Petrus Boots ~ Journal ~ Page 2

† September 25, 2005

The fall studio tour has blown through and with it comes the end of summer. Our first full summer with Art Unseen open to the curious has for the most part been a positive experience. As some might otherwise suspect, we were not overwhelmed by knocks on the door disrupting our "sacred creative space". It was to the contrary and the relatively steady stream of admirers and critics if anything added to our artistic pursuits. No matter how much I might try to stand alone, holding belief in myself and the art, visual art does require some outside recognition and appreciation to bring it full circle. The individuals guided to our front door by the road signs varied, and levels of conversation spanned from simply talking about the medium and how it's done to exploring the message and what it all means. Whether the comments and reflections upon the work were affirmative and a stimulus for creating more or a negative influence which fires my passion to the same consequence, in effect, it was all positive.

But through it all there has been one word which has stuck when those who would deny my expression try to say what they think without outrightly insulting me within my home. It's a funny thing when (politically) left meets right or (artistically) abstract modernist meets contemporary realist within our increasingly polarized polite society. We've all heard it said one time or other in one way or another, "if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all". Which, if we follow Thumper's version to the letter would mean that we should just be ourselves and say what we think without fear of consequence. "Truth or consequence", it's closer to the truth to say "truth and consequence" for when you pull up the nerve to speak your truth you can be assured of some type of consequence. Which brings me back to that sticky word or variations thereof. The word which has crept into my late night thoughts is "illustration, illustrative, illustrator or illustrate". It's a word that is popular with the modernists as a polite put down when looking upon work which is realistic and requires some technical ability to draw in order to produce. By calling my work illustrative or labeling me an illustrator its like a sideways compliment/criticism depending on how the person defines the word. My guess is that to someone who calls found objects or a toilet on the wall art, illustration is something akin to technically realistic pictures within a commercial vein. In other words, a cutting remark to any serious artist practicing self expression. A quote from a beloved movie "The Princess Bride" comes to mind, "You keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means."

In order to illustrate my point I've included a thread from a forum that Stefanie stumbled upon while running my name through Google. It's strange the places you find your name on the internet and I never thought I would be included within a site called "life is annoying" but there it was along with that word again. Talk about annoying. Here is how it read:

And, to contribute to this thread:

Petrus Boots:

Often great, sometimes "illustrations" rather than "art". Always skillfully done.

I don't have a clue why I have this link, nor how I found it. Perhaps it is posted in here somewhere already...

Fox Leonard ...just another critic...

www.lifeisannoying.com

Hmm... very interesting now if you don't mind Fox, let's dissect this post. "Often great," that's nice, "Always skillfully done." thank you very much, but why does this phrase "sometimes "illustrations" rather than "art" " have to be the meat of the comment. A sandwich with nothing in the middle is just two slices of bread. Even a sandwich made with the freshest of bread while containing within it something rancid remains unappetizing and distasteful. See what I mean by a sideways compliment?

Illustration or art ... if these are the words used to define what it is I do one would be prudent to look them up and find the accurate definition for them before using them as opposing qualities. Unless of course we want to change the meanings of words to suit whatever agenda might benefit. This reshaping of the English language landscape seems strangely familiar to what another segment of our society does to justify and sell the glorious horrors of war. But in the world where we are guilty until proven innocent and in my defense it's up to me to do the research, so I looked up the words in question and here's what I found:

illustration n. 1. pictorial matter used to explain or decorate a text. 2. an example or demonstration: an illustration of his ability. 3. the act of illustrating or the state of being illustrated.

"Pictorial matter used to explain or decorate a text." Since I have never in my life illustrated a book or provided images to compliment a magazine article I'm not quite sure how this definition lends description to my work. Although sometimes I do find words which hold a visual within them and through a title a piece is created, more often then not the work finds it's title somewhere during the execution or at the point of completion.

illustrate vb. 1. to clarify or explain by use of examples, analogy, etc. 2. (tr.) to be an example or demonstration of. 3. (tr.) to explain or decorate (a book, text, etc.) with pictures. 4.(tr.) an archaic word for enlighten. [C16: from Latin illusrãre to make light, explain from lustrãre to purify, brighten; see LUSTRUM]

Actually the definition for illustrate I kind of liked. Specifically the archaic word and Latin origin of meaning; to make light, to purify, brighten. In essence that is what I feel art is and what it is here for, to enlighten. But I highly doubt that is what is meant when I'm labeled an illustrator.

