Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man

Last night I participated in an event put on by PechaKucha Providence

PechaKucha is a presentation format that involves showing 20 images and talking about each one for 20 seconds. This was my first time and I enjoyed creating the images, writing a script to go with them, and doing the presentation. It was called Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man. The images and script are below.

#1 - self portrait

I recently turned 75 and painted a self-portrait to celebrate. But I couldn’t stop. I made 19 variations on it. What follows is a kind of mini autobiography of an artist as an old man.

#2 - upside down

March of 2020. I had been figuring I’d turn 75 and just cruise on along doing pretty much what I’d been doing; hanging out with family and friends, traveling, making art, trying to keep fit, volunteering. That’ll teach me to make plans.

#3 - king

Living through this time is easier because I have a lot of privilege. If you set aside the fact that the corona virus has a hard on for old guys, I’m doing OK. Laying low, keeping to myself, one day at a time.

#4 - monkey

Of course there is a monkey. There is always a monkey.

Never negotiate with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room.

Just because you got the monkey off your back, doesn’t mean the circus has left town.

#5 - flower

If you're going to San Francisco

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair

Mainly, it all goes back to me being an old lefty, radical hippy.  Just trying to do the right thing.

#6 - Tattooed blue birds

I was born in 1945 and, in my opinion, missed all the good tattoos. My father had a girl in a grass skirt that he could make dance by flexing his bicep. Flexing my bicep has never done nothing.

#7 - clown

I knew a guy who was a clown. When he died, all his friends went to the funeral in one Volkswagen.

He was a few clowns short of a circus.

Nobody likes a clown at midnight.

#8 - four kings

I play a lot of cards. In cribbage, four kings is worth 12 points. In Tichu, four of a kind is a bomb and very powerful. In Oh Hell, you’d probably end up bidding on at least a couple of these kings.

#9 - Hawaii

I’ve never been to Hawaii and I don’t play the ukulele. I’ve never worn a grass skirt nor ever had a body like this. You’ll just have to take my word for it that this is one version of me that should be included here.

#10 - Maximón, San Simon

On a trip to Guatemala, I went to see the shrine of Maximón, aka San Simon. On the way, I had to pause to vomit impressively against a wall. At his alter, I lit a white candle. I felt fine for the rest of the trip and I’ve been a fan ever since.

#11 - Cock Fight

The most politically incorrect thing I’ve ever enjoyed was cock fighting. At the time I thought, well it was cool, but once was enough. I don’t need to go back. But that was a couple of years ago and now I’m not so sure.

#12 - I go to pieces

You walk by and I fall to pieces

I’ve got no patience for drama in relationships any more, but I sure love a good country and western song.

#13 - Serve Somebody

you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes

You're gonna have to serve somebody

Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord

But you're gonna have to serve somebody

There is no moral neutrality. The only way to be a good person is to work at it.

#14 - bird

Just because a bird lands on your head, it doesn’t mean you have to build it a nest.

#15 - sunny side

Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side,
Keep on the sunny side of life.
It will help us every day, it will brighten all the way,
If we keep on the sunny side of life.

#16 - Voo Doo

I’ve got twelve grandkids; five live on the west coast, so I’ve got a lot of tee shirts from Portland, Oregon. Grandkids are better than kids. Twice the fun, half the responsibility. 

#17 - Pissing

I’m speechless.

#18 - self portraits

I’ve looked really long and hard at a lot of important self portraits. On the one hand, it’s taught me a lot.  On the other hand, I’m like the guy who crashes the party just in hopes of getting a selfie with somebody famous.

(Edward Hopper, Gregory Gellespi, Vincent Van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, Chuck Close, Diego Rivera, Lucian Freud, Barkley Hendricks, Pablo Picasso)

#19 hearts

The older you get the more your picture of yourself consists of medical images. I recently saw my heart beating on monitor. I was filled with awe that it had been Ka-Chugging away for 75 years. One of these days It'll quit, sooner rather than later.

#20 - death

There’s a hundred ways an old artist can die. I’ll be OK with any of them as long as they don’t happen until 2030. Of course I might change my tune when 2029 rolls around.

Art in Rhode Island in a Time of Contagion

A friend of mine, Michael Cerullo, recently sent out a group email regarding a piece of public artwork and calling attention to criticism of the piece. The image, Rhode Island Angel of hope, was created by Shepard Fairey. Our governor, Gina Raimondo, had arranged for it to be project it in a couple of locations as part of her kickoff of a state initiative to support the arts during the corona virus epidemic.

