By Travis Hill
Among the characters parading past his West King St. office, Perry Knotts noticed a peculiar constant. His black, shaggy hair had just a hint of gray coming through; a black, gunslinger-style mustache dominated his unshaven face; and, for a homeless guy, he seemed just friendly enough to be approached.
“That was in 2004,” […]

By Paulette Perhach

How does one measure the success as an artist? Is it a measuring stick notched with the number of pieces sold? Is it a scrapbook of magazine articles and opening announcements? Or is it an hourglass with bits of sand bursting with color, showing the amount of time you spent simply creating?

You want to call the Pegasus Gallery about the artwork on its walls? You can’t. No phone.
You want to walk in and get the tattoo your drunk friends just convinced you would be awesome? You can’t. No walk-ins.
And that is exactly how owners Stevie Floyd and Kimberly Wells like it.
“We didn’t want a normal tattoo shop,” said 25-year-old Floyd, cleaning up after finding a stopping point on a customer’s arm. “We wanted a nice atmosphere, something quiet and intimate, so we could really give our clients good attention. We wanted something low-key.”
Mission accomplished.

His subjects are the slick-haired gentleman, the perky-nosed blond, the drama between them that the prim and proper culture of the early ‘60s hid behind suits and beehives. With no visible brushstrokes, Jacksonville native Mark George, 37, portrays the drama of his subjects on pieces of torn, polyvinyl chloride panels, giving them the feeling of pieces from a collapsed façade.

Drift: How did you get into art, and how did you discover your style?

In her living room studio, Fang Ling Lee paints a slick black stroke, taking her hand on a curving trail to the top corner of the canvas, where the hair of two beauties flows in the air.

The figures, naked and swaddled together in sweeps of gray paint, stare out of their speckled world back at their creator, working in bum-around clothes, her feet bare but for splotches of paint.

Finishing her ladies, she signs “Ling” in pink oil pastel. A finished piece calls for a celebratory cigarette.

Leif Kruse never looks at his paintings with a satisfied smile. He never thinks, “Oh, I like that.”

More likely, Leif will just stare. And when that doesn’t help, he’ll make himself a drink or go for a ride on his bike. He’ll get away.

“I’m probably my worst critic,” said Leif, 26. “I’ve gotten some nice comments. I choose to ignore most of them.”