And what of the word "art" itself:

art n. 1. a. the creation of works of beauty or other special significance. b. (as modifier): an art movement. 2. the exercise of human skill (as distinguished from nature). 3. imaginative skill as applied to representations of the natural world or figment of the imagination. 4.a. the products of man's creative activities; works of art collectively, esp. of the visual arts, sometimes also music, drama, dance and literature. b. (as modifier): an art gallery. See also arts, fine art. 5. excellence or aesthetic merit of conception or execution as exemplified by such works. 6. any branch of the visual arts, esp. painting. 7. (modifier) intended to be artistic or decorative... and it goes on from there to other uses for the word art as in: the art of this and that...

I leave it to you to choose which definition and accordingly which word best describes what it is I do and create.

Well that's my struggle in the world of abstract modernists, school taught in what is art and what is not. Most of the time I recognize them before they speak a word. They have a certain body language, vibe and look, and tend to peruse everything in the house but the art, saying nothing about it. Of course, if total denial of what I do is undeniable they can always fall back on the word illustration labeling me an illustrator and if they must, so be it. But I will say this about the land where the medium is the message, inbreeding will eventually occur. I mean, how deep can a layer of pigment possibly be? With art about nothing but art, they're teetering on the edge of some type of narcissistic incest. Sometimes I feel "the medium is the message" has been taken too literally not unlike the born again's interpretation of another "sacred text", the Bible.

When I began this entry I hadn't planned on spending this long on the ramifications of a word. I had a list of things I wanted to get into like:

† The story Stefanie's father told me about a Queen's University janitor's splash guard which got rave reviews as an important work of art.

† For the Mac guy who visited our house looking for preliminary sketches of my work, I wanted to get into Mac versus PC when it comes to art produced on the computer. Personally, short of branding and the new God through corporate identity, products and product placement, I have not found an answer as to why Macs are better and why I should feel of a lower cast and class because I work on a PC.

† As far as sketches, I have been doing daily sketches lately and wanted to upload them with some discussion on their subject matter, self indulgent nature and the method of production. But they can wait and perhaps I'll do some more in the meantime.

† And of course we can't forget about George and natures attempts to turn up the contrast on the worlds "greatest democracy" for all to see with undeniable clarity. The suffering of people is never in vain, for suffering burns through to truth. And we all saw it didn't we? But then like a morphing terminator the corporate media machine kicks in, muddying the waters of a shortcoming which has inundated the "richest nation" for two hundred years or more. I guess the illusion of democracy and equal opportunity is enough justification to take the show on the road, spreading the dis-ease to the oil rich nations of the middle east.

† And lastly, since we are all consumers to one degree or other, vote with your dollar. Since casting your vote on election day these days is just more illusion than substance, it's time we took the power corporate has given us as consumers and consciously buy them out of business.

† August 12, 2005

Before I totally lose myself in doing the commercial work which is supposed to support my Art, a journal entry is needed to remind me of who I am. So I pull myself out of the basement, where three sign jobs demand my attention, in order to string together some of the thoughts I've scribbled on scraps of paper down there. Most of these thoughts relate to my resignation from the art world and the reactions of others to my decision.

The most disheartening aspect of my decision to extricate myself fully from the commercial end of the "Fine Art World' is not in having to come to this end, but in people's reactions to it. The choice I have had to make has brought to the forefront how insidious and prevailing the commercial aspect of our society has become. It's everywhere. I think I heard it said in a movie somewhere, "It's a cynical world...", where everything is bought, sold and leased to the highest bidder. So who's the king of the world? Well no matter what George Bush may think, it's not him... and James Cameron, well... he was king for how long... a few hours during the Oscars after sinking the Titanic? No... the true king and dictator of our world is in everyone's pockets and purses. And where do we go from here?

