Its not everyday you meet a full-on genius, and sometimes its not immediately obvious when you do.
When I first came to Knoxville, I was meeting a lot of hep-cats, mostly UT students from all over Tennessee, but that didn't include too many locals. Gradually, I was introduced to a community of locals that were cooler than everyone. What made them a community was skating. Nowadays, with the rise of skateboarding's popularity and rampant commercialism of the sport, I doubt that kids these days would live up to an over-arching state of hip-ness that is earned from being ahead of the curve; but in the 90's, all Knoxville's skaters knew each other and grew up doing what was then a hardcore, underground thing (for Tennessee, especially.) I'm wary of even mentioning it for the fact that there's so much dick-riding these days vis-a-vis skating (ie: Lords Of Dogtown, X-Games) and that it is often used as a "cool" backdrop, as a pose for outsiders to seem down. However, to this day, some of the realest, most genuine and interesting people I ever met were the Knoxville cats that grew up skateboarding together. There's probably a million anecdotes that I could write about this group, but Steven Ingram was unlike anyone I've ever met.
I am, at best, a nominal skater. Back then I was just a nineteen-year-old latecomer fiddling around on my own. But due to many outside interests we shared, I eventually hung out with those kids pretty often; or you could say they hung out with my crowd a lot--it became very nebulous. It started with Roadie. This guy thrived on constantly being in the mix. Roadie and I lived in Melrose Hall. He was extremely friendly and if he knew that something was going on, he would come get me and introduce me to everyone, give me pointers on how to ollie, and the like. Early on, he grabbed me and took me across Andy Holt Av to the fountain at the Clarence Brown theatre. When it was drained, you could skate it kinda like a bowl, but the entire flat of the middle dropped out to accommodate the fountain's pump--difficult for me who at that time had never skated any type of transition. Roadie and another guy were doing pretty well, carving curves around the pump then grinding or rocking back in from the lip, and I got to where I could manage a few crummy kick-turns. Then this kid Steven shows up. You can tell right away this cat is a character. He drops in and immediately starts tearing the bowl a new asshole. I couldn't tell you the names of the tricks he was doing, but at risk of sounding like a total layman, he would drop in, approach the lip, spin around a few times, and proceed to grind halfway around the fountain. There's not a lot of room on this thing to build any momentum--its only about three feet deep and your line is less than ideal. But this kid is attacking the motherfucker, squeezing out every iota of inertia and grinding the lip like crazy. Then he'd drop back in switch and do it again, til the security guard ran us off. He nor the others made too big a deal of it, so neither did I; but I felt like jumping up and down. This kid got me amped! Years later, I was visiting the top apartment in the house at the corner of 15th and Laurel when I heard the sound of a skateboard. I glance out the window and its Steven, bombing down 15th at top speed--a steep-ass hill, and this was back when it was paved with that gridded-surface concrete--doing slides, shove-its, and flip tricks the whole way, interjecting various war-cries as he went. But he wasn't showing off. As far as he knew, nobody was watching him. Skating for him was as natural as walking.
He often loudly asserted that he was a ninja, and that he skated for Jesus. The more I got to know him, I quickly came to realize that his extremely erratic behavior wasn't only something he did as a joke, for attention, or for acceptance; though he was conscious of those effects. At risk of sounding shamelessly politically incorrect, the truth is Steven was a nut in the tradition of Ernest T. Bass-- in the most wonderful way. Anyone who knew him couldn't help but be charmed by him. He was always courting these fresh-off-the-boat asian girls. I couldn't tell if it was a fetish for him, or if he needed that language barrier so he could be judged solely on his charm, or both. He told me that he was originally from small-town East Tennessee--Strawberry Plains, I think--and that his family couldn't understand why he didn't just get a job at Wal-Mart, which broke my heart. The unspoken implication was that a greeter at Wal-Mart was all they figured he was good for. Shame on them, for as I said--and I do not exaggerate--he had the mark of a true genius. I don't just mean that he could skate like a fish swims, or that the trappings of mental illness stereotypically passed for genius; though certainly both were part of the package. Steven Ingram created some of the most breathtaking artwork I've seen any of my peers produce.
I wasn't the only one who recognized his skill. One of his paintings was chosen for the cover to launch a locally produced arts magazine called entellechy in the mid-nineties--though the full color glossy replica lacked the subtlety of his impasto. Susan Key, whose gallery was in the Old City at the time, was also a supporter of his with many of his paintings on display. The subjects were often young asian girls drawn with exacting realism, their fingers bleeding and draped in Christmas lights. He also created other themes, but as a student of all asian art, the stylized kanji he developed as his personal monogram was ubiquitous. He used color theory perfectly and his pieces had incredible depth. I recognized all this because, since diapers, my artist mother had me in museums and art lessons, as well as from my UT art studies. (Comparing Steven's works to mine and the myriad works of my student-peer's, I think I'm qualified to say he smoked most of us in technique, and his themes were mature enough to compare with the self-assurance of the grad-students' creations.) That's how I knew his shit was the dope, but not Steven. He knew how to do it because he was a genius; he was self-taught. As Roadie related to me: "One day he just decided to draw." I'm not talking about the savant who looks at a Da Vinci and can duplicate it--though that in itself would be note-worthy. He utilized the most technical aspects of art-making to create original compositions with the fire of true emotion, while avoiding cliches typical of a young or self-taught artist (ie cartoons, sunsets, etc.) These are NOT qualities the average artist--however talented--picks up out of thin air. It is usually something that is drilled into them beyond a high-school level. That he was in all ways a talented artist by instinct blew my fucking mind. That his unique subject matter appealed to my taste was merely a bonus.
One Christmas I was sent $100 by my grandparents and I persuaded Steven to sell me a painting which I gave to my mom as a gift. She (with several undergrad degrees in art herself) loved it. Tellingly, over the ensuing years, she and I would be on the phone and she'd mention that she starred at Steven's painting at intervals the whole day (due to illness, she was often bed-ridden.) "Every time the light shifted with the movement of the sun, the colors and the depth changed and it was like a whole new painting," she once said. Then she'd ask about him (they've never met) and I'd tell her about the last time I ran into him. Then, whenever I next saw Steven, I'd relay my mother's compliments. I live in Atlanta now and don't run into him anymore, but I'll tell you about the final time I saw him.
It was probably 2001, and I was working at a place near Pluto Sports to earn money to move away. I often saw people I knew in that alley on the Strip, including skaters going to or leaving Pluto. One day, I heard my name and turned to see this puffy, pillsbury-dough-boy-looking dude. I had no idea who he was. He sheepishly told me he was Steven, but something was very different. I could see that he was under there, but the personality was somewhat off. The spark I knew him for was no longer present. I made some excuse to get back to my job and we parted. I felt like a total asshole for not recognizing him and for being so awkward. A while later, I saw a mutual friend and mentioned it to him. He said Steven's family had put him on anti-weirdo pills which made him retain water. I never saw Steven again.
You can bet I'm thankful that my family has one of his works to cherish, though. Domo, Steven. Domo Arigato.
