I call Tim McCormick America’s most important artist because I believe in the man. I have been following Tim’s painting for years as he’s gone from an absurdly talented, hard-working, budding art-star to taking on the international scene with the grace, confidence, and courage of a bullfighter.
    Tim’s art is vivid and emotional and funny and original and painful. Trees tangle like claws in ghosted glens while young girls with dog snarls stare out from baby pink dream-spaces. And there are words. Words you can’t quite make out. Sometimes they’re scribbled over. Sometimes they’re faded behind cottony clouds of paint.
    It’s nothing you’ve seen before. There are no hackneyed lines, nothing faked or phoned-in or cribbed from someone else. It’s Tim’s world, a soft, alluring, and sometimes harrowing place.
    Lately Tim has been doing massive wall-size pieces, but he began, years ago, on small canvases and things that weren’t canvases at all: skateboards, surfboards, a practical kind of art for a kid who grew up surfing the beaches of San Diego’s North County.
    “I was into painting skateboards for the act of painting, for the practice, honing my craft,” says Tim in a mellow-timbred California drawl. “I’ve done about a thousand surfboards that I painted individually. That’s how I taught myself how to paint—on surfboards and skateboards.”
  &