About the Artist:
Realism was Bobby's artistic preference during the early years of his development. His early objective was to paint what he saw. As time passed, however, he began to paint what he felt. Most of his paintings in this gallery are from this later period; he paints from the depths of his soul. Whether he is at peace with himself and the world or in agony is evident in each painting.
The Mechanistic Phase
He was born shortly before the beginning of the second world war in the great East Texas oilfield; his father was a steam locomotive engineer. These influences weighed heavily on his earliest paintings. By the age of three, the child showed an artistic inclination. His earliest drawings were of oil derricks, oil refineries, steam engines, and the machines of war.
The Pastoral Phase
But Bobby spent most of his childhood in a serene woodland setting of brooks and ponds and a climax forest of oaks. He had no brothers or sisters and for the most part he lived alone with his mother. The nearest neighbor was miles* away. During this period he painted pantheistic themes; trees and hills and brooks and still more trees. His mother, Mary Alma Moore had spent her early childhood in a somewhat similar setting in the deep pine forests of Zavalla County. They were both "children of nature".
A fifth grade teacher (and artist) Zelma Yarbrough, provided the only formal art instruction the boy ever had. He quickly progressed from crayons to watercolors to pastels to tempra to oils. It was soon obvious that oil was the medium for his robust style.
Gotterdamerung!
Then, on the cold, cold morning of January 19, 1985, Bobby awoke to find the house in flames. His 86 year old mother died in the fire and all his paintings of a lifetime were lost as well.
In the years following, he completed few paintings. "Everything I tried to paint turned into lightning, smoke, fire and flames," he said. The blues and greens and earthy browns of his earlier works had become billowing clouds of black and the woodland ponds had become lakes of fire. The fluffy white clouds had become burning whirlwinds. His tortured soul screamed for release.
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