Standing at a Crossroads

The circus blew through this town again last week. Quite a spectacular tempest of hype, bravado, exaggeration, arrogance, and excess combined with hope, joy, bewilderment, and artistic expression. It all left me standing at a crossroads kind of like Robert Johnson way back in the day. There was no devil that I am aware of, and certainly no guitar – but the circus weekend in Des Moines left me with some choices to make in it’s wake.

The guy that writes about art in the newspaper stated around 200,000 people visited the downtown show over the weekend allegedly based on aerial photographs of the crowd and concession sales. That number just plain needs to stop being thrown around. It’s insulting the intelligence of everyone involved from the writer to the reader to the artists. While I’m thinking about it:  Giving attention to a few gimmick displays and visiting some friends’ booths does not qualify as art criticism. It works for shills, not critics. It’s true. Deal with it.

The downtown show is a good one. I walked it on Saturday night with the Beautiful Ms. Madonna and another photographer – a good friend of mine from Mizzou. I visited with several artists. I wanted to visit with many more, but I knew it was getting late, I was not a customer that night, and it was a long day for the artists. Money talks, chit-chat walks at the end of a long day at these things. These guys were coming up on two 12 hour days in the trenches by the time I rolled up on them Saturday evening and I was sensitive to that reality.  No “cha-ching” could lead to a short fuse, so I kept a low profile and focused on the work that I could see as the sun set. I did stop and visit with my friend the Florida photographer. His wife is an incredible pastel painter. I got a chance to visit with her again as well. (We had a chance to all have dinner together on Thursday night – an event I will not forget anytime soon.- a little more on that later.) I ended our Saturday evening chat early so we could see the show before it got too dark, much to my companion’s chagrin. Nothing like enjoying some Canadian Club and Mountain Dew with a first class wood sculptor.

I saw the “Never Disagree With Me” jeweler, the trinket makers, and of course the interior design illustrator.

Yawn.

Nothing new, nothing innovative. I saw the multitudes of painters with HUGE skies and small horizons. (Hint: that’s old now guys.) Along with all the usual awards this downtown show will win at some lame event later this year, I would like to nominate it for the “Most Twenty-Somethings Looking for a Place to Drink and Be Seen Award” A winner. Hands down. No contest. Blue Ribbon.

Buy/sell at the downtown show? Not that I could see. I’m not saying it wasn’t there, but I was impressed that I didn’t readily see any “posers” or “wannabe’s”. This feeling of authenticity is an important pillar of integrity for this show, but it was easily off set by the multitude of distractions. Music, movies, blah, blah, blah. Too much stimulation. That’s why I call it a circus.

But still,  the show is obviously thinking of a nice balance for the artists and visitors because it kept all the irritating profit and charity booths off to one side of the map – away from the artists. I know the artists must have appreciated that bit of insight on the part of the show management and they should be commended for making the right decisions for the artists and the buyers. Those show hours are tough though, is it really for sales or is it to provide a nice atmosphere for the libations to take place?

There is so much going on downtown that distracts the senses. Still, it does look like the show is trying to make sense of it all after so many years – finally.

I will not apply to the show for reasons of my own, but they do appear to be working toward a more focused view of the artists and the work for sale.

Back to the art -sculptures – wood sculptures, clay, metal – gorgeous leather work and even some paper-cutting . . . beautiful forms and twists intelligently or expertly investigated and either constructed or perhaps encouraged to bloom by some very hardworking and smart artists. Jewelry with some shape, some line, some color – some value. Beautiful textures. Great consistency in each booth – nothing seemed controversial or challenging. . . . but it was beautiful work.

Paintings seemed a bit too formula-driven for me, but I understood what they were doing. Not enough risk-taking, too comfortable and oriented toward a more pleasant customer experience. Too trendy. They weren’t country-kitsch at all, but they weren’t avant-gard by any stretch of the imagination either. I didn’t see anything too gimmicky at the show, but nothing risky either. There’s nothing really wrong with that. The show leans a bit to the conservative tastes – I know this market after all these years. People in Des Moines generally like beauty, quality, and no controversy. There was no junk, no yard art that I could see. No duck rocks. No marshmallow guns.

Nothing made me stop in my tracks either.

The “Other Art Show” is larger. In many ways it is better. The focus is on art. It’s well-managed. Well organized. It has come so amazingly far in the last decade or so. Quality work. Still some kitsch, but this is the “other show” so it has to be expected. Only a few of the artists I knew back during the first year have grown and improved and taken chances. Others are making the same things they were making 10 years ago. Again, “risk taking” or the lack thereof, seems to be the common denominator among the artists at both shows in Des Moines this weekend. Artists need to take risks, the patrons may want to consider some risks, the “Other Art Show” may benefit from taking a risk and leaving the fairgrounds behind. The show needs to grow in quality not only from the standpoint of the artists, but the audience as well. This show is outgrowing the fairgrounds location in terms of size and quality.

Saturday was a good day for the indoor show at the fairgrounds. It was impressive probably because of the rain on Saturday morning, but the crowd (and the sales) kept happening until late in the day. Sunday never came together at the fairgrounds. Too many people walking with their hands in their pockets, ignoring the work around them or walking with their arms crossed and only paying attention to their companions as they strolled the aisles.

In my booth, I interpreted the behavior of the crowd to be one of apathy or boredom with the show. I walked the show and realized that many of the participants were high quality, high caliber artists that I have seen selling piece after piece for years. The people that put the show together chose some very dynamic and impressive artists to be in the show. Because I was not selling either, I started watching the passersby more closely. I started to note what they were carrying – usually nothing, but many were carrying metal yard art, trinkets, small cards and ceramics. It was not an art-buying crowd. They weren’t bored, they were out of their league.Intimidated by the prices and work at the downtown show, these people came to the fairgrounds for a walk indoors and maybe a small purchase. They got more than they bargained for this year.

Most, but not all of the artists at the fairgrounds show had no hope of making the sales to the visitors that day. It was not their crowd. This is by no means the promoters’ fault. They put together a top notch show in a top notch facility to take place at the same time as a very well-known show that is ingrained into the collective psyche of the townies. Pretty impressive. It needs to grow, and it needs to grow in a new venue.