Rhode Island Angel of Hope

Mike sent along an article from the ProJo. In my opinion, it was absurd and full of right wing non-sense like this:

“This looks like a Chinese propaganda poster from Chairman Mao’s era! Great job Governor!”

“…denounce(d) in the strongest permissible terms the totalitarian nature of the piece of art that Governor Raimondo chose to put forth as ‘hope’ for the Ocean State’s struggles against the Covid-19 pandemic.”

““features a bastardization of the Statue of Liberty wearing a communist China-type cap and tunic, in a layout reminiscent of posters supporting fascist dictatorships of the past.”

In my opinion, this just proves that there is no action so benign or well intended that the right won’t try to smear it and here they are puling out the old chestnut of red baiting. This is ridiculous since the governor is very mainstream, kind of a center-right, highly competent technocrat, who has received national attention for her handling of the current health crises.

Micheal had invited me to comment in his email and, never being one to pass up the opportunity to talk about art, I responded like this:

I’m a fan of Shepard Fairey's. Back in 2009 he had a 20 year retrospective at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston that completely won me over. He had filled the museum with a rapturous, raucous explosion of far reaching pop and cultural references all lusciously rendered in brilliant color, intricate patterns, and complex designs. It was irresistible, even if you suspected it might be a bit facile and too pretty for its own good. 

Then there is the Obama poster. 

Even if you’ve never heard of Fairey, you’ve seen this, right? It is certainly one of the most ubiquitous, influential works of political art in history, as well as one of the most appropriated, which is ironic since Fairely borrowed/ripped off the original photo of Obama to make it.

The rap against Fairey is that he has been too successful.  He started out as a street artist doing iconic graffiti images - back in his student days at RISD - 

Andre The Giant/Obey

This work got him a lot of attention and street creed when he was very young. Since he has turned into one of the richest artists in the world. Some people see him as selling out, but his work continues to be politically informed, both in style and content, and he has been very generous about supporting community causes.   

In particular he has been generous to Providence. Last year he did a major fundraiser for AS220 and painted two murals downtown:

I think one thing Gina Raimondo's actions recognizes is that there is a credible case to be made for the arts being the main driving force for economic development in downtown Providence, with AS220 as the major player. By drawing attention to the arts, she is not just trying to make people feel better, she is reinforcing art as one of the building bocks of prosperity for the city. In these terms, I think Fairey, because of his history with Providence and his international reputation, is a good person to involve.

All that being said, I'm not impressed with the image under discussion:

If I understand this correctly, it is an image he has given the city to be projected at a couple of different sites, so it is not a permanent addition. If you compare it to the two mural he did for the city last year it looks kind of anemic to me, both in terms of the intensity of the colors and the complexity of design.

However, even if it isn't his best work, what could possibly be wrong with adding an image to the cityscape that makes people stop, think a bit, smile or frown, and have something to talk about?

The Roasted Cock That Crowed

Here are somethings you should know about a young German pilgrim named Hugonell: his buddies called him Hugo, he was born sometime around 1200, when he was still a very young man, he convinced his parents to walk with him on The Camino de Santiago (St. James Way) all the way from their home in Colonge to Santiago, Spain. For him the pilgrimage would be the last step in leaving  behind his secular life and devoting himself to the church and a life of piety and service. He was devout to a fault, from his father’s point of view, but to his mother, her only son was perfect. One more thing about Hugo: the lad was beautiful; blue eyes, clear skin, shoulder length blond hair, and a lean, muscular body. He had all his teeth and they were white and even.  Back in the day, that meant he had a one in a million smile. 

After many weeks of walking, the family reached the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, named after Domingo Garcia. Domingo’s sainthood was based on his devotion to The Camino and the miraculous aid he had given to pilgrims. There are many legends about Santo Domingo Hugo from Germany was about to feature prominently in one of the most famous which involved not one, but two miracles!

When Hugo and his folks got to town they checked into one of the better inns. The inn keeper’s daughter took one look at Hugo and was, to put it politely, smitten. Her internal dialog was along the lines of, “Damn! That boy is fine! Look at those teeth! I ain’t never seen teeth like that!” This young woman’s name is not mentioned in any of the various versions of the legend, but let’s call her Gwen. Now the truth is that the urgent response Gwen had to Hugo was not unusual for her. With far less reason than the youth presented, she often pursued travelers stopping at the inn or even just passing by in the streets.

