Summer of 1968. The summer between my sophomore and junior year Jamie, Jim, Lance, Lamont and I decided to have roman candle duels in Lamont’s backyard. And why wouldn’t we do such a thing? Shooting them up in the air was so very boring.
"Hybrid" ~ Oil on Linen ~ 46 x 52There was no doubt now that I had finally arrived. My painting hung on the sacred white wall of an art museum in a large city. Not in a gallery, but a museum. THE Holly Solomon, from New York, the center of THE art world, had chosen it to be hung there.
One of the most difficult and important things you will ever have to do is to decide just what kind of a artist you want to be. This short article gives what I think is the best advice you could ever get on becoming the artist YOU want to be.
Let’s face it, in 8th grade sitting in a classroom can be SO BORING! Sure, you could stare at the girls that were beginning to bloom or Mrs. Reynolds (if you had her as a teacher you know what I am talking about), but even that would get old after awhile. Someone far more clever than I had just figured out that if you took the tip and ink tube out of a Bic pen, it could become a very accurate blowgun. The projectiles were fashioned by putting a small piece of paper in the mouth to get it nice and wet and then rolled into a ball with the tongue. Just put the wad into the hollow Bic pen, aim and blow. Of course this was outlawed by our oppressive school administration.
In the fall of 1971 I was standing in the great room of the Kappa Sigma fraternity in Laramie, Wyoming with my good friend Jim and his fraternity brothers. It was a sunny crisp Saturday morning, a perfect day to go to the Wyoming football game. I was all in for that, but when the entire house decided to go streaking through fraternity and sorority row I must have turned white as a ghost.
Omaha, 1970. Most, if not all of our friends had curfews, so on the weekends Jamie and I often ended up driving around Omaha and the surrounding area very late at night. I had to have Pat (now my wife) whom I was going steady with home by 11:00, so after I took her home Jamie would often pick me up and off we went.
One beautiful fall day Jamie came over to my house with a couple of friends to visit me and my friend Jim Holtz, who had stopped by to visit on his way to the University of Wyoming. We all decided to hop in Jamie’s car and have a picnic. Jamie loved to drive and we ended up 100 miles south in Kansas at a park with food we had picked up at a fast-food joint.
In high school my girlfriend worked for her mom at the Walden Bookstore at the Westroads Mall. I would often come and visit Pat about an hour before closing to see her and use the bookstore as a library of sorts, concentrating on the art books when the doors were locked and she was closing out the cash register. I learned a lot, boy did I learn a lot.
Fall 1970. One day in my dorm room I was carefully studying the contents of a gentlemen’s magazine when an ad for the “Mark Eden Bust Developer” caught my eye. While my girlfriend Pat was more than a handful I’ll admit that popular culture had brain-washed me into thinking bigger was always better, and $10 was a small price to pay for a gift that promised to keep on giving.
I began skirting the wall of the kingdom of heaven when I was 11 years old, although I was only dimly aware that I had even come to a wall. Having lived a carefree life with few challenges, a wall was something I knew little of.
May 1968. (Note: This story is a continuation of Never Let Anyone Pass a Note to a Girl For You!) I forked over two one dollar bills for the tickets to the play in advance, just to make sure the play would not be sold out. The day before our date I got to work detailing the chariot that would whisk us away to the ball and a whirlwind romance.
This is a true story of lust and lies and proves the point that all is fair in love and war. And if you find yourself in love, never let anyone pass a note to a girl for you!
I recently read about an art competition and show for the “UndocuChallenged”, and thought it illustrated how twisted and politically correct some would like art to become.
Something has always troubled me about art openings and decided years ago it was just not worth the effort to attend them. However, last night I drove two hours to attend several art gallery openings, something I have not done in over 25 years.
Last month I reluctantly attended an art opening in a small town far from a major population center, and even further from a major art center. The gallery was in the downtown area long ago abandoned by retailers, but was now in the process of a slow renovation. Most of the buildings were vacant and boarded up, and the signs of drink and drug abuse were evident in the walk of the few people that wandered the sidewalks.