Keith Mitchell

1966 - 2021

Keith Mitchell

July 26, 1966 - June 22, 2021

Keith left us and left this hard world Tuesday, June 22. Born in Portland, he was a 4th generation Oregonian. He grew up in Corvallis and went to university in literally all four corners of this country earning undergraduate and graduate degrees in art. He had just retired from his job as a technician in the art department at San Francisco State University. He was excited about the next stage of his life in which he would renovate his Portland home, work on and enjoy the cabin on the Alsea and spend more time with his brothers and nephews. He was an inventor, an artist, an iconoclast and a thieving, iron skinned, hardworking angel, with not one sour bone in his body.

But to say he was an artist is an understatement. With a keenly honed sense of and appreciation for the absurd, the ironic and the grotesque, Keith lived and breathed artistic creation. Indeed his wildly kinetic and conjuring approach to creation was an art form in itself and was an evocation of, among many others, Kerouac, Pollack, Vonnegut, Bukowski, Bebop and the Butthole Surfers but always uniquely, exquisitely and uncompromisingly Keith.

The eccentric and often inscrutable way in which he lived his life and navigated this world was itself also an ever-unfolding work of art indelibly marked by a unique aesthetic all his own. For Keith it was simply not enough to create a massive, multi-sectioned abstract ceramic sculpture, for example. No it wasn't done yet because you had to create this thing, load it into your car and then, on one of your many trips criss-crossing the US, erect it roadside on a desolate and forlorn stretch of Nebraska freeway and simply drive on, leaving it behind for the good folk to gawk at, point to, ponder and ultimately destroy. Or perhaps it was really Jack Beauregarde, Keith's alter-ego, that did that (yep that's right, he had an alter ego).

His intellect, his joy, his insatiable curiosity and his bewilderment at the conventions and absurdities of American life caused him to meticulously and ferociously latch onto bits and pieces - memes, before that word lost its meaning - of American culture. He would return over and over again to an odd and wide-ranging assortment of ideas and motifs which he had scavenged along the paths of his life's far-reaching journey, sometimes to the point of annoyance. For fun you could mention one of his pet narratives and like flipping a switch see him light up and deliver the oratory, riffing and improvising as he went off in a blaze of irony, observation and, often, vitriol. A true visionary in this department, his wit and ardor made it impossible not to egg on, join in and pile on with no more choice but to fan the flames, trade solos and try to keep up.

And so one of those recurring themes of his was the story of Rabo Karabekian, the one-eyed Armenian artist that is the protagonist in the book Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. As it turns out, the story of this fictional character serves as a poignant and haunting metaphor for Keith's own life. Like Keith, Karabekian used housepaint. But the paint he used was not "oops paint" from the hardware store but rather a revolutionary new kind of paint which, as fate would have it, turned out to be highly toxic and unstable. This meant that the Karabekian canvases would all eventually fall to pieces and be lost with no chance of restoration. The paintings were powerful but the fate of their self-destruction was sealed. It was this crushing irony, among other things, like the eye patch and the Armenian connection probably, which so appealed to Keith.

The artwork Keith left behind, his paintings, his sculpture, his woodwork, his ceramics, will be not soon falling apart, not by a longshot. The artistry of his life however, like the paintings of his beloved fictional character, was certainly underlain with an early expiration date. The ravages of his diseases, cancer and alcoholism, would eventually do him in. While physicians in hospitals were able to mitigate the former, the endless attempts of family and friends to save him from the latter were no match for this relentless and heartbreaking monster. And yet enduring what must have been at times an unbearable darkness Keith was still always full of joy, humility, wonder and gratitude. This joy and sense of wonder and the playfulness and sweet innocence of his being permeates his work and it is in this and all of our memories that he will live on in our hearts and our souls.

We labor under the cruelty and the rip-off of his passing and yet exult in the beatitude of everything he was and is and will forever remain. He made his mark, and then some. Farewell sweet loving friend and brother, so long sweet angel, peace to you finally.

Keith is preceded in death by his mother, Gwendolyn. He is survived by his twin, Paul, by his big brother, Alan, and by his father, Russ.