It seemed right and proper to give this beautiful thing to someone who could appreciate its structure. It contains Fulgurites; the little glass tubes left in the ground sometimes by lightning strikes. Have no idea how the new Toon Town Big Government Crap Weasel Obamacare World of Medical Delights will go about destroying our little corner of the woods; am sure that when that when it strikes us, the results won’t be pretty. Am also sure that our Liberal Elitist Insect Overlords will blame the dysfunctional system they’ve created on their favorite whipping boys while successfully escaping any responsibility for degrading yet another aspect of life. The progs have been trying to bury their socialist hook deep under our gills for a very, very long time.
And they don’t believe in catch and release.
“When gold paint flakes from the arms of sculptures,
When the letter falls out of the book of laws,
Then consciousness is naked as an eye.
When the pages of books fall in fiery scraps
Onto smashed leaves and twisted metal,
The tree of good and evil is stripped bare.
When a wing made of canvas is extinguished
In a potato patch, when steel disintegrates,
Nothing is left but straw huts and cow dung.”
These stanzas are from the poem “The Spirit of History”
by Czeslaw Milosz, published in 2001 in “A Treatise on Poetry”
Check this story out from Moonbattery; the evil of the ‘progressive mind’ is almost beyone belief. Almost.
Was thankfully able to visit briefly an 80th birthday celebration for the late Rip Woods given by Dee Dee, his family and friends last Saturday at 934 on Southern Avenue in Phoenix.
Rip was a beloved mentor, to whom I offer two Quotes from Eric Gill:
“The training of artists, therefore, is twofold. First, there is the training of the living. The child brought up in a dark cellar or in an art school will know nothing of humane life. Art training is first of all the training obtained by living the ordinary life of the time. Thus the mind is nourished on reality and not romance.”
“….A fool may be a Saint.
A villain may be an artist.
A fool may be an villain.
But a fool cannot be an artist, nor a villain a Saint.”
Dear Rip, mentor and friend – Moriendo Modulor.
This is my first blog attempt after a handful of unfortunate events partnered up; Cox dropped my webpage, my hard drive and auxiliary hard drive crashed, plus a few assorted non-technical events. Putting something back together from the pieces has been strange in unexpected ways…
In the process of tracking down an article date to verify it, I ran across an auction site that had an older work up for bidding – one that I hadn’t documented. A lot of time has gone by since then. Was kinda shocking to sit back, and remember making this thing, this moment, this place to stop, to put things together for a while.
Why make art about/from old Arizona motels?
Honestly, there isn’t a simple answer to this question. This isn’t nostalgia, wanderlust, or escapism. It’s a mystery to me. The colors, the shapes, the history, the surrounding Arizona environment,the cheerful tackiness of it all, even the decay – especially the decay, have captured my attention for well over twenty years. And it’s not just any classic period motel that will do – it is the Arizona ones that got caught in my eye.
This aesthetic exploration took an unexpected direction in the late 1990’s with the inclusion of beadwork, hammered copper and or recycled aluminum. The larger exclusively beaded works usually require a minimum of six months to bead.
Part of the humor or irony in this latter development dwells in the concept of time. The “classic period” motels themselves were designed for short stays, and are rapidly disappearing. As cultural artifacts, not destined to survive very long. Yet they have inspired this contemplative and vastly time-consuming beadwork; which is then viewed by a contemporary audience with an attention-span that is measured in seconds. . . .
Prior to the incorporation of beadwork, the paintings were typically a minimum of 48” x 60” in size. Here, the Arizona motels became darkly magical and threatening places within the Sonoran Desert environment. Cacti, desert creatures, rocks and that harsh desert light populated a colorful motel world. The motels themselves provide much of the color palette; every element in each work was exploited for it’s metaphoric potential. Each one was a multi-layered look at contemporary Arizona weaving together local natural history and sharp observation, through the lens of imaginative interpretation. If you’re looking for labels to describe my work, it has been christened “figurative expressionist with surrealist leanings and an abstractionist bent.”
Given the connotations of the word “large” today, I hesitate to use it; the current works are so much smaller than these earlier paintings that it’s necessary to use “large” as a comparative term when referring to the body of work as a whole. Originally an oil-on-canvas painter, chemical sensitivities forced a switch to acrylics. Technically, the move made me a better painter, but lacks the pleasant aroma of the turp can, and lush textural feel. Had to eliminate the solvents from printmaking processes also. I love working with my hands, and am trying not to poison myself or the ground with chemicals.
Check out the ‘Joe Doe’ page for kind of an explanation about the motels.
Please forgive the clunkiness here in my little parlor; am not technically savvy. Am just an artist trying to clear the darkness out of my eyes in order to pay attention and learn something about this strange and wonderful place, this gift of place, and time, and love.
Oh, and BTW, here’s a nice article on classic Van Buren in Phoenix