No longer pursuing or having any inkling of hope or desire in selling my Art and recognizing this as the truth, has been greeted more often than not with cynical disbelief. Like I will come back to my senses sometime. And if not disbelief, it is received with the look of pity, or worse, self-righteous commiseration. You know... that puppy dog sympathetic look you get from some people whilst emanating behind it is a contrary sentiment saying the exact opposite? This type of communicative exchange usually comes from people who's illusions of life are seemingly justified by your apparent downfall. It's after these exchanges that I have to work the hardest at just keeping my own knowing and self intact. So here I am, not painting but writing, in an effort to keep the dream alive.

And what is my dream these days? Well, it never changed from where and when I started taking my Art seriously about twenty or so years ago. The first piece I did in this vein was one called "Waste (An artist's conception)" which dealt with nuclear annihilation. Not exactly an image most would want hanging over their couch. It definitely didn't match the fabric of any couch I knew of. So it seems I have never really produced work geared to any of the various art markets. And I have always put my energies strictly into what the work says and the technical mastery of the medium I chose to work with. In a way, with coin and bullshit being the driving forces behind the art world, I shouldn't be surprised with my lack of financial reward. It was never what I was aiming at. Recognition for what I do is another issue but these days recognition seems to only come with and be inextricably linked to financial success. This is one thing I would like to change and this is part of my dream, to change it. To change it not by lip service but by doing it. If art like life is truly priceless then to put a price on it, no matter how high, is to cheapen and devalue its true worth.

So the original work is no longer for sale but then again, it never was. I have been faced with this choice for quite some time, quit doing art or quit cowering to the art world. Since I place more value on the work than any critics option of it, there was only ever one choice. On the inside it wasn't too difficult a choice to make but from the outside world it almost appears defeatist if not suicidal. "You're not going? And you don't want to play with the kids in the playground allotted you? What's wrong with you?" Simple answer. What's wrong with me is that I'm an artist and have been one since the day my father fainted at my birth. There was never any choice, that's always been the illusion. And here I stand, alone, as I will when I greet my death, the choice-less door we can only ever go through alone. To be rejected time and again by the community I thought I was a part of is a powerful lesson, once you get past the boo-hoo, woe poor me's. It forces one to stand without outside need for definition. No gallery confirmation required, thank you very much. And much like my lack of Catholic Confirmation does not diminish my spiritual relevance, no gallery representation does not negate my artistic reality. I'm an artist.

Opinions and peoples perceptions persist nonetheless. Some may think my non-sale is a lame promotional stunt geared towards making my work worth more gold. Others will see in the physiological aspect of making something unavailable, I might be trying to make it more desirable. I have done that in the past, walked away from a potential client only to have him track me down and pay me what I asked. But I am not asking for anything anymore. Still, some people will never see my truth for what it is mainly because it would force them to have to adjust their own. Working on something for its own sake with no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow has become so foreign within our society. This disturbs me but then I think of those who have walked the path of chosen poverty and I see that it's not so strange. Take Gandhi for instance, at the end of his life all his possessions could be contained within a single close-up photograph. Not that I want to take on a vow of poverty, it's just that I no longer want to suffer over what I don't have.

To borrow from another page of Gandhi's life's expression, it's in what you do, not say in this life, where truth matters. I heard a story once where Gandhi was asked by a mother to tell her child to quit eating sugar. He told her to go and come back in two weeks. In two weeks she came back and he told the child to stop eating sugar. With this, the mother asked Gandhi why they had to come back after two weeks for him to simply say, stop eating sugar. He replied, two weeks ago I was still eating sugar. So for me to believe that art's value is beyond the reach of the highest bidder, I would be a hypocrite to put a price on it. A price, I might add with regard to the nature of my work, high detail, time consuming, only a few could possibly afford. And what of the work then, if someone should buy it? Will those who have the finances to actually buy something which took me three years to complete invite passers by to come in and view it hanging over their mantel? Highly unlikely.

