taking a deep dive - with eric zener

Mar 29

Tucked away in an old Marinship building in Sausalito, dating back to World War II, is painter Eric Zener… and a rat-eating cat named Violet.

Violet is an older, short-haired white cat with big black spots, almost like a little cow. She’s got a bit of an edge, like she lived in a rough neighborhood or maybe did some time before settling into Sausalito waterfront, rent free.

Rat problems are pretty common in Sausalito, especially in these old waterfront buildings.

The building’s tenants got Violet specifically to deal with the issue. One of the neighboring tenants had her first, which of course just pushed all the critters straight into Eric’s studio. So Eric did what any normal human would do... He cut small openings throughout the building so Violet can move freely between spaces, like her own little system of cat doors, kind of like Chutes and Ladders.

I walk in and he’s wearing shorts and flip flops and a smile.

“This is where all of the magic happens?” I ask.

He gives me a half shrug. “This is where some of the magic happens.”

You get the sense pretty quickly he’s not trying to impress anyone.

The studio is exactly what you’d hope for and nothing like what you’d expect. It’s not pretentious. It’s just a working space.

Downstairs is mostly storage, he tells me. The finished work. The overflow. Paintings stacked and leaning against the walls, some wrapped, some not. Mixed media pieces, resin work, prints tucked into racks. Shelves with materials, things in progress, things waiting.

“The garden variety of everything,” he says, like it’s nothing.

It’s organized in its own way. Not messy, not staged. Just everything where it needs to be.

The actual painting happens upstairs.

I follow him as he heads up the creaky stairwell to his workspace.

And right there at the top is this three-foot-tall, almost sculptural buildup of paint—layers and layers from 20 years of palettes, he explains, hardened over time.

It’s almost obelisk-like, but softened. Full of color, no sharp edges. A conglomeration of what’s left on the palette, but still meaningful. It takes up space and becomes a different kind of art on its own.

His kids say they’ll use it for his tombstone, he mentions with a sideways grin.

My eyes drift to another six or so steps above the studio, where there’s a separate space for mentoring artists and letting kids come in and just make things. No real structure. Just space to explore.

“That’s what we’re all about,” he says. “At this point, that’s what it is for me.”

He’s built a successful career. But at a certain point, the meaning of success shifts. It becomes about what you give back, the opportunity to pass the craft down to the next generation of artists and thinkers, to give them space to explore and find their own voice.

There is one thing you cant help but notice immediately entering his art studio… Eric’s paintings are large. Really large. The kind that draw you in until it feels like you’re in the water yourself. I should have brought a suit and towel.

Most people know him for the water pieces now—figures suspended, drifting, caught in that quiet moment between air and water. But that wasn’t always the work.

He used to do lithographs. Men in hats. Women in red dresses. Lounging. A different mood, but you can still feel the same eye for composition.

Now it’s water.

And honestly, it fits. He moves through conversation the same way. Easy and unforced. No tight rules about anything. Just a kind of flow that lets things unfold. It makes me think that being an artist is more about being an observer and that is how Eric strikes me. He observes and studies nature, immerses himself in it.

He shows me a huge blank canvas with a rough pencil outline on it—what looks like the start of a water scene, a woman’s torso just beginning to take shape and of course… bubbles. Lots of bubbles.

“So this is what it looks like in the beginning,” he says. “I’m not the best at drawing, quite frankly. I just kind of build a topography. Just enough to guide me.”

The drawing isn’t really the point.

“I see better with depth and with color than I do with line work,” he says. “All the drawing comes in the painting.”

It’s how he sees.

From there it’s loose. Sometimes he uses reference photos, sometimes it’s all in his head, but usually it’s a mix.

“I kind of Frankenstein it,” he says. “One photo has the right pose, another has something else, and I just build it out from there.”

There’s a painting nearby still wet.

“I never really know 100 percent when I’m done,” he says, smiling a little. “But there’s a point where you have to stop. You can overpaint and ruin it.”

Most people know his work for the water pieces. Figures suspended, underwater, in that quiet moment where everything slows down. But then he shows me something completely different. Trees. Black and white trees.

He calls them treescapes.

“It’s about being in nature instead of looking at it,” he says. “A lot of landscape art is over there and we’re over here. I want you inside of it.”

Then he talks about the patience of nature. Branches finding light. Space opening up slowly.

That patience shows up in his work. Nothing forced. Nothing overworked.

He’s been doing this for close to 40 years. Turning 60 in May. A Taurus. Still going. Still building.

At one point he starts talking about maybe stepping back someday, maybe doing more teaching.

I laugh. “Artists don’t retire.”

He smiles.

But what he does want is more of that. More time spent giving back. More space for people to come in and just create.

He tells me about an idea he’s had for years. An art gym. A place where everything is already set up and ready to go. No barriers, no intimidation. Kids can just walk in, pick something up, and start. Work their art muscles the same way you would in a gym.

It’s such a great idea.

And it’s not just talk. He already does a lot of that in his own way. Donating work to nonprofits, supporting causes that help kids. Pediatric cancer organizations, Camp Okizu. His prints can go for thousands, and he’s giving them away to raise money and create access.

At a certain point, it feels less about proving anything and more about passing it on.

When I mention how rare it is to make a living like this for decades, he shrugs it off.

“I don’t like to think about it,” he says. “Being an artist is a capricious thing to do”.

Changing the subject, I ask him about a painting.

A man diving, suspended in air just before hitting the water. You can feel that split second where everything is about to change.

He tells me it’s from a trip to St. Lucia—trading artwork for a house between the Pitons, ten days there with his kids and their friends. The house looked out over what he describes as “planet Earth.” Gorgeous. Unbelievable.

“That was our boat driver,” he says. Of course it was.

After almost 40 years of making a living as an artist, there’s no ego in the space. Just work.

Every year he builds toward a show in New York. Sometimes it’s what people expect. Sometimes it’s something totally new. In between, commissions, experiments, whatever happens.

“I don’t overthink it,” he says. “I just paint.”

Before I leave, he mentions he donated a piece. A water print. It’ll be in the auction for The Aragon Foundation gala, Bridging Creative Possibilities, on May 9 at DrawBridge Presents: The Art of San Francisco.

If you’re there, you’ll see it. And if you’re lucky, you might go home with it.

And somewhere back in that old Marinship building, Violet is still on patrol.

For more on Eric’s work, upcoming exhibitions, and available pieces, visit www.ericzener.com.

For a link to our full interview on YouTube Click here:

Part one: https://youtu.be/F8UnNi6_LNc?si=M3hGT62CI_BV0KOh

Part two: https://youtu.be/F5qpcZCtlTI?si=kTFJ2p5OHiMB9gSZ

Written By: carrie@thearagonfoundation.com

If you are interested in attending our Gala- Tickets are here: https://luma.com/5nk1t1rz‍ ‍