Star Gazing is a comprehensive, 328-page chronicle that traces the artistic journey of Paul Richmond, from his early years to his present-day achievements. Available now on Amazon, this beautifully crafted, hardcover book offers an intimate look into the life and work of an artist who has made significant contributions to the art world and beyond.
Featuring a rich collection of Richmond’s artwork, personal commentary, and reflections from family and friends, Star Gazing provides readers with a unique insight into the mind and heart of this prolific artist. From a small midwestern town, Richmond overcame struggles with bullying and homophobia to become a celebrated queer artist and activist. He is known for his vibrant, expressive paintings that often explore themes of identity, sexuality, and LGBTQ+ issues. His work is characterized by bold colors, dynamic compositions, and a mix of realism with surreal or symbolic elements.
The book begins with a foreword by Richmond’s childhood art mentor, Linda Regula, one of his biggest inspirations. Throughout the book, close friends and family members offer commentary about the artist, providing a well-rounded perspective on his life and work. The afterword, written by Ella Hubbard, one of Paul’s art students, represents the cycle of mentorship, highlighting Richmond’s lasting impact on the next generation of artists.
Star Gazing is not just a book; it’s a celebration of Paul Richmond’s artistic legacy and his unwavering commitment to using art as a force for good.
Excerpt: The Piece That Doesn't Fit
The first painting I remember making that attempted to express something more personal than reinterpreted cartoon characters from books and movies was called The Piece That Doesn't Fit. This title was an accurate description of my social status at school. I painted my classmates as two-dimensional stick figures, playing ball and flying kites, all smiling. They were located on a solid blue background broken up into perfectly aligning puzzle pieces. One piece was missing at the bottom of the puzzle—mine. I painted myself isolated against a black negative space beneath the pleasant scene, in a puzzle piece of my own that would never fit the allotted space.
The supportive adults in my life reassured me that I was just different. My peers had other terms. I didn’t know what words like "queer" or "fag**t" meant, but I quickly learned that they were bad. Fortunately, I had a deep-rooted passion for art and confidence in my identity as an artist. I tried to ascribe the qualities that made me “different” to this budding passion, sometimes successfully.
The Piece That Doesn't Fit was the first time I shifted away from telling other people's stories with my work. Rather than portraying my favorite characters from books and movies, I found that by giving my feelings—even the painful ones—a visual voice, I could discover new things about myself; and others with shared experiences seemed to understand and relate to my work. I still use this painting today when I speak to groups of young people about my work. I never have to explain it to them, because they know exactly what it's about.
Growing up Catholic, I was taught that being gay was evil. And when I started having homosexual feelings, I was so ashamed of myself. I always wanted so desperately to please the people I loved, and I felt this dark secret would ruin everything. I tried to force myself to adhere to societal expectations, but everything about who I was felt like it was in conflict with who I was supposed to be. I didn’t have the vocabulary to express these feelings, but art gave me a much-needed outlet.
How Do You Rise Up, Little Hercules? (previous page, left) is about being trapped under the heavy burden of my own secret identity. I couldn't have explained that at the time, but it's all there in the drawing.
The Weight of Decisions (previous page, right) shows the difficulty of choosing between the love I felt for my family and the shiny jewels tempting me away.
The Passage (right) represented my fears about the future, not knowing where my life would lead. I was afraid that my eighteenth birthday would be like walking through a wall and I would instantly become an adult. The colorful, imaginative world I inhabited as a child would be forever lost to me as I entered the scary, treacherous world of adulthood, filled with grown-up decisions and pressures. At the same time, I was also eager to peek around that wall, hoping that I might see a path that would lead me somewhere that I could truly feel like I belonged. After all, as frightening as the unknown aspects of adulthood seemed, could anything really be worse than high school?
I started teaching art classes through the Grove City Parks & Recreation Department when I was a teenager. It was one of the most rewarding things I'd ever done.
That hope of finding my place in the world led me to Columbus College of Art and Design. Years of extreme bullying made me eager for an opportunity to seek out other like-minded people. However, as supportive of my artwork as my parents had always been, it was difficult for my dad to wrap his head around my desire to study art in college. I was going to be the first person in our family to go to college, and he thought I should go to an academic university and study something more practical. But I was determined. Our visit to CCAD didn't help much. I was sold, but Dad didn't even want to get out of the car when he saw all the students walking around with colorful hair, piercings, and tattoos.
That's when I knew I needed to enlist Linda's help. We invited her and her husband Jim over one Saturday evening for dinner. My sister Laura and Jim had a special connection, similar to Linda and me. Jim and Laura sat for hours playing chess and video games—anything competitive. Meanwhile, Linda struck up a conversation with my dad. She was never afraid to speak her mind, and even though she and Dad rarely saw eye to eye, they had a mutual respect and appreciation for
each other.
Linda said, "So Paul was telling me about his visit to CCAD."
"I don't want him going to that school," Dad interjected. "He won't ever make a living. It will be a waste of money and time. I just don't understand where he gets all these non-traditional ideas!"
"Well Paul," Linda replied calmly (and this is when we knew she was going in for the kill), "He gets those ideas from you. I don't know anyone more non-traditional than you, taking an early retirement and staying home to take care of the kids while your wife worked—back at a time when men simply weren't doing that."
The next day, I began working on my portfolio for art school.
One of the most meaningful pieces I made at this time was a tribute to my uncle Lawrence Bryan, who died at age nineteen in Vietnam. He was an artist. My mom still has pizza boxes and scraps of paper with his drawings on them. He didn't have the resources or encouragement that I had. Life was very difficult for my mom and her siblings growing up because of poverty and abuse.
Before he left for the war, he wrote a poem called "I'm Supposed to Die For You," which is what I titled this painting.
My middle name is Lawrence after him, and I feel like the life I'm living as an artist is for both of us. This painting earned me a special college scholarship from a veterans organization. Recently, it was carved into his headstone.
My high school years were a challenging time. It's apparent both in my eyes and in my art. I was in denial about my identity, tormented by my peers, and uncomfortable in my own skin. But even though I was deeply closeted and insecure, I still found a way to express what I was feeling in my artwork, paving the way for a lifetime of doing that.
My portfolio earned me a scholarship to Columbus College of Art and Design. At that time, my career ambition was to be a Disney animator, mostly because that sounded like a steady source of income and made my parents feel better about my decision.
But my adventure was just beginning, and big changes were on the horizon.
