True Artist / Aaron aka Ducksworth | Edition XV
Along 1st avenue you can find one of the last bastions of authentic downtown New York. Nestled between a pet shop, an obscure Mediterranean boutique, and a quaint West Texan bar known for its infamous tranny fights, is the Ducksworth compound. A small studio where artist, iconographer and budding conspiracy theorist Aaron lives and plays. Typical of New York artists, Aaron is from some suburb in some town in New Jersey you’ve never heard of. But that’s where the story starts. His obsession with Ralph Lauren, his vast collection of fantasy RPG’s, an obscene fascination with Dub style reggae; accompanied by his signature Tourette-like outbursts of patois. Before you even knew what heritage was, Aaron was living it; archiving a generation yet to be defined.
Studying film and television at NYU Aaron set out to be an artist, but hardly ever a designer. As a matter of fact call him one and he might spit on you. Pardon the passion but not really, that’s just who he is. Aaron was long on his way to creating one of the most obscure and nervously interesting stories in New York.
Aaron quickly became a staple amongst the young crop of designers, artists, and personalities that made up the nouveau avant garde consortium. He networked his way into scoring a graphic design post at Frank 151; a long running underground publication that covered thieves, vigilantes, graffiti legends and the awesomely weird people that make cities, cities. After accumulating even more experience and stories, an integral part to his narrative, at King Stampede he launched the enigmatic utility concept that so happens to make clothes Ducksworth. It as this point his emergence begins to transcend art, fashion or whatever cliché you can fathom.
Aaron is a true artist in the sense that he absouletly hates art. He hates everything that accompanies the notion of art or what art should be. He’s always looking for that thing. You know that undefinable idiosyncrasy you can’t articulate, you just have to get. You know? No? Well that drive to be undefined and just be, has helped transform his small studio into a bonafide institution. I’m talking about real deal post apocalyptic Warhol shit. Every derelict in the Lower, every drug pusher in Tompinks park, and neighborhood dog owner knows this kid.
His art is as much the disparate people that make up his block as it is his own manifestation. He’s documenting a time in space in New York no one outside of this art version of La Costra Nostra even knows about. He’s the Art Bell of this downtown thing. Yet he creates these imaginative aesthetic worlds that capture the depth of his sense memory. He weaves a complex story of comfort and design that you have to follow, he doesn’t make it easy nor does he intend to. But those few who can say they’re apart of it know this kid is capturing something special, something you will wish you were apart of. While your chasing every design celebrity, he’s collaborating with Max Bode from the New Yorker or portrait artist Jim Ceravolo. He’s creating what he often refers to as ‘little schools of design.’ This is Bahaus with a fat spliff. Get it now? Well one day you will, just look for that dope roadside motel in Dover, New Jersey.