I stood and watched the artists breaking down their booths at the end of a dismal day on Sunday. Very little talking. Lots of banging and clanging of tent poles (Why do so many people insist on bringing their outdoor setup for an indoor venue?). Some of them deserved what they got on Sunday – good and bad. Some were kicked to the curb by the downtown show, others just aren’t good enough, still others like me – don’t care what they think downtown. I watched as everyone hurried to get everything to their vans before the rain would start. We could hear the thunder OVER the noise of the air ducts.

I remember thinking there were really, really good artists there. Artists that take risks and try new ideas. Artists that don’t necessarily lead, but don’t follow either. Real artists march to their own beat. New imagery and ideas on new or maybe re-visited materials. My customers on Saturday loved what I had going on. On Sunday, my new customers didn’t come to see the work – save for a handful of notable exceptions – one of whom has an incredible “Blue Fish” on her wall from Saturday. Visiting an artist twice during a show and bringing someone with them is probably the hightest compliment that a patron can hand to an artist.

As I watched the promoters and other artists finish up I realized what my pastel painter and photographer friends were telling me at dinner Thursday night. Regarding my work – it needs to be in front of a more “cerebral” (her words, not mine) audience rather than in front of a crowd more focused on something else. We all have a place we should be and our audience needs to know where we can be found.

Sunday night I finally confirmed to myself she was indeed correct at Thursday night’s dinner. I was nodding like a junkie in a dark alley as I watched the artists packing their things and I thought about what Ellen had said. I have some decisions to make just like these two Des Moines art shows and the artists that participate in them should be making.

Continue to grow or become stagnant?
Focus or take a shotgun approach?
Art or a “product”?
Artist or “vendor”?
Take a risk or bask in the glow of what always worked before?

-

So now – I’m standing at a crossroads.. . . .   .     .

JohnStillmunks.com

A Sign of Spring

It snowed here last night.

Not that pansy snow we get in November. Naaah. This is that springtime snow. The kind that comes down like manna and then pools up in the street like gravy. It’s really dense – heavier than water. I was standing in the driveway drinking coffee and cursing this damn climate when I finally saw him.

I saw the first official robin of the year. A welcome sight. Better than the daffodils coming up along the neighbors house. We moved the gallery this winter and I am running behind on preparing paintings for this year’s shows. It’s been a long winter and I was looking forward to this sign of spring. Even though I was glad to see him again, he looked really ticked off. He was bouncing around in the yard and had a little snow on top of his head and on his tail feathers. He turned and looked at me before he shook the snow off. He looked exactly like Al Pacino would look if he were a robin in my neighbor’s yard.

“What the hell’re you lookin’ at?” he asked

“Just wanted to welcome you back.”

He bounced around some more – I supposed he was trying to detect a worm in the ground.

“Catch any worms today?”

“What do you care?”

“Just making conversation. You guys are carnivores, right?”

The robin bounced over toward me. “Uh, we’re omnivores – thank you.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“No, you just didn’t care.”

“Now hold on pal, I just didn’t know.”

“This’ll be my fifth year here in your yard.”

“And?”

“And you don’t even know what robins eat.”

“I always see you eating worms and sometimes grubs or some damn thing out of the ground.”

“Yeah, and we robins also eat seeds, berries, fruits . . .”

I sipped my coffee, “So?”

The robin kicked the ground. “Me and my old lady have made our nests in your yard for 5 years now and you don’t even realize we are more like you than that dumbass carnivorous cat of yours.”

“Bill? What does he have to do with anything?”

“He’s a vicious carnivore. Ate two of my kids last year. One the year before.”

“But he doesn’t even have his front claws.”

“Oh, and are you afraid of a shark with only half his teeth?”

“I see your point there.”

“Is that why he’s so vicious? You pulled his claws out?”

“Hey, it wasn’t me. My sister-in-law had him declawed before we got him. She neutered him too, but we don’t talk to him about that.”

The robin scowled and swallowed down something – I wasn’t sure what. “So that’s why he’s the way he is?”

I tossed the rest of my coffee out. It made a nice spray pattern on the slushy snow. Kind of like diarrhea across the yard.

“What do you mean?” I asked the robin

“We’ve seen him torturing the chipmunks from time to time.”

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah! He’ll hold them down with his paw, then pretend he doesn’t see them, then jumps on the poor bastards when they try to get away.”

“Oh! Okay. I’ve seen him do that. It’s pretty funny how he is suddenly surprised they are there.”

“Yeah. It’s just hilarious. The poor slob of a chipmunk is praying for dear life and you think your little kitty is just soooo cute.

“You should’ve seen what the dogs did to the chipmunk that got into the house.”

“It’s been all over the neighborhood for years.”

“Oh.”

The robin bounced up closer to me and gave me the “up-down stare”. I took a step back.

“Listen Pal,” the robin started “I am not putting up with any crap this year.” He spit something onto the patch of grass pushing through the snow. “Not this year.”

“What do you mean?” I asked the robin as I stepped back toward the car.

“I see you have a new Volvo there.”

I slid some of the snow off the windshield. “Isn’t she a beauty? The van’s transmission died and we just got this the other day.”

“It won’t look the same when I get through with it.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked

The robin bounced closer to me and the Volvo. “I won’t be putting up with that damn cat around my family this year – or I’m going to make your Volvo my personal toilet – all summer.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked the robin.

The robin stood right next to the tire, leaned forward with as menacing a look a robin can muster and began to say something just as Bill silently attacked from under the Volvo and did an Olympic-style somersault with the ambushed robin. Bill then spun him around in the snow and shredded him with his back claws.

“What? I can’t hear you Mr. Robin.” I leaned down and cupped my ear as Bill sank his teeth into the bird’s neck. “What’s that? I can’t hear you – what were you saying? What?”

I turned to go into the house after hearing the bird’s neck snap.

“Thanks, Boss.” murmured Bill as he walked by the porch with the bird in his mouth.

Before I went into the house I saw the robin’s widow with her new beau on top of the garage.

“Thank you” she sang.

Her new husband nodded to me.

Bill sat the dead robin in the driveway and thumped his chest twice with his paw before giving me a sideways “peace” sign.

I nodded to Bill. “Don’t forget the cannoli in the back seat.”

Then I stepped into the kitchen from the driveway for that second cup of coffee.

Ahhh. Springtime.

