Neon alchemist Neal Conner pushes boundaries

FOR MOST OF US, neon means the gaudiness of commerce - bright, flashing signs in lurid colors that advertise motels and fast food joints, gymnasiums and taverns. For Neal Conner, though, neon lights up his vivid imagination. This mysterious glowing gas, with its properties at once ancient and modern, creates grand alchemy in his artist's mind. "Neon is a folklore handed on mysteriously from master to apprentice," Conner says. "It is so filled with superstition. When you find out the pretty ordinary way it works, it is a bit demystified. But the images I have been trying to create for some time are powerful and archetypal."

You can share in Conner's vision by dropping in at Due Fine Art before June 26 to take in the first neon art show to hit town in several years. Here you'll find everything from small art deco-inspired sconces that might hang in a living room to 8-foot-tall Gorgons in glass: strange, mythological creations that travel far beyond the needs of commerce. Conner, 36, makes his living creating neon signs at his Eugene business, Neon Latitudes. You've undoubtedly seen his work around town, whether you've realized it or not: The big neon gate at Gateway Mall is his. So is the cute clock with a face at Good Times.

Although he's made his share of straightforward "open" signs, Conner has managed - with the help of imaginative clients - to push the boundary of conventional business neon. At a Eugene Taco Time, for example, he's gone way beyond the usual cactus logo and created neon lizards, a neon totem, even a neon parrot sitting brightly in its cage. "That's the best example of blurring the line," Conner said. "The signs have to say Taco Time, and they have a Helvetica style you have to use. But we got pretty playful. His attitude has become, we've got a new store so go in and do some new stuff."

Conner grew up as an Air Force brat, moving from one base to another as the Cold War wound down. His father was a tinkerer who passed on the love of mechanical creation. "He had so many tools he could not possibly use them all," Conner said. "He had three Thunderbirds, a 1960, a '64 and a '65 in various states of being rebuilt. One of them actually ran and ... we got to borrow it from time to time. There was a double-car garage filled with grinders and a workbench. Lapidary things. He was always making jewelry and belt buckles and things we didn't want to wear. I have a couple bolo ties I have pulled out occasionally, but when I was a teen-ager it was dreadful to think of wearing a bolo tie."

The death of Conner's father in 1986 left him at a turning point in his life. The young man had studied film, briefly, at the University of Oregon but had no particular direction in his life. "I felt extremely concerned all of a sudden. I had more impetus to choose some kind of goal or path. Up to that time I had been more of a cruiser in the traditional Eugene fashion. My ability to earn a living was crucial all of a sudden."

He still can't quite say how he chose neon to investigate. "It just became a thing one day. I was looking to develop a skill. It was something I didn't know anything about and it just seemed so mysterious. It was alchemy."

May 8, 1998