Biography of Dan Ramirez
ARTIST (painter) and MUSICIAN (bass) . I am a Prof. Emeritus from the University of Wisconsin-Madison where I taught studio arts and seminars on Contemporary art. I graduated from the University of Chicago where I recieved my MFA in 1977. I have exhibited nationally and internationally for over thirty years. My work has been published in numerous journals and books. I am an avid reader and an amateur poet. I played music professionally for fifteen years; primarily jazz. I am also a former steel hauler of fifteen years. I was born and raised on the southside of Chicago.
Dan Ramirez's Works:
Dennis Adrian: Sight out of mind: Essays and Criticsm on Art; Contemporay American Art Critics, UMI Research Press,1985; Chapter 12, Dan Ramirez: A Critical Survey of Form and Content.
The Painter Speaks: Artists Discuss Their Experiences and Careers, edited by Joan Jeffries, Greenwood Press,1993, Chapter 10.
Art In Chicago: 1945-1995, Museum of Contemporary Art, Thames and Hudson,1995.
Numerous art Journals.
Dan Ramirez Poems
A current of lines with wheels honed A city’s gondola on cobblestone A melody sung in the wake of rain A song in motion with no refrain
Let Me Tell You Something...
There’s a smell To Clean…
Ink (For Theresa Marie)
As I crease each page with the pressure of my point, Cutting into the flow of each character, I strive to lay lines to the surface of meaning.
The anvil’s smith Dreams of clouds As he hammers steel Into iron bars.
Dance With Me
You approach me Trading light For light
A Period Of Time...At Sea
I lay the glass down And rest my eyes upon its ring Of condensation
Drummer (For Lance)
Like the air that orchestrates chimes Or rides on the waves of a cymbal Beneath its surface; there is rhythm
I face the wind; Currents of time that score my brow With textured text;
The Liquid Owl
It was such a little thing As I held it. Between My fingers. It felt like Well…what it was
I face the wind;
Currents of time that score my brow
With textured text;
Memories that run
Downstream toward falls that plunge headlong
Into inkwells of darkness.
But with stained hands,