-Addendum: A picture of Bill and the Volvo

JohnStillmunks.com

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 3 – Nanna Covers Her Tracks

Continued from (Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 2 – In Which Nanna Might Have Robbed a Crack House)

“She has to be in her eighties and you took her out for shots of tequila? Are you nuts?” The Mrs. was standing at the foot of the bed, hands on her hips, tapping her foot and apparently doubting me.

“We went for a birthday drink after I picked her up at the airport. Just a little dive place on the way to her condo.”

“And then you guys got into a bar fight – right?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure.”

“Not really.”

“How did you get here?”

“She dropped me off.”

The nurse came in and checked the IV, wrote something in the chart, raised an eyebrow, nodded to the Mrs., and walked out.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“I talked to her and she said she was on her way down here to see you, even though SHE says you left her at that dive bar!”

“Figures.”

Nanna peeked into the room from the hallway and tapped lightly on the door. She tiptoed into the room holding her purse with both hands.

“How you doing, Honey?” she whispered as she came over next to me.

She felt my forehead and gave me a peck on the cheek. The Mrs. was talking with the nurse in the doorway.

“Not bad, Nanna. Not bad for having a psychotic nanna that robs crack houses and tells my wife I left her in a dive bar by the airport. Other than that not bad.” I whispered.

She patted my hand. “You really need to lay off that tequila honey.” She took a small bottle of Visine out of her purse. “Now just follow my lead,” – her eyes narrowed, “and watch your tone.”

“My wife thinks I got into a bar fight for crying out loud.”

Nanna quickly put the Visine in her eyes and let it run down her cheeks. Then she turned around before we both looked up and saw the biggest policeman I have ever seen in my life as he stepped into the room and flipped his notebook open.

Nanna turned on the crocodile tears like a Visine faucet and began to wail at the policeman.

“Oh NOW you show up!” she shrieked and opened her purse for a tissue. He’s been mugged and barely clinging to life and now you show up – where were you when he needed you?”

The policeman stopped abruptly. “Mugged? He was mugged?”

“Well obviously! Look at him! He’s so brave . . . why are you policemen never around when we need you . . .” She carried on for quite some time. Tears and wailing and crying and complaining and lamenting and sobbing and really working herself up into a frenzy. The nurse and the Mrs. came over and tried to calm her down with very little success. No surprise there.

The policeman turned to me and asked where I was when I was robbed.

“Look at him, look at him – can’t you let him rest before you make him re-live everything!” Nanna sobbed, “Have you no decency! Leave him alone, he needs his rest!”

I closed my eyes and wished they would all go away.

The policeman left his card with the Mrs. and asked her, to have me, call him, later. I could hear everyone leaving the room as I fell back asleep.

————————————

I woke up some time later to see Nanna had dropped the bedrail, pulled up a chair and was using part of the mattress as a table as she counted out several piles of cash next to my arm.

She smiled at me. “We’ve got the booth money for this year’s art shows all right here, Honey.”

I looked at her as she proudly counted the money and smiled at me before I fell back in my pillow, and prayed for a quick and sweet release of death.

(to be continued)

——————————

JohnStillmunks.com

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna – Part 2 – In Which Nanna Might Have Robbed a Crack House

(continued from “Art, Censorship, and Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna” )

Later, I tried to open my eyes. I had a searing, splitting headache and I could only open one eye. My other eye felt puffy and swollen. I saw some guy – a young hoodlum type individual sitting against the wall. A knife sticking out of the front of his shoulder. He looked absurdly pale, I saw the fear in his eyes.

It was like watching TV with one eye and no sound. I followed his gaze to see where he was looking and I saw what he saw.

My Nanna had one of his associates in a headlock with her pistol hand and was punching him in the face repeatedly with her left. Another young man was lying on the floor rubbing his forehead.

Dear Lord! My Nanna was robbing a crack house, again.

The room start to spin and all went dark.

————————————————-

I woke up in my back yard. The birds were chirping and the dogs were sitting next to me. I thought about how much the garage needs to be painted.

Nanna came out with a tray of iced tea and “Heyday” bars. She had her baking apron on and seemed barely able to hold the tray steady as the dogs went over to greet her.

“Down now you sillies” she said as she held the tray higher before setting it next to the chaise lounge and me while scolding the dogs to go away.

“Thanks Nanna” I said as I watched a squirrel taunt both of the dogs from the garage roof.

Nanna sat in the chair next to me and pulled a longneck from her apron.

“Open this for me Honey.” she said

I opened her beer for her and reached for an iced tea. “I had one hell of a dream, Nanna.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I dreamt we were in a crack house and you were . . .”

I reached for a Heyday bar before finishing my sentence and  it disappeared.

“Where’d the Heyday bar go Nanna?”

“They haven’t made those things in 30 years.”

“Huh?”

“This is your dream, Honey – we’re still in that crack house – you really need to not watch so much Monty Python, Dearie.”

My head fell back on the chaise lounge and all went black again.

(to be continued)

JohnStillmunks.com

 

Art, Censorship, & Birthday Shots of Tequila with Nanna

I stood near the security checkpoint at the airport looking toward the gates. People were coming off their flights and walking past me toward Baggage Claim as I craned my neck to see her. She was riding in the back of a golf cart. I could see the back of her head looking to her left and right repeatedly. Several marshals in those blue jackets with the yellow “U.S. Marshal” lettering were escorting the cart. They spun around frequently as they tried to observe all angles in the terminal.  4 or 5 guys in “FBI” blue jackets were limping behind the cart. A couple had their arm in a sling. All had bandages on their faces or black a eye or two.

I looked over at the marshal next to me. “They brought her in from Egypt?”

“Yep. She raised all kinds of hell there. Homeland Security wants nothing to do with her. She beat the hell out of those FBI guys.”

“She doesn’t like the FBI.”

The marshal laughed. “Apparently. What’s up with that?”

I shrugged. “Something about J. Edgar Hoover stealing her dresses.”

The marshal just stared at me. “She’s a relative of yours?”

I kept looking ahead, watching her grey hair move about as she conversed with the other marshals.  “I don’t really know.”

“How old is she?”

“I’m not real sure. I remember she was really angry with Robert Kennedy when I was little.”

“Why?”

“She said something about him ruining her boyfriend’s family business and stuff. I remember something about Cuba. Later she told me it was because he dropped her for some “broad” named Marilyn.”