Gwen wasted little time in conveying her desires to Hugo. As she served the dinner she bent low over the table. She leaned her hip into the boy and stroked his hair. “Oh, my, lad. Those are fine locks you have there.” The boys father thought, “He’ll make a good priest. Oh to be twenty years younger and have such an opportunity laid before me.” After dinner Gwen showed the mother and father to their room. Then she led Hugo to the far end of the hall to a small single room. She followed him in and closed the door behind them.

“What’ll it be then,” she asked. “What would you like?”

“Gwen,” he replied, “I’d like to pray with you.” He fell to his knees and began. “Lord, I give thanks for bringing us to this hospitable place and through your goodness having Gwen place food and wine on our table. Lord I feel your presence in the form of this generous woman. I feel it in my breath which I draw in with difficulty and in my heart which beats more rapidly. Thank you lord for you are the source of all good things.” After a bit he rose and addressed Gwen, “Good night kind hostess. Could you light my candle in order for me to read my bible before I sleep?” The inn keeper’s daughter did as he asked and left, but Hugo’s rejection left her full of rage and humiliation and she swore revenge.

The inn had many fine things for display and use by the guests. Early in the morning, Gwen took a silver chalice that was a favorite of her father and slipped it into Hugo’s backpack.  No sooner had the German family crossed the river than she ran to the sheriff’s office. “Robbery!” She declared. “We’ve been robbed!” The sheriff heard her out then said with chuckle, “Ah, girl,  that’s an old one and a weak one. So the boy turned you down? Let him be. He’s as innocent as a lamb and a bit simple too.” Gwen thought, “Well, he’s right. I know he is, but now the damn idiot has the chalice and what’ll my dad do to me if it don’t come back?”

“Sheriff,” She said out loud. “Do what I ask, restore the chalice to its rightful owner, and you’ll have what you’ve always wanted.”

In fact the sheriff had wanted Gwen for a long time, and the promise of her favors overrode his better nature with surprising quickness. He sprang to his feet and declared loudly, “It shocks me as a public servant that these foreigners come into our town, these Germans, and repay our hospitality by robbing us! I’m shocked! That is a hanging offense and hang the boy will, may the lord have mercy on his soul.”

It is impossible to imagine what the German couple suffered as their only son was captured, the chalice found in his backpack and he was strung up on the gallows in the town square. It was even worse because they knew there was no doubt of his innocents. There was suffering all around because the sheriff, after his fifteen minutes with Gwen, and Gwen herself knew that they were hell bound for what they’d done. Further, as is the manner of small towns, everyone soon figured out the truth behind the dramatic events.

The grieving mother insisted that she and her husband complete the pilgrimage because it was what Hugo would want them to do. So crying every step of the way they walked on to the Cathedral of St. James where they prayed for their son’s soul. Some weeks latter they again found themselves in Santo Domingo on their return trip to Germany. Hugo’s  corps still hung on the gallows. The couple fell to the ground sobbing and praying. Santo Domingo heard them and stepped forward. (Here comes miracle #1!) He stretched out his arms and implored the heavens above for mercy and justice. Hugo spoke to his parents! “Mom, dad I’m alive. Go tell the sheriff to cut me down.” Looking up they saw not a rotting corpse, but their beautiful boy smiling down at them.

They banged on the sheriff’s door just as he was sitting down to lunch on two oven roasted chickens, one a hen, one a rooster. “He’s alive! He’s alive!” The sheriff was drunk, as he usually was since his sin, and thought they’d come to further torture his soul. “Nonsense. Your poor son is as dead as these two birds on the table.” (Here comes miracle #2!) The rooster and the hen jumped up, sprouted feathers, regrew their heads and feet and began to run around crowing and clucking. At this sight, the sheriff sobered up instantly and ran to the square. Quite a crowd had gathered, including Gwen. Hugo was cut down and of course, being Hugo, he began to pray, “Dear lord, thank you for the divine intervention of Santo Domingo who has restored me to life and given me a second chance to devote my life to the kingdom of god on earth. Lord your mercy is boundless.” He broke from his prayer and addressed Gwen and the sheriff, “God forgives you and also offers you a second chance. I forgive you and thank you. Your actions have confirmed my faith in a most miraculous manner.”

