Ryan Henry Ward knows why the cars are honking. They want him to jump.
John Keatley
Ward working on his latest commission: KOMO's parking garage.
Jonathan Walczak
Ward's Ballard workshop is the only permanent roof he puts over his head.
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It's about 8 p.m., two weeks before the 2008 presidential election, and a light breeze flutters across the cool October night. Ward sits on the edge of a railing on the Alaskan Way Viaduct. A loose grip keeps him from plunging 60 feet onto the road below.
Like the traffic, his mind is a blur. He is convinced he is a raven and, like the mythological bird of Native American lore, has stolen the light of the world, helping usher in the apocalypse and the reign of Satan. In a moment, he will sprout wings and leap.
Drivers whir by as their headlights illuminate a heavily bearded man, about 5'8" and 220 pounds, shielding himself from the chilly air with a red jacket, jeans, and a camouflage baseball cap. His feet, decked out in low-cut brown boots, dangle over the side of the Viaduct. Someone calls 911.
In nine minutes, a cop shows up and slowly approaches Ward. "Why are you up here, man?" he asks, according to SPD records and Ward's own account. "I love God," Ward says. The officer, fearing he's about to witness a suicide, asks him if he feels like hurting himself. Ward stares at traffic and doesn't reply. The officer grabs him.
Three years later, Ward says the ensuing trip to a mental hospital was the last time he needed serious psychological care. His imagination always ran rampant, but it was starting to get out of control. He needed a way to manage it, to release the building pressure.
Sipping from a steaming mug one recent morning at Ballard's Short Stop Coffee, a favorite hangout where his work adorns the walls, Ward, 36, a soft-spoken teddy bear of a man who peppers his speech with "totally"s and "right on"s, says characters run rampant through his mind. There are brightly colored walruses, squids, and an eco-terrorist Sasquatch who likes sweatpants and nachos. A misunderstood witch appears dark, but has a loving side. "There's a tenderness to her," he says.
In three years, Ward has transformed himself from "Ryan" into "Henry," Seattle's most prolific muralist. More than 120 of his whimsical murals dot the city, populated by the colorful, cartoonish characters that reside in his brain. Typical of his style is a Ballard mural that features two huge, pink, polka-dotted walruses casually swimming, one lazily staring downward and the other, with big, bright eyes, looking toward a stream of air bubbles.
His murals are everywhere, all marked by his signature—simply "Henry," his middle name and artistic alter ego. He's also sold nearly 2,000 canvases, an amazing feat for someone who's only been painting full-time since 2008. He says his customers include local celebrities like Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos, whom Ward claims bought one of his paintings at a charity auction. (Bezos declined comment through a spokesperson.) Like one of his characters, the Quadropus, a feisty octopus missing half its extremities, Ward's reputation is quickly spreading its tentacles through the region.
His journey from well-off landscaper to full-time artist living in a small bus and stamping his image of cheer around the city is rooted in the transformational effects of unexpected tragedy and drug-induced insanity. It's also the story of a guy who just likes to paint, his sudden rise to prominence, and critics who think his work is gooey, meaningless, and annoyingly prevalent.
Kevin McKouen remembers when Ward first stepped into his Fremont gallery, The Orange Splot, with a photo book containing 10 of his canvases. It was early in the summer of 2008, and Ward had been crossing the city trying to find a home for his work. Everyone so far had turned him down, until he stepped into McKouen's gallery, open only a few months.
Contrary to his G-rated murals, Ward's early work had a lot of nudity and was, by his own account, bizarre. "My first batch, there were a lot of wieners and boobs and stuff like that. It was different and weird at the time. It's funny, because everybody that turned me down has got a hold of me since wanting to show my art, and I'm like, 'Fuck you,' " he says, chuckling.
McKouen believes Ward's work has a lightheartedness that people connect to. "The more I looked at [his art], the more I smiled," he says. "I said, 'If he's making me this happy, he's going to make other people happy, too.' " In a short time, Ward was The Orange Splot's top-selling artist.
For the most part, the artist, like his murals, has a happy and whimsical personality. But both Ward and his work have a darker side that's easy to miss. Not everybody sees it, but those who know him peer through the innocent veneer of his characters and see the influence of the paranoia and delusions he's suffered on and off for almost two decades.
"One of my favorite paintings is this painting of a guy with one of the crazy, pointy-fingered hands Ryan does so well," McKouen says. "He's about to push a button, and in the background, spelled backward in a mirror, is the word 'madness.' It has a lightheartedness to it, but it definitely also has a dark side. You're wondering what this button is, and you see the word—'madness'—and the look on the guy's face. He doesn't quite look like he knows what he wants to do."
