THE PROBLEM WITH ROBERT WILLIAMS

TOWARD THE END of our third interview, Robert Williams gives me some advice about overcoming creative blocks. “Phrase it as a problem,” he says. “

- ELANA SCHERR

For example, ‘The problem with Robert Williams is . . .’ And then you solve it, and then you have your story.” Cool, cool. He should know about productivity, with more than 300 paintings in his oeuvre, more dirty comics than you could shake a censorship hearing at, and a hot-rod build so confounding that it inspired a whole new scene. The problem with Robert Williams is that wherever he goes, he’s a problem.

Williams has been a problem for the art world, the field of cartooning, and even the classic-car community, because his work—whether on canvas or on sheetmetal—puts a gloss on the sort of nasty daydreams civilized people deny having and smears muck on the shiny nostalgia that takes the place of real history. He’s hard to get a handle on, his images are full of trapdoors, and critiques of Williams tend to say more about the reviewer than the artist.

In 1963, Williams left Albuquerque, New Mexico, for Los Angeles to stop being a problem and start being an artist. “I had a bohemian streak that was not practical,” Williams says. “I was going no fucking place. My friends were into burglary and drugs, and everything was looking bad, and I wanted to better myself. So I said, ‘I’ll go to L.A., I’ll study art, and I’ll have nothing to do with hot rods or motorcycles.’”