Patrick Hogan’s Secret

Most artists have secrets--a shaky academic record, a disastrous drawing class, the temptation of a shady deal or a commercial sell-out. At best, they tend to be “learning experiences”; at worst, temporary set-backs or blots on records.

The late Patrick Hogan’s secret was more serious. He had Werdnig-Hoffman syndrome, a rare neuromuscular disease that confined him to a wheelchair when he was 10, wasted his body and took his life May 5 at age 41.

As a shockingly frail quadriplegic, Hogan couldn’t keep the physical part of his secret from anyone who laid eyes on him, and he didn’t shrink from curious glances. During the ‘70s and early ‘80s he was often seen wheeling his chair through Los Angeles art gallery openings and engaging in animated conversation.

Nor did Hogan deny his condition. He did what was necessary to make art, hiring assistants to follow his directions and learning to operate mouth-held instruments and a mechanical easel.

These facts are well known in art circles, but--ethically speaking--Hogan kept his secret by refusing to trade his disability for sympathy or critical favors. When he showed his art in the best galleries, it was because it belonged there. His paintings didn’t sell well, but they required no apologies.

Hogan’s best works, and those he was known for, are large abstractions composed of paint-spattered rope and acrylic on canvas. Packed together in tight rows, the rope ridges form dynamic shapes that jostle pictorial space and push against borders. In a 1984 interview, Hogan told Calendar that his use of rope evolved naturally during a time when artists were exploring unorthodox materials. His original approach also offered a temporary way out of his dilemma: Telling someone else how to paint his ideas wouldn’t work, but he could direct an assistant to apply rope to canvas.

When he felt confined by that ingenious method and frustrated by his distance from his own artwork, Hogan used mechanical devices to paint feathery watercolors and ink works on paper. Unlike the rope paintings, invariably described as “tough” or “muscular,” Hogan’s smaller drawings and watercolors are delicate and ethereal. Both bodies of work exude an inner light that seems to be fueled by uncommon energy.

Hogan compiled an enviable resume: a Guggenheim fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s Young Talent Award, solo exhibitions at the Newport Harbor Art Museum, Los Angeles Institute of Contemporary Art and Tortue Gallery.

But the honor that probably meant most to him was a 1985 benefit at the Temporary Contemporary. About 160 artists donated their work to a $100-a-ticket raffle, organized to raise money for a colleague whose courage was legendary. Hogan told a friend that the event was “the highlight of my life.” Many individuals had aided him in the past, but this was the first large-scale effort to help him meet endless expenses.

It was also a rare example of organized altruism in a milieu that is increasingly dominated by careerism and commercial interests. The artists, collectors, dealers, critics and museum people who attended the affair had a vested interest in it, however. By believing in Hogan we could share a secret that symbolizes the pursuit of art as a pure endeavor--one that challenges the intellect and frees the spirit.