“Marilyn Monroe?”

“I’m not sure.”

“She’s what you call your ‘Nanna’ – how can you not know more about her? What’s up with that?”

“I think we got her from the Witness Protection Program.”

“Really?”

“I’m just not sure.”

“Well, you’re getting her back now.”

The progressively louder electric hum of the golf cart meant it was coming closer and I turned to look. It stopped right next to me. I stepped around to the back of the cart and saw her.

“Nanna!”

She looked up and tried to reach up and hug me, but the manacles slowed her down a bit. The marshals all reached in their jackets. The FBI guys yelled to “just shoot her”. Nanna rolled her eyes mockingly and smiled at me.

The marshal with me at the security checkpoint calmed everyone down. “Orders are to turn her over to you. I never want to see her again – none of us do.”

I nodded as they unlocked her and walked away after the cart sped off. Nanna flinched toward the FBI agents as they limped past and laughed heartily when they jumped.

“Egypt? Why Egypt Nanna?”

“Couldn’t resist. I told him 30 years ago I was coming back. He didn’t believe me.”

I didn’t want to know any more about that.

We walked slowly down the terminal as she relied on my arm to keep her steady.

“Hungry Nanna?”

She shook her head. Pouting. I’ve seen it before.

“How about some onion rings and shots of Patron – your favorite, right? C’mon, it’s my birthday and the Super Bowl is on.”

Nanna smiled. “Oh, I suppose.”

——————————————–

Before we stepped into the tavern, I opened the back of the van. Nanna stood her ground and crossed her arms. I pointed to the van and she shook her head. I nodded and pointed to the van.

“Everything Nanna.”

My dear sweet Nanna emptied the pockets of her jacket. Into the van went several pistols, collapsible batons, brass knuckles, knives, and so forth. Even piano wire.

“Didn’t they search you Nanna?”

“Not very well, huh baby?”

“Promise me you’ll be nice in here Nanna.”

She didn’t answer.

“Promise me, Nanna.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

As we walked inside, the Steelers scored . . .

(to be continued)

JohnStillmunks.com

“WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”

I was watching my 13 year old at basketball practice the other day. He was invited to help out a team in a tournament last week and the team’s coach invited him to come practice with them for the rest of the season. The long and short of it is my 13 year old is picking up an extra day of practice with another team in addition to the time he spends practicing with his own team. He loves the game and seems to be getting and giving a lot to both teams. Works for me. On top of it all, the extra team’s coach is a former black belt we used to attend class with and I was glad to see again.

(Everyone in our family earned black belts – outside of learning to read, earning a black belt is just about the best thing anyone can do for themselves or others – just a side note).

At the practice I sat against the cold brick wall and watched these kids run and run and run some more. The drills were often punctuated with whistle-blowing or very loud “hold it” or “stop, stop, everybody stop” shouts followed by brief moments of instruction by one or both of the coaches.

At this level, these kids have more passion not only for what they are doing and learning in practice – but also for the game itself – than any multi-million dollar superstar could ever even hope to possess or rekindle. Between the shouts, the crowing, the junior high insults, the whistles, the beat of the ball, and the squeak of the high-tops on the court – these kids have a passion and focus in their eyes that is really unmatched off the court. I love the game, and always have – but I was not privy to the basics like these kids – so I spend my time at these practices watching and learning from the coaches. I am learning plays and techniques that I missed years ago and it is a blast.

During this particular practice, one of the kids was dribbling up the court after being scored on. His opponent did a full court press and challenged him by going for the ball. The result was two young adolescents struggling for control of the ball. The spinning and throwing elbows (not to mention the blatant and excessive “traveling”) became more and more pronounced before one kid pulled the ball away from the other. The whistle blew. All the kids looked at the coach and the coach immediately shouted to the kid that lost the ball: “WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”. The kid that lost the ball said his opponent got it from him. The coach repeated: “WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”. The kid pointed and said his opponent had the ball. The assistant coach was walking up the court and joined the coach in shouting and pointing his finger, “THAT’S YOUR DAMN BALL!!!” in three part harmony (- and with feeling – Arlo Guthrie would have been proud). The coach explained further: “That’s your ball, it’s always your ball – do not ever let someone else have your ball, son – that is YOUR BALL!”. All the kids, including mine, stood around breathing loudly with their hands on their hips and nodding at the coach. They understood.

Everyone in the room understood. Even the long-haired excuse of an artist sitting against the brick wall watching the practice. We all understood that we are responsible for our own ball. We all knew it before, but this is the midwest – we have a thing here called “Minnesota Nice”. Granted this isn’t Minnesota, it’s Iowa – but there is a swath of the country starting up in North Dakota – diving down through Minnesota and Wisconsin around into Iowa before it swirls into rural Illinois somewhere and ends abruptly just outside Bloomington that is subject to the “Minnesota Nice” mentality. There are many definitions, but my take on “Minnesota Nice” as a displaced Nebraskan (Nebraskans are NOT and have never been subject to “Minnesota Nice”), is my understanding that many people in the region do not want to call attention to themselves in any way and prefer to be thought of as prim, proper, and always in control of their emotions and opinions. “Minnesota Nice” can be very frustrating to outsiders like me. Some of us even think of them as being at best disingenuous and at worst, passive-aggressive or even phony when they display “Minnesota Nice”. The fact remains, many of us do not hear “IT’S YOUR BALL” in this part of the country. We are not encouraged to be more assertive, to state our position, to back up our opinions. Many of us are subject to “following” -  we follow bosses, owners, those with power, those who think they have power, those guys behind the curtain that pull the levers and adjust the pulleys. Rather than accepting responsibility for our own decisions, choices, and risks – we point to the kid that took the ball from us and tell the coach someone else has it. Don’t make waves. Be nice. Good for manners – horrible for artists.

Maybe, just maybe it’s better to make sure it’s understood that the ball is YOUR BALL, not someone else’s. Sometimes, someone will dribble down the court toward you and announce that you may not have the ball. Sometimes you will be dribbling toward the basket and someone will try to take the ball from you. Who’s ball is it?

