The Brooklyn Rail

Jim hit Houston like a tornado, and in terms of my life as a working artist, the effect was dramatic and immediate. When we hung out, he never talked about “art.” He talked about the meaning of art, its spiritual aspects and its long, interwoven history. Jim truly understood the difference between good, really good, and great art. He encouraged me to break out. I was repeating myself, painting these distant landscapes as a form of escape, and one day he saw these small drawings lying on my desk—free-flowing, strange, garish looking creatures and faces. These were drawings from my subconscious, things I mostly threw away or gave to friends. It never occurred to me to frame or exhibit them. Jim questioned me: “Why aren’t you bringing these images into your paintings?” The effects of this advice and encouragement were monumental.

In our travels together, we saw many remote parts of the world: remote cities, jungles, deserts, and paralyzing poverty. My work became more political. I personally became more politically active, and life changed dramatically for me.

Jim introduced me to some of the world’s greatest and most diverse artists: Balthus, Joan Mitchell, Wilfredo Lam, Joseph Beuys, Nam June Paik, among countless others. Jim Harithas was like a crazed orchestra leader with all these instruments: scientists, philosophers, astronauts, artists, and everyday weirdos.

I watched the famed pioneer surgeon Denton Cooley perform open heart with Jim, and a week later we were judging a rattlesnake round up contest together in some far west Texas desert. Sun Ra, poets, and jazz greats were all a part of his orchestra… and oh, what great music he made. I did indeed love the man and owe him so much.