Writing in these pages in our September, 1999 issue, Todd Paul described Joe Concra's (then) latest painting series—balloons in various stages of untethering and deflation—as possessing an "ineffable sadness." Six years on, the objects have changed (houses of cards this time), but the moody melancholy remains. The stench of human failure—mechanical, emotional, and political—is the pungent aroma that wafts off of Concra's work. I interviewed Concra at his Kingston studio in early September about various painting-related topics. His responses appear on the page opposite. Recent paintings by Joe Concra will be exhibited at Van Brunt Gallery, 460 Main Street, Beacon, October 8-31. (845) 838-2995; www.vanbruntgallery.com.
—Brian K. Mahoney

Every day I paint, so if it's not going well, which is 364 out of 365 days of the year, you just keep working. It's about work. You get up in the morning, you paint all day, whatever happens, happens, and hopefully something leads to something.

You never start with a good idea. You just start with working. The idea comes later. There's never a finished painting that doesn't have four or five paintings underneath it that were complete failures. If I hit one out of 75, I'm really happy.

You do one thing, you're happy with it, but within that one thing you see an avenue to explore something else. With the card series, just like the balloons or just like the boats, after that first one, you keep exploring it, how far you can bring it until you get to the point where you feel like you've exhausted the idea.

I'm not tired of making [card paintings]. I keep trying to convince myself I'm tired of making them. Isn't it time for something new? I've got an idea: I'll make an elephant floating out of the picture on balloons. Just to get myself out of it.

Hopefully, I can put you in this world I've created for a short amount of time. Let's face it: There's so much going on, there's so much information—TV, the Internet, walking down the street. If you have the guts to stand in front of a painting as a viewer—which I think takes an incredible amount of decision making to begin with—if I can keep you there, if I can get you to stop and look, that's pretty good. I got somebody to slow down and take a look at a fixed spot on a wall.

There's a great quote that my friend Tram told me that I'm not sure who to attribute it to: "It takes two people to make a great painting: one person to make it and one person to tell him to stop." Sometimes you don't know when to stop.

I don't want to be completely comfortable in these places. Maybe that's why they're so sad. If anybody really looks at these paintings and is happy, I'd be shocked. I don't expect everyone to get it and like it. But I am happy making them.