VIEW FINDER Artist Joshua Elias paints himself outside the void of the struggling artist

Mixing creativity with commerce can sometimes result in a sticky mess for the serious-minded artist, but Joshua Elias has been able to live up to his current title ---- as L.A.'s reigning Master of Fine, Not Hokey, Art for Hotels ------ while not veering too far from his passion.

Anyone who has cozied up in one of the area's more urban precious guest rooms has most likely taken note of Elias' moody abstracts hanging on the walls. "I try to imbue some spirit into my work." Elias unsheepishly says of his cavalcade of commissions, which grace the Viceroy hotels in Palm Springs and Santa Monica, the Avalon in Beverly Hills, and nearby Maison 140, where there are no less than 40 of his paintings.

Applying his psyche to so many canvases can leave his energy as drained as his paint jars. "I can feel like a factory working on five paintings at a time," admits Elias, a boyish 45, kicking back in his tow-level loft in the Brewery Arts Complex, that concrete artists' colony just east of downtown LA. Coffee in hand, he adds with just a touch of wryness, "But doing this has helped me from over-intellectualizing," Pity the legion of frustrated artists who would secretly like to rent out their paintings for scenes in Six Feet Under.

Elias' studio may be the archetypal tortured painter's playground ------ not the tattered chaise lounge and cement floor stained with dollops of color ------ but the yoga enthusiast is anything but tortured himself.

Raised in Wilmette, a Chicago suburb he says approximates "the town in Wonder Boys," Elias was blessed with "why-not?" genes. His mom Sheila, a painter and sculptor, exposed him and his older sister to ballet, museums ----- and junkyards. "She'd take us to the Southside to pick up trucking parts she wanted to use for an art project." Before turning to art, Elias studied film and acting at San Diego State, taught drama to military children at the U.S. base in Berlin, then shot for LA and showbiz (he ultimately wound up working at a video distribution outfit "and inventing these sunglasses made out of film strips")

Elias says, it wasn't until he suffered a series of calamities ------ the duplex apartment he shared with his girlfriend burned down, said relationship went up in smoke as well, and a dear friend killed himself ---- that he found his calling. CONTINUED . . .

66 Angeleno APRIL 2004

. . . CONTINUED "The losses had me questioning things. I was fucked up, really angry and reaching, so painting was almost therapy" he says. He studied at Otis College of Art and Design, and by 1988 his work, partly influenced "by de Kooning's work-ethic," earned him a spot in a group show at downtown's LACE gallery. Word spread to serious collectors (including Kelsey Grammer), and five years ago, a friend introduced him to interior designer Kelly Wearstler, the wife of hotel magnate Brad Korzon and owner of many of the spots graced with what Interior Design magazine hailed as Elias' "Rothko-esque canvasses."

Elias admits the parameters of his assignments can be a bit confining. The Avalon job called for "vintage looking" pieces (achieved by antiquing glazes over yellows, rusts and browns), and for two large paintings that hang from cables in the Viceroy's lobby, he was asked to "come up with something green."

He's leery of being compared to Mark Kostabi, the somewhat notorious artist who has made his prolific output either a statement or gimmick. Tellingly, a wall in Elias' studio is dominated by a blurry swirl of red and white that evokes a figure reaching toward the sky. "I painted it a few months ago, " he says, "I named it "The Elegance of Standing it Alone." Indeed, the artist has little trouble doing things his way. His work sold out at a November show at Gallery C in Hermosa Beach. He teaches art to a handful of students once a week at his loft. And he occasionally speaks to the likes of Claremont College kids on such topics as The Politics of Being Heard "I've got a lot to say, " Elias say with a self-knowing wince.

And, obviously, a desire to have a lot seen ---- seemingly anywhere "I had a notion of selling my paintings at a funeral parlor, and videotaping the transactions," he confides with a devilish giggle. But you have to draw the line somewhere. -- A --