DW#3
OMG !!!!
Darrell Walters
He's like pretty rad and shit.
Drawing and painting stuff. Amazing awesome amazingness.
Music recording and writing and we kicked it when I came to London.
Record shopping, curry, pub crawl, cricket, charity shop shopping, you know...
a couple of blokes just bloking around.
Then he came to California and I picked him up at the shipyard (in my candy apple red corvette).
We went surfing, that was soooo cool. We listened to ska and ate burritos and saw some cool shit.
We talked about art.
He said he's all about quality over quantity.
I said "Darrel.....this is why you are rad.....hugs!"
Then he bought me a Corona and we went back to my condo , and listened to the B52's (similar to his music) and got ready to go out clubbing that night.
All in all ... pretty cool, and awesome and amazing.
Right On ! DW
Your bro,
Jason Lytle Montana, January 2012.
DW#2
Horace Brightwald (later renamed Daryl Waller by a council of elders) came unto this world by humble means.
His mother, a fletcher from the western hills, taught Daryl the importance of eating what you kill.
Colonel Waller takes that ethic into his current endeavor, capturing the shades of ancient bootblacks to sell to small business loan applicants. Former lovers describe his bedside manner as being like "walking with Satan through an airplane hangar built on a solid foundation of nightmares." Winds do not affect him. Two years later he began drawing. Early on he refused to draw even a centimeter without wearing his swan hat. Skinning swans comes natural to Daryl. So does adoring them.
In early 2000 he set off on a journey of self-realization accompanied by his trusty companion Keith, an antique man with a shaky-at-best reputation. His refusal to believe in the existence of lizards is endearing at best and a dark family secret at worst.
Clay Byers North Carolina, February, 2011.
DW#1
The artist purveys the ire of gods the habits of the ancients grotesqueries dubious mythologies nature red in tooth and paw putrolithic marshes spitting out crystals he stamps his unhappy icons onto the quiet dream of the shrew.
Fearful of the goat in the deathmask and its all-seeing eyebeam he sends strings of rainbows little shouts and curses a rampageous menagerie into the wind blows the fiend skywards flashing bad teeth See him there, the artist, concentrating hard on death, the afterlife and the excrement of yaks.
Megan Wakefield Bristol, UK, 2010.