The manner in which I bring my art to the world cannot be separated from the work itself. It is all a part of the expression. So what does it say when an artist works feverously getting a show of technically compromised works together in order to claim success only when selling out on opening night in some high end New York gallery? It says much. To think that true art will come out of a system based on commercial monetary value and whether a show sells out or not, is to believe that true peace will come out of global domination through commercial or military means.

The art of living, where we are judged not by what we profess to do but by what we actually do. That said, some may think painting signs and doing commercial work to be the ultimate compromise for any artist, but I disagree. In doing the commercial work and keeping it separate from the art I am free to call it what it is, commercial work. Whereas, should I try to continue to make a living solely off the Art I would be forced to acknowledge it for what it would become, commercial. And that I am not willing to do. Besides, any artist of merit would only ever consider themselves a painter of signs.

"Here's where we go off the map

Out past the power lines

Up that little side road without a sign

Hidden from the main street

The keepers of the ancient future

Keepers of the drum

They don't preserve it

They live it."

~ Robbie Robertson ~

† July 25, 2005

My Letter of Resignation from the World of Art.

~ Part Two ~

Note: For those who have just recently stumbled upon my journal this is Part Two of a letter of resignation which was started July 20, 2005. Please use the journal index menu on the right by clicking on the appropriate date July 20, 2005 to start reading at the beginning, if you wish.

Now where was I... oh yeah, Stefanie and I were heading back to Canada, with my tail firmly implanted between my legs. Of course, I liked to think that the opposite was true but to be honest and in truth, it wasn't. I didn't want to be back in Canada and that fact alone says much, for if I was truly living my life I would have been where I wanted and thought I needed to be. But then life's twists and turns have a way of leading you, eventually, to where you truly belong, which is not a place but just finding comfort within your own skin. Despite my feelings, Stef and I found a house which was in our price range in the last place I would have ever thought I would call home ... Apsley, Ontario. With the last payment from an original ("Reunion") sold down in the States, we paid our first mortgage payment and it is from this house, now some eight or so years later, that I write this letter.

As the story goes, things down south between Bearcloud and his new employee Michael, had gone just there, south. Not to go into any details, because I truly don't know what they all are, the end result was that Bearcloud moved his gallery to a new location within Sedona and somehow Michael was now running Rod's old gallery location (now known as Spiritwind) as the owner. If only I could have pulled one off like that. I mean, Michael had gone from living out of his car, among the disenfranchised youth of America, to having his own gallery in a matter of what, a year maybe two. I spent three years with my whole collection of work trying to make a go of it down there and all I ended up with was an overloaded trailer blowing tires on its way back to Canada. That's got to say something about Michael, not to mention that Bearcloud hasn't spoken a word to him since all that went down. All I can say is, it must have been serious because Stef and I have had our differences with Bearcloud but our friendship has always pulled through. The one exception being the most recent disagreement we have had with him but we will have to wait and see about that one when he returns from a trip to England.

So... this leads the story to the most recent past and my last ditch efforts to find gallery representation within Sedona. As I mentioned in part one there were four possible galleries on my list. Much to Bearcloud's dismay I had put Michael's gallery Spiritwind at the end of this short list. I explained to Bearcloud, that I was at the end of my journey as an artist and that if all else failed I would be left with no other option but to contact Michael. The truth be known, I felt that of the galleries I chose, with Michael's I stood the best chance of actually getting in. Not only because I had history with Michael but also because of the work he chose to include within his gallery, Spiritwind.

As expected the other three galleries rejected me. Out of the three, there was only one who actually returned my e-mail saying, they were not interested. That one as it turned out, Sedona Spirit Fine Art, was the best reply I got. What is it with people these days and this wonderful new communication called e-mail where they feel they can ignore you without a simple yes or no reply? Of course I would never want to show my work in a gallery where the owners deem themselves above common courtesy, but still... show some respect folks, no one can be that busy. No thanks, thank you but no, any excuse will do. Of course my expectations were low and before someone thinks that in this negative outlook I sealed my fate, I say bullshit. I have looked past, thought positive and given the benefit of doubt to more scoundrels than deserve it. It's only through experience of reality that I now give only the smallest quota of doubt because to give any more, I can't afford.