Soon after, Gwen and the sheriff were married, raised ten children, and lived pious lives, except for Gwen’s occasional infidelities.

History doesn’t record what happened to Hugo, but I can tell you he completed his pilgrimage, returned to Germany and began a monastic life where he prayed, gardened, wrote poetry, learned the healing arts, and helped his community. It was also in the monastery that he met brother Gregory, but that’s a different story.

Fireball and the Devil

The devil appeared to me when I was walking home from church one morning along route 108. If you’re not familiar with southern Rhode Island, 108 connects The University of Rhode Island to the communities of Wakefield and Narragansett where many students live, shop, and buy their burgers and beers. 

On this walk I was thinking about good and evil, because at church we had read and talked about the part of the bible where Jesus went up the mountain with his disciples and all manner of holy events unfolded. He began to glow with an internal light. He conversed with Moses and Elijah. A big cloud descended and god spoke from the cloud. In the middle of all of this, Peter seemed to get confused and agitated. Given the situation, this was understandable. Like many men in emotionally fraught circumstances, he wanted to do something, to spring into action. He said to Jesus, Hey I’m going to build some shrines to you and Moses and Elijah! There are many translations of what he actually wanted to build: tabernacles, tents, shelters, memorials, but he definitely wanted to put up some kind of edifice. However, before he could do anything, God’s voice boomed out of a cloud and said, This is my son. Do what he says. And Jesus, being Jesus, said, let’s get off the mountain and go back to work… and, look, don’t tell anybody about what happened up here. After descending from on high, the first thing he did was relieve the suffering of a boy who had seizures. 

That was generally what was in my mind as I walked along route 108, and I had the specific thought, “It may be that the devil resides in edifices that we construct to glorify god, instead of getting off the mountain and doing god's work.”

At that very moment, the devil appeared to me! He showed up in the form of a Fireball Cinnamon Whiskey nip. There he was in the weeds at my feet. I picked up the three inch plastic bottle and took a good look. He was beautifully drawn in bright red on a yellow label, bare assed and buff, spitting fire, and waving a big, serpentine tail. I put the bottle in my pocket and walked on, but I kept spotting the little red devil. Every few yards there’d be another and then another on the shoulder of the road. I pocketed  six of them, but there were dozens on that four mile stretch of suburban road.

I'm pretty sure the Fireball nips came into my awareness in order to confirm the thought I had been having: its not about the religiosity, its about doing the right thing. If it was pure coincidence that I was thinking about the devil and the devil appeared to me, it was a coincidence that put a smile on my face and kicked off a preoccupation with all things Fireball.

I had never been aware of Fireball, nor tried it. Who drinks it, I wondered? Why is it so popular in between Kingston and Wakefield? Is it de rigueur to knock one back while driving and toss the empty out the window?

The Baader-Meinhoff phenomenon went to work on me. Also known as the frequency illusion, it is that psychological process by which, once you come across a word for the first time, you see and hear it everywhere. Likewise, as soon as you buy a new car, one you swear you have rarely seen anyone else driving, there is one parked next to you at the supermarket, one passing you on your commute to work, and two Tinder dates in a row show up driving one. The Baader-Meinhoff phenomenon fine tuned my focus and attention to the point that I can spot the red devil on the yellow label from a hundred feet away even when it is half concealed by leaves and weeds. Having learned to see discarded Fireball nips, I can no longer not see them.

Clearly, the character on the Fireball label is the devil and this is as good as confirmed by the liquor’s motto, “Tastes like heaven. Burns like hell.” However, the company seems to be hedging its bets. The word “devil” doesn’t appear on their website, rather they make reference to a “dragon.” Come on now! That ain’t no dragon and you know it. Dragons have wings and are decidedly reptilian. This guy is pure devil, diablo, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan, Mephistopheles, Prince of Darkness, etc. Here is my guess about what is going on: Fireball wants to use the devil to market their whisky, but they want to be able to deny that this is what they are doing. The first market they targeted was Nashville. They sent in “bar ambassadors” who spread out and gave away free shots. A fair number of good old boys in Nashville party on Saturday night and go to evangelical churches on Sunday morning. These guys needed to be able to greet the preacher with their breath smelling like cinnamon and still say with a straight face, “Lord, no. I don’t hold no truck with the devil.” Similarly, if some fundamentalist came looking for the Fireball bar ambassador and said, “Looky here, have you joined forces with the prince of darkness to turn a profit?” They could say, “Whatever do you mean? Our mascot is a dragon!” The devil, of course, plays along with this. The devil invented deniability.