The same holds true in many other venues besides basketball. I’m thinking of the art world – not that other industries are not affected and infected with bullies and banshees, but I’m thinking the art world should be able to shrug off these people and their issues . The universe of painters, photographers, jewelers, sculptors and more that are out there doing work many more people wish and hope against all odds they will even get a chance to try someday. We shouldn’t, but we do have plenty of shrieking primadonna types who believe if they shout loud enough, their opinion will transform from flawed to infallible. Simple shills for manipulative art show directors. Artists and directors who are not actually artists and feel threatened when an artist enters a room or expresses a counter to an opinion. We shouldn’t, but we too have the backstabbers, the manipulators, the gate-keepers, and so on. It’s part of the human experience.

But artists have an option that many other people in the workforce do not have. We can let them know it’s “our ball” and they may not have it. If someone in the art world stands up and makes a statement or takes a position that is disagreeable or even asinine – other artists have an option to exercise that many, many other people – even in America – do not have today. Artists can agree and support or disagree and oppose – it’s part of being an artist. It is the responsibility of being an artist. It’s what separates the artists from the non-artists. Art is not about what you paint, or make or draw or write. It’s about what you think. It’s about hanging on to your ball and not letting some manipulative shill take it and dribble it away from you.

Horrors!

But what if that person runs to someone with power, with authority, with – juice? What if that person pontificates further and then admonishes anyone who may even think of expressing disagreement? What if that person personalizes the disagreement? What if that person just makes life miserable for anyone not on board with the “right” way of thinking? What if that person runs to people you respect and tries to manipulate how you may express your view? What if they try to censor you?

Let them.

Let them try.

There is the “Rule of Thirds”.

Years ago when I was working in a hospital, one of the psychiatrists was a person I really respected and admired. Over time he had me assume an unofficial role with his patients. They eventually began to understand that if they were having a bad day (or a good one) or maybe they needed to discuss something or had a question or whatever – and if their doctor was unavailable – they could come to me. It was kind of a liaison role, a way for the patients to have a specific contact. It was a role I considered to be privileged to have and it worked out very, very well for the patients. It was a bit challenging for some of the staff in the hospital – “turf” was a crucial issue for many staff in hospitals in those days – kind of an ownership thing. Maybe it’s different now, I don’t know. Nonetheless his patients did very well and the system was adopted unofficially by other psychiatrists in the hospital at the time. It led to better understanding between patients, staff, and physicians. It led to fewer crises over time. Some people could not and would not accept the system. I was discussing this issue with this psychiatrist one day. Bear in mind, most psychiatrists were psychiatrists because they flunked surgery or pediatrics – this psychiatrist was a true physician – there were few like him. Smart and human and humane. He shared his view of how to deal with oppositional people with me – he called it the “Rule of Thirds”.

The “Rule of Thirds” is essentially this as I understand it:

No matter what you do, say, or think – 1/3 of the people will like it no matter what, 1/3 will hate it no matter what, and 1/3 really don’t give a damn one way or another. Therefore, if 1/3 will always love you, and 1/3 will always hate you, and 1/3 are apathetic – why worry about what people think? Stay true to yourself and what you know is right. If the emperor has no clothes, let it be known. One-third already do, one-third never will know, and one-third couldn’t care less – so why bother with them?

“WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”

Just make sure they don’t take your ball as you are going down the court. Confront them. Ask questions. Clarify issues. Make them wish they never came down your lane on the court.

“WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”

Artists by definition should not let the manipulators, the shills, the bullies, the primadonnas, the censors or the supposedly “powerful” take their ball. We have an obligation to our patrons and viewers to be creative and free from outside agitators. Pretending to be nice does nothing – it didn’t work for the seventh-grader on the basketball court and it doesn’t work for timid artists.

“WHO’S BALL IS THAT?”

It’s your art, your opinion, and your career – it is your ball, it’s not their ball – it’s your ball. Are you going to let some screaming maniac, or some strutting show director, or some inept art critic, or some formula painter, or whoever – determine where you will take your ball?

“THAT’S YOUR BALL!”.

JohnStillmunks.com

“There’s Always Going to Be a Dumbass”

In my little corner of the world it has been snowing for the last couple of days. Almost a foot. No big deal for us here in the midwest. We midwesterners love watching people down south absolutely lose their minds and shut down entire communities when they get even a whiff of snow. It snows very well here. It’s cold, it’s January, it happens. Christmas Day I was playing basketball with my 13 year old in a Las Vegas driveway at 9pm – but today is January 11 and, well, today I was sitting behind some dumbass trying to negotiate a snow-packed hill in Des Moines. The driver was laying on the gas which caused the damn thing to creep along at about 3 inches an hour going forward while swaying at about 35 mph from side to side like those big marlins you see getting pulled onto the yachts on those fishing shows. Once this driver finally crested the hill and started to enjoy the miracle of gravity, I was treated to the driver’s inability to downshift or even pretend to control a 3000 lbs missile responsibly. Brake lights all the way down the hill and probably going slower downhill than we were going uphill earlier. When we all made it to level ground after what seemed to be about three years later, the driver decided to punch it like a bat out of hell over the interstate and right through a red light narrowly missing and being missed by 3 other drivers trying to carefully negotiate the snow. I came to the stoplight, stopped and waited for the other petrified drivers to finally get enough traction to get out of the intersection. One lady gave me a look that simply said: “Did you see that dumbass that almost hit me?”. I returned a knowing nod and waited for the light. I passed the dumbass further down the road. As I went by I could see the driver yelling into a cellphone and gesturing as if the person on the other end could see that this person had spun out and was resting snugly in a nice glacier of snow on the side of the road.

“There’s always going to be a dumbass.”

I was relieved that person was not on the road any longer for the sake of everyone’s well-being, but I knew it didn’t matter. There is always another dumbass. Listening to the radio I heard someone trying to blame the terrible shooting in Tucson on “right wing rhetoric”. I knew it was only a matter of time before the right wing would come up with some asinine excuse to blame the left for the murders in Tucson. I’m not right wing or left wing. I’m libertarian. In fact, I’m so libertarian I can’t join the Libertarian Party because then I would be too partisan to be libertarian. Maybe we should blame Canada like they did in “South Park”, it would make as much sense. All that aside, the fact is a dumbass shot those unarmed, innocent people – allegedly.

What is a dumbass?

