite 120
When: Open 6-10 p.m. First Friday; 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. every Saturday starting in May
Daniel Pearson is horizontal 24 hours a day. A spine injury keeps him tied to a full-sized bed in his living room.
For him there's no such thing as a quick run to the grocery store or a stroll to the front door. But when he dreams at night, he's walking around.
And when he paints, he's everywhere.
"That's all I do is paint," he says while wrapped in a blanket.
The 34-year-old has been in and out of the hospital since 1994 and spent nearly four years in a convalescent home. As a guitarist in a punk band during his teenage years, he was always on the run, ignoring the signals his body was sending him. "Even when I was in my wheelchair in the hospital, I would leave the hospital and do a show."
Now at home in Henderson, the front drapes are closed, blocking out the afternoon sun, a candle burns on a bedside chair that doubles as a table. He has two remote controls at his side, one for his television. He has another remote for his stereo so that Tom Waits, REM, Radio Head, KISS and others are always within reach, as are his cell phone, a land line and a box of art materials.
His collection of artworks is stylistically diverse and powerful in its depth and honesty.
It's his wild side. It's his soft side. It's erratic, abstract, figurative. There are distorted faces, pleasant expressions and primitive images. Often there are vibrant colors.
It's everything.
Sometimes he'll crank out as many as 15 paintings a month.
Through his art, he works out his issues with manhood . He has chronicled near-death experiences in hospital intensive care units.
A painting called "Trapped" shows an image of Pearson and a wheelchair in the background.
A portrait of a chef with no hands represents the food he's not supposed to be eating.
Some are comedic. That's when he tries to enjoy himself and have a good time. Other works are sexually explicit and brutally honest.
The self-portraits can be dark.
Heather Nelson, his girlfriend of 10 years, used to dislike the darker works, but has changed her mind.
"Those are the ones I appreciate more because they are so deep," she says. "This is his life that he puts into his work."
His paintings have captured fans. Todd VonBastiaans, a local collector and gallery owner, noticed Pearson's work immediately. "There is an aggressive back story to the lines and colors," VonBastiaans says. "I like it. It doesn't apologize."
Local artist Denise Duarte, who included Pearson's work in an exhibit at the Las Vegas Art Museum two years ago, is also an admirer. "His artwork is a pure expression direct from his life's experiences and is evolving. I enjoy watching his artistic journey."
But his fans rarely get to meet the artist.
Last year, his mom, Marilyn Olsen, and Nelson opened a gallery called Circadian Galleries.
It was a small second-floor space filled with Pearson's self-portraits, abstracts and figurative works. Together they would man the gallery on First Fridays and for special events. But it felt hollow and bittersweet without the artist, they say.
"We'd come home and tell Danny what pieces got attention, what people looked at," Nelson says.
In October, they moved the gallery to the ground floor of a neighboring building on Commerce Street. They put Pearson on a gurney and into the back of a Honda Element, drove him downtown and backed up to the gallery. They opened the SUV's side doors, and for the first time, Pearson got to experience the event himself. He has gone to every First Friday event since. This Friday will be his sixth.
"It definitely lit a fire under me," Pearson says.
"I get to see everybody, see people see my stuff. That's the whole point, to touch people, to reach out.
"I just stay in the car. People come by and talk to me."
Getting out of the house for First Friday blew his mind.
"It's like having the flu where you don't leave the house for so long. Imagine that for seven years. You forget how to act socially. I'm sort of abrasive anyway."
Despite his seemingly gruff disposition, Pearson is a 6-foot-5 gentle guy. He's funny and intelligent.
He doesn't expect to be in this situation forever. He suffers from diabetes and bone deterioration and doesn't know his exact weight, but has lost 100 pounds in the last year and spends the summers exercising in his back yard pool.
The more weight he loses, the more potential for getting vertical, or at least into a wheelchair.
"Health care has changed so much in the last 15 years that all I've got to do is keep losing weight ... The more weight I lose, the more mobile I am."
Near the kitchen, a white bulldog named Rhoda wags her tail. She's just one of many animals - cats, a parrot, a beagle and teddy bear hamsters - that keep him company while he works. He jokes he has the place on "lockdown" when he has company .
They even mess with his paintings once in a while. But there is always another painting on its way.
Without art, Pearson says, "I don't know what I'd do. I've asked myself that."
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