Whatever they are up to, from a capitalist point of view, the Sazerac Company, the owners of the Fireball brand, are doing something right. The cinnamon whisky went from almost total obscurity to massive popularity in just a few years' time. In 2013 they made thirty-two times as much in sales as they had just two years earlier. The rise of Fireball to the top of the spirits industry was so meteoric, that a Google search will show you dozens of articles  analyzing the success story.  None of these articles mention the possibility that somebody made a deal with the devil, but don’t you have to wonder if there was some soul selling involved? In any case, the ascendency of the brand has meant that along every highway in the USA the devil lies in wait, the most ubiquitous of roadside rubbish, and for those who choose to think of it this way, a readily available reminder that the devil is always with us.  

The devil fades quickly from the labels of discarded Fireball nips. The logical explanation is that the red ink he is printed with is more easily bleached out by sun or dissolved by rain and snow than the other colors of ink. Long after the devil is a mere shadow of his former self the label retains its yellow background color and the black letters that spell out Fireball are clearly legible. To explain this, there is an alternative explanation to the inferior red ink theory. Some people believe, and I am open to considering this possibility, that once the nip has been tossed aside the devil’s work is essentially finished and it is time to move on, to exert his influence in other spheres. It may be, at least in some cases, that as the devil on the label fades out, he fades in somewhere else. As he becomes just a pink stain on the Fireball nip in the weeds in Rhode Island, he begins to reappear as the outline of a tattoo on the neck of a narcotraficante in Juarez, or as a silk screened design on a camouflage jacket worn by a  white supremacist in Pocatello, or as stenciled graffiti sprayed on a wall in the Ukraine. And there he sits issuing subtle invitations, dangling temptations, suggesting short cuts, and proffering excuses until someone gives in to their worse instincts. 

Here is a short, short story: At about 10:00 PM, after he finished washing dishes at Crazy Burger, Randy was driving on route 108 on his way to see his girlfriend, Leila, in her dorm at URI. On the passenger seat next to him were a large pepperoni pizza he had just picked up and a half dozen Fireball nips. Since he was only eighteen, the mini bottles of booze were courtesy of his cousin Joey who cooked at the same restaurant where he washed dishes. Randy was thinking about sex. Of course he was. He was eighteen. He was pretty new at it. There arose in him a combination of excitement and nervousness that tightened his chest.  He reached for one of the Fireball nips, unscrewed the red cap and downed the liquor in one gulp. The passenger side window was open and he flung the bottle backhand into the weeds. To Randy, “tastes like heaven” was questionable. However, he totally agreed with “burns like hell.” The burn quickly became a warm glow that he sensed mainly right in the middle of his chest. He took a second shot and the bottle hit the dirt no more than a quarter mile down the road from the first. He thought about having a third, but decided to save the last four to share with Leila. He remembered that once she kissed him and said, “Your breath smells like Fireball.” He replied, “You know the nonalcoholic refer to that scent as cinnamon.” “As if you’d know,” Liela said. “You better have saved some for me.” Randy drives on. He is not drunk, but he has a renewed sense of confidence that feels like intoxication. He speaks out loud, maybe to the four little red devils scattered on the seat beside him, “Well a little liquid courage never hurt anybody. Right?”

If I could talk to Randy like a grandfather talking to his grandson - and there is no reason why I can’t since I made him up and I actually have grandsons his age to whom I freely dispense advice - I’d say something like this: When you’re a man, even a young man, you got to deal with the devil everyday. He’s always there to tempt you to do what you know ain’t right. It’s OK to shoot craps with him at the crossroads, high five him, buy him a beer, put an arm around his shoulder, but then just walk away. Now in this situation with you and the Fireball nips, in the long run, anesthetizing your social anxiety isn’t going to serve you well, and please reconsider drinking and driving because it is always a mistake, and, dude, that littering is just intolerable. 

Below is artwork I've done based on the image of the discarded Fireball nip.