Years ago I worked with adolescents in a psychiatric facility. Every once in a while we would get a kid sent from some beleaguered juvenile court and it was usually very apparent the kid was mistakenly sent by the court. These issues were frequently clerical errors and ironed themselves out in a day or two. In the meantime, we would just encourage the youth to kick back for a couple of days until the paperwork gets corrected. Usually the misplaced adolescent would just try to fit in and not make waves for a couple of days. Sometimes they would exhibit the behavior that landed them in court system in the first place.

Almost without exception, the kids on the floor would approach and inform one of us about the “new guy”. Invariably we would ask just what they were saying and just as invariably these kids would respond with something to the effect of “He doesn’t belong here.”. When asked to elaborate, the kids would usually give examples and point out appropriate or inappropriate behavior that just did not fit in with the usual milieu or environment on the floor. In other words – the kids on the ward knew he was not placed properly sometimes before even he or we did. These kids were not dumbasses. Some of them were as “unbalanced” as one can possibly be, full-blown bonkers even – but they were not dumbasses. Dumbass in the psychiatric treatment setting parlance is more descriptive of a behavior rather than an adjective. It was very, very rarely uttered by staff members – it was stated daily if not hourly by the kids in the treatment setting.

When someone absolutely lost control verbally or physically and acted in a manner that was consistent with their diagnosis, the kids were remarkably tolerant and even gentle. They rarely taunted the offender. However, when the behavior displayed by a youth was inconsistent with what he or she “was in for” or if it was simply a display of typical adolescent angst or a tirade against the world by a teenager – then I would inevitably receive or hear the telltale phrase: “What a dumbass.” from the other kids over and over again.

I worked the evening shift at this particular center. I remember the night being particularly eventful. Lots of drama, lots of miscues by staff, buttons pushed, tempers flared, and seclusion rooms filled. Nothing says “therapy” better than an environment filled with screams, yelling, phones ringing, and profanities floating around the ward like a thick fog. People that work in these environments such as guards, hospital workers, police, and rescue workers often blame the phase of the moon. I remember checking the moon in the window as I stepped outside the locked doors to grab a few Cokes for myself and a couple of staff. I walked down a long hallway to the ward office and dropped off the sodas. I was a heavy smoker then. I set the cans down and reached for a cigarette. One of the kids was sitting in a chair by the desk. I patted my pockets for a lighter and remembered I didn’t bring one. This particular kid saw my predicament and handed me his lighter.

“What the hell – a lighter?”

“I gotta listen to this crap all day. Cut me some slack.”

I lit my cigarette. “How about you get it back when you leave then.” . We both knew it wasn’t a question and he wasn’t getting it back.

“Whatever.”

I dragged on the cigarette and asked, “You doing ok tonight?”.

One of the kids in the seclusion room next to the office banged on the door and made comments regarding my parentage.

The youth by the desk listened, smiled, and said quietly: “What a dumbass.”

I exhaled and started to correct his language before he corrected me more quickly: “Look, there’s always going to be a dumbass. No matter what you do here, there’s always going to be another dumbass. Nothing much you can do about it”.

I handed him a Coke. Such wisdom at 13. He’s probably 37 or 38 right now and if alive, he’s either in a prison or he’s the warden. Hard to tell which and it probably doesn’t matter.

Back to Tucson. The guy that shot those innocent people including the representative, the judge, the nine-year-old girl – clearly an alleged coward and a dumbass. There’s always going to be a dumbass just as my young patient told me in the middle of a state hospital in 1985. We’ve had them for as long as we’ve been recording history. Some are “troubled”, some are sophisticated, some are unable to do well in school, some are very well educated. “Dumbass” is not an adjective. It’s a behavior, a choice that the person makes. In the end we are all responsible for our own choices. Not the ideology, the religion, the politics, the radio, the “lack of civility”, not the peers, nor anything else that we could possibly blame our behavior on in the end. We cannot assume responsibility for the behavior a dumbass chooses to display.

They found a copy of “Catcher in the Rye” on the dumbass that shot Lennon. Can we blame Salinger? No. Everyone is responsible for their own behavior. The Tucson dumbass decided to shoot innocent people – allegedly. It was not the gun, nor his mental status, or the political parties, or the pundits, or the radio, or the blogs, or anything else. He alone made the final choice to shoot innocent people – it happens all over the country; we still live in a fairly free society – one of the consequences of a free society is there is always going to be a dumbass to make it difficult and heartbreaking, but it’s better than the alternative.

This particular dumbass has allegedly done enough damage and his choices should not be diluted or mitigated by people trying to wring some type of political benefit out of what he allegedly did in Tucson.

Dumbasses.

JohnStillmunks.com

Christmas Chillers 2010 Competition Results: “Damn Banks”

I entered a writing competition last fall for a Christmas horror story. The results are in and I am honored to be on the final short-list. You can see all the finalists at this address: http://www.writelink.co.uk/xmaschillers/ChristmasChillersResults/christmaschillersresults.html

Horror is really not my strong suit in any way, shape, or form – but I really liked the challenge this competition presented. The winning entries were very good and I am really grateful to be included in the final list. I think they are going to post everyone’s entire story soon, but I thought I would post mine below. The parameters of the competition were that it had to be prose, it had to remain under their 1500 word count and it had to begin with the phrase: “The only thing the children had in common was they’d all disappeared on Christmas Eve . . .” – otherwise the sky was the limit.

I hope you enjoy it, I’m posting it as kind of a late Christmas present to all my readers. When the judge sends her critique, I will post it here as well.

There are plenty more competitions in the works along with the art shows, so please subscribe to this blog or check back often.

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“Damn Banks”

The only thing the children had in common was they’d all disappeared on Christmas Eve, they were first-born, and their parents refused to pay their mortgages. Ned shook his head slowly while watching the screen. Parents knew the contracts. It was bad enough they bought more house than they could afford, but to stop payments knowing this could happen – unforgivable! He barely remembered Christmas, but he knew it was similar to today’s modern New Year’s Eve holiday – a time for reflection, thankfulness, and eager optimism for the Realm. Ned knew he must never let these people affect him on a personal level.

“Ready.” squawked the laptop speaker.

Ned looked outside the van. New Year’s Eve. Parents never read the contracts, why should that be his concern? It was spelled out clearly for them. Counter-signed by the banks.

“Damn banks.” he muttered. Forefinger at his temple and thumb at his lower jawbone, Ned stared at the microphone button and tapped the laptop with his other hand.

