Boy Howdy! Anthony Hurd Embraces the Personal
Growing up as a queer kid in the ‘80s, I was well aware from an early age that I was different, and that different was not okay, especially living in Missouri,” says New Mexico artist Anthony Hurd, who recently shifted away from abstracts, to delve into what may be deemed “controversial” figurative work. Not only has his subject matter drastically changed in the last year and a half—so has his outlook on life and public opinion. Enduring ample amounts of prickliness over his queer identity, Hurd has become a champion of resiliently looking past all those nasty thorns, to unearth the fruits of the spirit’s plea.
Before this recent painting transition, Hurd had already made a flourishing career of his swirling “dreamscapes,” often entailing skulls or otherwise-fragmented human forms merged with moody, ethereal atmospheres. Fearless splashes of color remain his distinctive special sauce, even today. Yet beyond vivid acrylics, Hurd always found his ultimate medium of choice to be exploration. Whether chancing upon new techniques, or contemplating his agency as artist, exploring unknowns is what has kept him challenged and inspired in the studio. The pursuit of growth, allowing room for mistakes—these are what make his process of creation a meaningful one.
“I keep the motivation of movement in mind each day and part of my artistic practice is just showing up. If I don’t feel like painting, I’m tired or overwhelmed, I still show up, I clean the studio, I push paint around, I experiment, and find joy in the little things. I’m pretty damn grateful for my studio space, and the opportunity to support myself with the act of creating,” he says.
It’s because of—not in spite of—these quotidian rhythms that Hurd maintains his swirling creativity. Nothing dramatic. Simply time spent with family: his husband, stepdaughter, and pups. Not to mention the Southwestern culture and beautiful desert landscapes that have befriended him through much of adulthood. He paints life as he experiences it, even if that includes certain facets of reality which some prefer to omit.
A few years ago, Hurd took a long road trip back from a successful solo show in Los Angeles, giving him an opportunity to reflect on how his work could further mature. While he had found satisfaction in experimenting with abstracted thought forms—as a way of leaning into his youth—there came the epiphany that something major remained yet to be explored.
I made very conscious decisions to hide who I was, to guard myself, to play many parts of myself safe. And plan. Plan for the future.”
“I was listening to various audio books and podcasts and the topic of soothing the inner child kept coming up. It’s not a new concept but anytime I’d looked at that for
myself, I took it as an invitation to embrace the freedom and excitement of music and skateboarding, of exploring art and that rebellious youth.” This time around, though, he realized that these expressions were merely a way of reliving his inner teen years and didn’t necessarily speak to the inner child. “In that thinking, I realized what would have truly soothed my inner child would be letting go of fear.”
Having grown up in an environment that shamed tender acts of male kindness, let alone vulnerability, he developed certain strategies to protect himself. Most of the men in his family where hunters, military, and truck drivers who applauded hollow displays of hyper-masculinity.
“I made very conscious decisions to hide who I was, to guard myself, to play many parts of myself safe. And plan. Plan for the future. The plan was to make it through high school and move to NYC or SF and come out and finally live my life. I started this plan at around ten years old. Scary to think I was planning that early. The reason for all this masking of my own self was fear. I was terrified of much of the world because I didn’t see myself in it. I saw many of my interests in it, but not me, as a queer person. There was little to no representation of queer people that didn’t involve being a villain, the butt of the joke, or some AIDS ridden death.
“My perception of queer life early on was, we don’t live long, we don’t live well, and the only safe place for us is big cities like NYC, LA, or SF. While the adult me knew better, the child in me did not, because there was nothing in the world to show me otherwise,” Hurd confides, circling back to his eventual realization: “So to comfort my inner child, I gave myself the representation I never had. I wanted to see loving, queer relationships taking up space in nature. Not hiding in the business of big cities but feeling safe in the desert, in nature. There was a very freeing feeling that just burst from within me when I started painting these new works.”
GROWING UP AS A QUEER KID IN THE 80S, I WAS WELL AWARE FROM AN EARLY AGE THAT I WAS DIFFERENT, AND THAT DIFFERENT WAS NOT OK, ESPECIALLY LIVING IN MISSOURI.”
While the obvious basis for a metamorphosis would have something to do with representation, Hurd wasn’t quite sure how to begin. Should he pursue more abstract or hyper-detailed approaches, as in the cases of previous work? Rather than start with an answer in mind, he simply went giddy-up, letting the process guide him towards its natural conclusion. Texture and color remained, while the rest filtered into a crystallized vision. “What started off as playful and messy became more romantic and loving. I started to sit with the idea of my old work where I’d catch myself making moves to make it different, or unique, something I hadn’t seen before. With this new work I wanted to get rid of all those extra efforts, the thoughts,
the thinking, the trying. I wanted to listen to what felt good instead of what I thought would be new or different. I honestly just grew very tired of trying to be different. It’s exhausting.”
Ultimately, listening to his heart was the ingredient that landed him where he is today—painting direct, sentimental scenes amidst vibrant desert backdrops. Moments of honest, non-sexualized tenderness. Moments which reflect our basic human need for love, as part of an age-old tradition in the arts. So, why should these paintings be considered different than any that came before?
For an audience accustomed to fiery skulls, depictions of queer couples holding and kissing were unwelcome to say the least. From the get-go, Hurd wasn’t naïve to the fact that such a sharp turn would result in the loss of support, and surely attract some haters. “The harassment was slow and steady at first, passing comments, the occasional messages about how I’m pushing my agenda on people, how I’ve tricked people.” None of this a surprise, he did his best to remain emotionally detached, even during the most disheartening reactions, on which he particularly notes, “When I got married last year, I posted a picture of my husband and I in the mountains on our modest little wedding day, essentially reenacting what many of my paintings had been portraying. While the majority of the comments were love and supportive, I lost over three thousand followers from that post alone.”
As if programmed for drama, the algorithm machine oddly began showing this work to those who weren’t even regularly exposed to his posts—those who would immediately bash it, even though Hurd had always addressed queer identity, albeit less directly. Yet with haters and trolls also came lovers, people who adore creativity regardless of orientation, or those craving representation on personal levels.
IF I DON’T FEEL LIKE PAINTING, I’M TIRED OR OVERWHELMED, I STILL SHOW UP, I CLEAN THE STUDIO, I PUSH PAINT AROUND, I EXPERIMENT, AND FIND JOY IN THE LITTLE THINGS.”
“It’s a heavy feeling when you are reminded how much hate and ignorance exists and thrives in the world. The main thing I do to combat it is to remind myself that the good by far outweighs the bad. I get messages from people every day with beautiful stories of how they feel seen and free by viewing my work—that they feel the love and kindness I’m trying to portray. It warms my heart every day.”
Hurd is a refreshing example of someone who stoically stands their ground despite public backlash, knowing that in the end, listening to one’s creative urges is worth far more than any number of “followers” in the digital domain. In this light, gratification may often arrive much later down the line, yet spiritual fulfillment shall be everlasting. And let us not forget, too, that the often toxic realm of social media never provides a true reflection of artistic merit:
“It’s crazy to me that something I started doing to heal a piece of myself could touch so many other people. No fag joke can change my perspective on that. When I think back to the harassment and nonsense at the beginning of this, I don’t remember all the details now because I didn’t put the importance on it, I focused on all the good things happening. It’s taught me a lot about focus and letting go.”*
This article was first published in H-Fructose Issue 72, which is available in print here.
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