One of the Sedona galleries which returned no reply is called Exposures International Gallery of Fine Art. Bearcloud had brought my images in for them to look at and he said in his experience with them, that perhaps I should change my approach. One thing he said he noticed, is when he showed them my paintings all looked good but then when he showed my pencil work an iron wall went up. His explanation for this was that galleries like to see consistency, they want to know what they are getting into and what to expect from an artist in the future. You know, that the next painting although different will at least be similar in style to the one previous. Basically, Bearcloud was telling me that all the work I had produced to date was worthless in their eyes. Worthless, not so much because it was relevant and actually said something but because it would be difficult for them to sell. This realization truly lifted my spirits to no end and filled me with great hope. Ah... but I grow cynical.

So that's it then and they call themselves Exposures International Gallery of Fine Art. They may like to think they deal in fine art but I am beginning to see something much different within not only this gallery but the whole gallery system including juried shows as a means of bringing art to the people. What most galleries and show coordinators want, it turns out, is something akin to a McDonald's hamburger. You know, you go to McDonald's and you might not even like their food and know it's crap but you go there for one simple reason, you know what you are going to get. This is not fine art, this is art that sells, and art that is created for sale can only be called what it is... commercial art. Because that is what it is, art for profit, art for commerce, commercial art... simple. There is nothing fine about it.

So anyway... three down (the third, The Quinn Gallery, is not worth mentioning) one to go. Sorry Bearcloud but Michael was now my only option. This information did not go down well when Stefanie told him this over the phone and hard vibes were exchanged. Nevertheless, I was at the end of my rope, I had to give it a shot. Bearcloud was fully aware that I didn't exactly trust Michael because I had told him but as I was beginning to find out Bearcloud did not trust my own knowing of what is right for me. I don't know if it was through some feeling of self preservation or through some misplaced feeling of protecting us from Michael, but our long friendship with Bearcloud seemed at an end. Despite all that, I took the personal insult with a grain of salt and proceeded to contact Michael at Spiritwind Gallery.

I sent an e-mail to Michael on July 5th saying, "Just found you on the internet and wonder how you are doing. If you want to see what Stefanie and I have been up too, check out our sites. Looking forward to hearing from you.", along with links to our sites. It came back to me undeliverable so I sent it a couple more times. Seeing that there was a problem, I contacted the webmaster and told him there was a problem. I told him I was an old friend and would like to get in touch with Michael. The webmaster got back to me promptly and said he was working on the problem and that he had forwarded the message I had sent to Michael saying, "I am sure he will get back to you soon." I waited.

July 10th I sent another email which although I was getting a little annoyed was still courteous and light hearted. In this e-mail I did mention to him that by contacting him I had not won any favors with Bearcloud. Again I waited.

O.K. enough is enough, on July 13th I phoned the gallery asking for Michael but he was not there. The woman working there gave me the usual, he's a busy man, friends are always trying to contact him, artists are always contacting him, he has to ship art and deal with artists and so on. I felt I was being blocked. Of course I am beginning to enter a defensive mode so perhaps I am just reading this into the situation. This inward search of my own character and feelings is what's called giving someone the benefit of the doubt. I sent a follow up e-mail in case the woman at the gallery wrote my e-mail incorrectly. Those things happen, although all my previous e-mails included a direct e-mail link which only needed to be clicked on. I waited some more.

On July 17th I sent another e-mail to Michael saying, "This is Petrus Boots trying to get your attention. I am beginning to think that you are snubbing my attempts. Please prove me wrong." I gave him the benefit of 24 more hours of doubt.