“We’re set Inspector.” Ned glanced at the speaker. Terrible audio – like a voice whispering in a sandstorm.

The banks, always the banks. Ned knew. Everyone knew. They took the tax money, they set this up. It could have all been so different. Damn banks!

The speaker squawked again.

Ned hit the microphone button, “Hold.”

A few seconds passed, “Yes, Inspector.”

Contracts. People didn’t care. The law was simple: Miss 2 mortgage payments; forfeit the first-born by the end of the year. Easy.

It was law throughout the Realm. The realtors glossed over it. Everyone supposedly knew it when the law passed. Ned smiled. No realtor really wanted to bring it up. The law passed – fair and square. No one bothered to read the entire bill before it passed through.

Snowing.

Ned stared at the building. He glanced at the reporter sitting in the back. She looked away – disgusted.

-

“Daddy-y-y-y!”

Sinclair got home and watched his little sweetie run to him. 3 years old – bundled up in curls and pajama feet. He caught her as she started to fall and swung her up to meet him face-to-face. They hugged in the hallway.

“How’s my girl?”

“Great Daddy! – is Mikey coming home?”

“Don’t know, Honey”

“New Year’s?”

“We’ll see Sweetie.” Sinclair set her down and patted her head.

“Get my sweater please?”

“Where?”

“The chair next to the New Year’s tree.” he said while stepping into the kitchen. Paula sat at the table clutching a kitchen towel. Her eyes obviously red and swollen from crying all day – again.

“Anything?”

Paula shook her head and started sobbing again.

“Police call?”

She shook her head and wiped her nose.

Sinclair stared at the calendar. Mikey vanished on Christmas Eve. Christmas was not sanctioned by the Realm. Hardly anyone still observed it. Sinclair vaguely remembered it. He wondered how in the world this could happen to his boy – his oldest. He never came home from the Education Center. How? There is no crime in the Realm. Still, Sinclair knew he had to provide a nice New Year’s for his family. It was his duty.

Shiver. “Honey, where’s my sweater?”

“Sorry Daddy!”

She came back dragging the sweater on the floor behind her. “I was looking at the New Year’s tree and Mikey’s ormmaman.”

“Ornament” corrected Paula pulling together a pathetic smile for their daughter.

“Are you still real sad Mama?” she asked while scampering up to her mother’s lap.

“Yes, honey.”

“We got this from the bank today, Sinclair.” Paula looked up and passed him an envelope from the table. “We have a six month grace guaranteed by the Realm. Isn’t that great? By then we’ll both be working and get caught up? Right? Next year will be better?”

Sinclair nodded and watched the snow fall outside the kitchen window. Paula rocked her daughter and cried silently.

They both knew.

-

Tom Vansen slip-slid on the new snow out to the police car. He was being escorted to assist and advise an Inspector. They needed his expertise for an emergency. Always an honor to assist the Realm! He waved back to his family in the window from the front seat of the cruiser.

-

“Mikey! It’s New Years Eve! Maybe we’ll go home!”

Mikey looked around. Maybe. New Year’s Eve is the holiday in the Realm. Other holidays aren’t outlawed, just frowned upon. Not New Year’s Eve! It’s a special time – celebrating everything that was good during the past year and everyone looks forward to yet another prosperous year ahead. On New Year’s Eve, children traditionally receive fruit and one pass for the health center during the upcoming year – if they’ve been good! Parents review the “Principles of Character” with their children. Travel is not allowed. Parents observe their duty by studying the Principles and promoting public wellness. All citizens know if keeping everyone at home and not allowing any civilian travel during the holiday, results in just one life being saved – then the tradition is indeed worth the effort and sacrifice given by all. New Year’s Eve in the Realm not only reinforces the national values, it saves lives too!

“Mikey – they’ll take us home, won’t they?”

“No traveling tonight.”

“But they can – they’ll take us home, right?”

Mikey looked at the little girl. He was 10; she was maybe 9. He didn’t know her very well, but she seemed nice and needed a friend. It was cold. The police picked him up last Sunday at his Education Center. They were herded into a large sunken pit in the middle of this room that echoed loudly. Someone called it a “pool”. Mikey tried to count kids, but couldn’t. His last count was 167 kids. Most were around his age, some were teenagers – though obviously not yet enlisted as “Defenders of the Realm”. Some were a bit younger. There were a few babies too – cared for by the older kids.

Mikey looked at her again, “I don’t know.”.

“But it’s New Year’s Eve!”

Mikey watched them walk around on the floor above the pool. Loud taps on the tiles echoed each time they took a step.

-

“We gonna to do the Prices of Carrots tonight, Daddy?”

Sinclair swept her up, “You mean the Principles of Character?”

“Yep.”

“Did you memorize your poem?”

“Oh yes!” she squealed.

“She’s getting sooo big Sinclair!” sobbed Paula as they settled by the New Year’s tree and the heat vent.

-

The girl tugged Mikey’s arm. “Look!”

Some police brought in crates of oranges and dumped them into the old swimming pool. One officer blew a whistle before they departed. The kids swarmed around the oranges and started stuffing their shirts and pockets. All was quiet when the last officer pulled the doors shut – until the babies began crying and the teenagers started yelling at each other.

-

“Inspector. Timecheck. Deadline is 0000 hours.” brayed the voice in the speaker.

Ned sighed. Damn banks. He finally clicked the microphone button, “Proceed.”.

He rubbed his eyes and listened to the ensuing chatter of orders and reports. Looking up, Ned saw two figures approaching the van from a cruiser. He informed the reporter that the utilities official arrived. She nodded. Ned got out and walked over as the snow swirled around them.

“Thomas Vansen?”

“Yes?”

Ned unfolded his script – always official – he cleared his throat:

“Mr. Vansen, as Assistant Deputy Regional Manager of this sector’s Gas & Light System, your incompetence and mismanagement has resulted in catastrophic natural gas explosions within many private homes ending in the loss of 173 families loyal and true to the Realm. You alone are determined responsible for this tragedy and therefore. . .”

Confused, the bureaucrat backed away. His escort promptly shot him once in the temple. Ned raised an eyebrow at the officer who then nodded and crisply ordered the official news reporter out of the van to complete her assignment. All three heard the scores of explosions and fire truck sirens echoing all around.

