Forced Perspective: The Story of Artist Derek Hess

“You don’t have to suffer to be an artist, but you definitely have to feel.” --Derek Hess

Nick Cavalier’s portrait of Cleveland artist Derek Hess is filtered completely through his work. Over the course of 93 minutes we learn a ton about his background and training, his rise from guy doing posters for bands in a dive bar to one whose work is displayed in major museums; we see how he works, hear what he thinks about his work, listen to others give their own (unfailingly fawning) take.

What we don’t get is really firm picture of Hess himself. Like his haunting drawings, which often feature indistinct angels and demons with their faces hidden or masked, this documentary manages to stare at a thing for a long time without ever gazing deeply into its subject.

Hess is an interesting guy, and his story is that of how an artist is successful in the modern age. The son of an institutional art professor, Hess’ art has always been linked to commerce. After band flyers he moved onto posters, album covers, T-shirts and even organizing concerts that bore his name. (It was later changed to Strhess Fest because, as someone finally pointed out to him, he’s not Ozzy Osbourne.) His art is popular fodder for tattoo artists.

This movie is a portrait of artist-as-rock-star, a guy who came from nothing with a load of talent and vision, became a beacon to others, and inevitably threw it all away, at least for a while.

Now Hess is 50-ish, wears reading glasses to do art in his cavernous white studio. He’s driven, meticulous, even a bit dweeby. His work is arresting – the sort of stuff that grabs your attention, with its brash mix of pop culture references and personal aspects of Hess’ own life reflected.

For instance, he talks about being abruptly dumped by his girlfriend right before flying to Switzerland, where he immediately dove into a river of booze after 16 years of sobriety. There followed a period of years of not being able to do any kind of consistent work, after which he finally got straight and did a piece showing a person clutching their chest as blood hemorrhages in long, artful streams down the vertical page.

“Bad relationships are good inspiration,” he says. A pithy quote -- but can we know a little more about the bad relationship, in order to better understand how it inspired?

Cavalier dutifully covers Hess’ rise as a classically trained artist at the Cleveland Institute for Art. He didn’t take things seriously, drank and partied a lot, ended up cutting chicken wings at the Euclid Tavern, where he was eventually given the opportunity to book bands for gigs, and took it upon himself to draw intricate flyers advertising them. They soon snared attention – especially one shortly after Kurt Cobain’s death showing the Nirvana star wearing a Barney the dinosaur costume, having just shot himself with a smoking gun.

The man has balls, it cannot be denied.

Hess talks about his affinity for World War II machinery of war, Gil Kane comic books, religious imagery (despite not being religious himself). We also get to watch him work, which is fascinating for the layperson to see complex art being built up slowly, version after version, layer upon layer. Non-artists (like me) tend to think they just sit down and make it happen in one fell swoop.

Hess talks animatedly about the ebb and flow of the creative process, of waiting to be “tuned in” or “in tune” to the vision behind what he’s creating, and the need to keep working toward it even when the thing on paper doesn’t match what’s in his head.

But, as engaging as this superficial look at the artist is, we just never dig deeper than we’d like. Cavalier has too many interviews with art experts who universally sing Hess’ praises, but few from personal relations. There’s a brief, unilluminating bit with his sister and whole bunch with his business partner, but I never felt like I got to know the guy behind the amazing art.

The closest we come is Hess describing a time when he went into rehabilitation for his problems -- in addition to struggling with alcohol, he’s bipolar -- and being sent away to the psyche ward. This seems like a ripe topic for interrogation by the filmmaker, but the moment passes with a quick joke about “kicking ass” during art therapy.

“Nice is boring,” he says. “The sad songs are what sell. I’m not drawing to sell, I’m drawing what I feel.”

“Forced Perspective” succeeded in making me interested in the art of Derek Hess, but failed at composing a three-dimensional picture of him. I keep coming back to his twisted figures, their eyes hallowed out, their faces upturned or covered by a mournful hand. They’re unseeing, wrapped in their own anguish. Perhaps it’s appropriate that the artist who created them should remain veiled to the viewer.