Steven Skollar: Artist and Cancer Survivor
I spent a few hours with Artist Steve Skollar at his picturesque, country home in Hamilton, NY. We talked about Art, Music and Cancer. Steve speaks with the candor of someone who has spent decades alone in a studio, wrestling with both craft and self. His story stretches from a childhood in New York City to a quieter, very unexpected, relaxed life upstate. His career is an accumulation of instincts, obsessions, and hard-won realizations about what it means to live as an artist.
Skollar begins by stating, “I am a super, super, super city boy.” Born in the Bronx and raised in Greenwich Village, his early life was steeped in the density and immediacy of New York. The city was not just a backdrop but a formative force, its rhythms, demands, and energy shaping his sensibilities long before he ever made a living from painting. He recalls years spent as a bike messenger, riding relentlessly through Manhattan on a fixed-gear bicycle, navigating traffic and distance with physical intensity. That period, though far removed from the art world, instilled in him a kind of endurance and independence that would later define his studio practice.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, Skollar fell seriously ill, followed soon after by a diagnosis of T-cell lymphoblastic lymphoma, a life-threatening cancer located in his chest. The convergence of pandemic chaos and personal health crisis forced a dramatic shift. He and his wife retreated to a rural property in upstate New York, a place they had owned for decades but never inhabited full-time. What began as a practical decision, easier caregiving, access to treatment in nearby Syracuse, evolved into a deeper reconsideration of lifestyle. For Skollar, the move remains emotionally complex. He still identifies with the city, yet he admits to a newfound appreciation for the quiet and focus of rural life, where even something as simple as having coffee does not require descending three flights of stairs and navigating crowded streets.
Art, for Skollar, is inseparable from family history. Both of his parents were artists, though their careers revealed different paths within creative life. His father, a highly skilled commercial artist and model maker, achieved financial success but grew deeply disillusioned with the constraints of the industry. Skollar recounts a striking warning his father gave him: if he pursued commercial art, he would “break [his] fingers.” Beneath the hyperbole lies a serious conviction, that true artistic expression is often compromised in commercial contexts. His father’s experience illustrated a tension between craftsmanship and artistry, between making a living and maintaining creative integrity. This distinction becomes central to Skollar’s own philosophy. He speaks of “craftspeople” versus “artists,” suggesting that while both require skill, true artistry involves something less tangible, perhaps a kind of calling or compulsion. It is not a path he recommends lightly. In fact, he cautions against pursuing art unless one feels absolutely compelled to do so. The life of an artist, as he describes it, is marked by isolation, relentless work, and uncertainty. For over 40 years, Skollar has spent long hours alone in his studio, often working day and night to prepare for exhibitions. The labor is intense and ongoing, with no guarantees of recognition or financial stability.
His skepticism extends to the art market itself. Skollar draws a sharp line between making art and selling it, viewing the latter as a fundamentally different and often less appealing activity. He questions the authority of gallery dealers and the criteria by which artistic value is judged, invoking humor through a reference to Mel Brooks’ famous “2000-Year-Old Man” routine. The anecdote underscores his point: expertise and legitimacy are not always as rigorous or meaningful as they appear. In contrast, mastering a craft, whether surgery or painting, requires years of dedication and passion and cannot be self-imposed.
Despite these critiques, Skollar remains deeply committed to the act of creation. He describes painting as a form of meditation. In his sixties, he has come to see his goal not as producing specific outcomes but as “losing himself” in the process. This state, akin to musical improvisation, represents a merging of self and activity, where conscious effort gives way to instinct and flow. It is a perspective shaped by decades of practice and a gradual shedding of earlier rigidity. Where he once adhered strictly to traditional materials and methods, he now approaches his work with greater flexibility and openness. This shift is evident in his transition from oil painting to acrylic following his cancer diagnosis. For years, Skollar worked with oil paints prepared using toxic substances like lead and cobalt dryers, materials he now suspects may have contributed to his illness. Acrylic, by contrast, offers speed and convenience, though he acknowledges they lack the organic qualities he values in oil. The drying time, texture, and layering possibilities of oil painting create a dynamic, evolving surface that acrylic cannot fully replicate. Still, he embraces the change, reflecting a broader willingness to adapt and experiment.
Music provides another avenue for creative expression and release. Skollar has played mandolin for decades, finding in it a similar emotional resonance to painting but with a crucial difference: it takes him out of the studio. Performing in nursing homes with musician Russell Baylor, he participates in a collaborative, outward-facing practice that contrasts with the solitude of visual art. Baylor, a blind performer and experienced frontman, complements Skollar’s more reserved stage presence. Together, they bring music to audiences often overlooked, adding a social dimension to Skollar’s creative life.
Skollar’s early years were shaped not only by artistic influence but also by educational challenges. Severely dyslexic, he struggled to read and write well into his youth. Traditional schooling proved difficult, yet he developed compensatory strengths in verbal communication and visual creation. He recalls passing a French class not through language proficiency but by constructing an intricate model of the Eiffel Tower. What once felt like a limitation he now regards as an asset—an alternative mode of thinking that pushed him toward making rather than analyzing. This hands-on approach carried into his artistic training. A high school dropout, Skollar pursued education on his own terms, attending the Art Students League of New York and immersing himself in classical techniques at a time when such training was less common. Influenced by his father and uncle, he emphasized drawing as the foundation of all visual art. He describes his early career as a self-designed apprenticeship, supported by unconventional work arrangements. By becoming a building superintendent, he secured rent-free living in a Manhattan loft, allowing him to work minimally while dedicating most of his time to painting.
During these formative years, Skollar focused on rigorous studies, drapery, figure painting, and light. He experimented with monochromatic compositions, painting models entirely in white to better understand form and shadow. These works, often large in scale, represented both technical exercises and philosophical inquiries into representation. Over time, many of these paintings found their way into private collections, marking a gradual transition from obscurity to recognition. Yet success did not resolve the underlying tensions of his practice. Skollar describes a period of intense ambition, creating monumental figurative works with the belief that they could “change the world.” The effort was exhaustive, often involving sleepless months of labor. Eventually, however, he shifted direction, embracing a more playful and personal subject matter: antique toys. These objects, collected over years before they became fashionable, allowed him to explore whimsy and nostalgia. The change reflects a broader evolution in his outlook—from grand, world-altering aspirations to a more intimate engagement with creativity.
Throughout the interview, Skollar returns to the idea of art as both necessity and burden. It is a “blessing,” he says, but one that demands sacrifice. The life he describes is not glamorous but deeply committed, shaped by persistence rather than external validation. His experiences, with illness, with shifting environments, with decades of solitary work have led him to a quieter, more reflective understanding of his role as an artist.
In the end, Skollar’s story resists easy categorization. It is not a tale of meteoric rise or institutional acclaim, but of sustained dedication to a personal vision. From the streets of New York to a rural studio upstate, from classical training to experimental adaptation, his journey illustrates the complexity of artistic life. It is a path defined not by certainty but by continual adjustment, an ongoing effort to reconcile inner compulsion with external reality, and to find meaning in the act of creating.