Ned turned and stamped through the snow to the line of police officers standing at attention outside the old swimming facility.

The sergeant saluted Ned outside the door.

Ned nodded and they both entered the pool area to survey the kids.

“Oranges?”

“We all chipped in – something nice – ‘cause, . . . it’s, just something nice, you know.”

Ned sighed and signaled the contingent to enter – stomping in unison all around the old pool filled with 173 missing, screaming children. He checked his watch and noticed some officers already changing as the doors were bolted shut from the outside.

Ned felt his own metamorphosis. Damn banks! Painful at first; familiar agony – followed by only raw, pure hunger as he and the others dived into the pool.

The reporter slid down the double doors to a sitting fetal position and rocked herself as she covered her ears.

. . . it was a marvelous feed.

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John Stillmunks
“Damn Banks”
Christmas Chillers 2010 Submission

JohnStillmunks.com

 

“On Step-Fathers”

I rarely go to bars anymore. I used to go out a lot. My best buddy and I had a blast for years. Later, I went out a lot with my wife. I stopped going out when the kids were born. I just never wanted to go boozing when the kids were at home.

But it’s Christmas and I thought I’d stop for one on the way home tonight

I was going to sit up at the bar with a Grand Marnier (NOT served in a snifter) and a soda-back. In the midwest, a soda-back is a rock glass with a blast of some soda water as a chaser – not that one is actually needed. I had Grand Marnier on my mind because Templeton Rye is impossible to get a hold of around here and I always reserve my Jameson for Christmas Eve. I don’t like beer and Captain Morgan is far too casual for a Christmas shooter.

My plan was to kick back and raise a silent toast St. Joseph because I always thought he got a raw deal. Jesus and Mary at least knew what they were getting into when everything went down in Herod-land. St. Joe was just thrown in – feet first. After all, he was just the dad – or rather, a stepdad – but he certainly made the grade. He was a good guy in a difficult situation. I think when he died, they probably greeted him in Heaven without all the TSA-style “up-down” glances and assessments. He probably got a “pass”. I’m sure he was set up in a nice place, “something with a view – something nice” (as my dad says). The guy deserved it. There is no way Christmas could have happened like it did without St. Joseph. Maybe reservations would have been a good idea in hindsight, but he did have a lot on his mind after all.

I am not a stepfather and I do not as of yet have any plans to become one. But then, who does? My grandfather was technically my step-grandfather. I doubt very much he planned to be a step-father not to mention a grandfather to his stepdaughter’s kids, but he did a great job. He was with my sister when she died. As the story goes, he altered my name when he first saw me – a great source of confusion well into grade school, but it didn’t matter – he was a good guy. He probably has a nice place up there. Nobody, absolutely nobody liked Christmas more than he did. He had the best Christmas parties I have ever seen to this day. He probably leaves the lights up all year in Heaven and has a bottle of Frangelico in the bottom shelf of his cabinet.

My dad has been a great stepfather to my two stepsisters. They would not be who they are today without him. I do not think he woke up one day and decided to be a stepfather, I really wonder if anyone does. He was just commenting the other day about having to put up all the “Christmas crap”. He has a certain, uh, “special” way with words. Always has. The important thing to note is the decorations are always set up perfectly and everything is always shined up as if someone used 8 bottles of Windex to make sure there was not a dull spot or a speck anywhere.

My own stepfather was a good guy. He passed away a couple of weeks ago. He was Mr. Christmas himself. I understand he was helping out at one of his kids’ place of business as they were preparing for the holidays. He was a class act, a good man. Like St. Joseph, he provided well for his family no matter as to the circumstances. I’ve always thought he had the patience of Job. This will be his first Christmas away from his family, but I really don’t think he’ll be far away. I bet he has a camper with Christmas lights on it and the biggest tree.

My best friend who I used to booze with when we were younger has two beautiful kids from Korea. He is working a lot, but he always makes sure his kids have a great Christmas. He’s one of the best examples of being a father that I know. My brother is another one. He’s for all practical purposes the “go to guy” for his stepson and has been for years.

I wonder if St. Joseph knew he was setting such an example 2000 years ago, or if he just did what needed to be done.

I had to work late tonight. It’s a recession and Christmas is about a week away.

My kids are at home.

I’ll just have a Grand Marnier some other time.

Happy Christmas.

JohnStillmunks.com

Just in Time for Christmas

12-13-10 Update: Now available on Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/Acerbic-Diatribes-Painter-Laptop-Paintings/dp/1456360566/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1292257104&sr=8-1

or on https://www.createspace.com/3504232

Response has been really incredible so far – thank you one and all for your support of my work!

——————————————————

12-11-10:

I apologize for not contributing here lately. I promise that I will post a Christmas essay up here in the next few days.

I’ve been busy with a ton of things lately.

I know most people are very busy as well, so it isn’t much of an excuse – but I do have an announcement for people that enjoy my work:

We put together 15 art-related essays from this blog and 40 paintings – threw in an introduction from me and a Forward by photographer/gallerist/Renaissance man John Gaps and mixed it all up. We ended up with an 8×10 full-color 70 page – soft cover book that will soon (within days) be available on amazon.com and may currently be pre-ordered by sending me a note to johnstillmunks@yahoo.com or going to johnstillmunks.com

The title? “Acerbic Diatribes” (of a Painter with a Laptop) Selected Paintings and Writings. This is volume 1 of many more to come. Order “Acerbic Diatribes” so that you will have the first copy of volume one and you’ll be the envy of all your friends . . . price is only $25

8×10 soft-cover, full-color, 70 pages, 15 essays from the WordPress blog illustrated with 40 paintings – $25.00 / perfect Christmas gift for anyone that owns my paintings or wants to own one.

Amazon.com will start accepting orders for “Acerbic Diatribes” sometime in the next two weeks.

Please send me a note to: johnstillmunks@yahoo.com or use the “contact me” page at that site if you prefer to order immediately and use Paypal. We will set up your order and send a message regarding payment.

If you would like to order now using your credit card, we set up an estore for “Acerbic Diatribes”. Please go to:

https://www.createspace.com/3504232

Hopefully this will be a nice addition to your collection.

Madonna and I wish you a Merry Christmas and a great holiday season!

The next posting will be in a few days!

JohnStillmunks.com