Somewhere through all this Stef had attained Michael's home phone number through directory assistance. On July 18th as I was in the basement working on a sign job my thoughts and anger came to a boiling point. I just couldn't believe it. This is someone I thought I knew. Contacting Michael was not like approaching the other galleries, where I could almost accept the rejections ... he knew me, we had broken bread. I don't like to think that I have an oversized ego but there was just no way he could have forgotten Stef and I. Sure, I had my doubts about him but still... why was he ignoring me, repeatedly? When I began this final venture into gallery land I truly thought that Michael would take me on as an artist in his gallery. In a strange way, it almost made sense. This initial belief had eroded into a disbelief of nauseating proportions. If I can't get into a gallery where I know the owner, where the owner has expressed his belief in my work, what other hope do I have of ever being taken seriously with any other gallery? None. And if galleries are the only way of reaching the people and gaining recognition within the art world, what is there left to do but admit defeat and quit? I was an artist with nothing left to lose. All I had left was a lit match of anger with no bridges to burn.

July 18 I called Michael at his home. After a few rings and after hearing his voice say, "... leave a message and I will get back to you promptly", I went tourette on his answering machine. Knowing I had his machine and perhaps a bit cowardly, I took my frustrations of twenty or more years of being rejected by galleries out on his machine twice more. So that was it, my life as an artist had come to an end. Not a dramatic cutting off of the ear or suicide, where the final self-portrait would be a bullet to the head leaving scull fragments, blood and brains on the canvas behind but just an angry flame which fizzled after expressing it to a machine. How 21st century pathetic is that?

For most of my artistic career, and I use the term "career" rather loosely, there have been numerous days when I felt there was nothing left to do but quit. Somehow during those darker days I managed to pull myself up. Ignoring the reality of being ignored by the ones who dictate to the rest of us what art is relevant and what art is not, I would drag myself out of the swamp and squeeze another honest piece of self expression out of my pencil or brush. Those days of hope in an art world built upon an economy based system where an artist only gets a break when he or she is deemed economically viable are over. In my 45th year upon this planet where over half of them have been dedicated to bringing my version of the truth to light, it is time to accept my fate. To quote the famous words of an Original American, "From this day I will fight no more forever." ~ Chief Joseph. But I will count myself lucky, because unlike Chief Joseph and his tribe, my family is not suffering starvation, cold and eventual death due to the relentless pursuits of an enemy which is beyond our reckoning. And that's just another one of those sad statements. I am sure I am not the only one to ever use one, where the only way to accept your fate and remain somewhat happy is to look at someone who has (or in Chief Joseph's case, had) it much worse. These days one does not have to look far, you just have to turn on your television and watch the evening news. Hell, with the advent of satellite and cable news you don't even have to wait for the evening, it's as they like to say these days... available 24/7.

Having vented my anger at one who deserved it, rather then swallowing it down only to have it misdirected toward those I love and are closest to me, all that was left to do was to take my daughter to her first movie experience, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Which brings us back to the start and when I began to write all this down. As I was into the first or maybe the second paragraph of writing the phone rang. Stefanie was out so I ran down stairs to answer it and who would it be on the other end but Michael. I finally got his attention and it seems he has some balls after all. But one has to wonder would I have gotten his attention if I hadn't gone off on his machine calling him on some of the things of which I suspected him. Oh and in between the profanity I did mention that I would be including my experience with him within my website journal. I'm almost certain that his latent reply was mainly to serve his own self preservation. The advent of the internet and search engines which pick up names and such does give us little people a power that we never had before. If even slight, it does make them have to, at the very least, remain courteous, for recognition through reputation is a vulnerability which they can't afford. Their world of cash flow is based on a tenuous and fickle artistic profit margin, where as mine remains based on truth and in truth my good reputation is untouchable.

What he said was more or less irrelevant mainly because I had resigned myself to my fate and it was over. I didn't need him in the way that I had thought I did. Nevertheless, I let him speak and I swear at one point that he was reading from something he had written, not unlike a politician reads a speech. I almost called him on it and maybe I should have. As to the neglected e-mails, he said it had to do with a virus in his computer. Should I believe that? I don't know. All I do know is that after the call I was still without representation in Sedona. He made no offers knowing that I the artist he so respected was calling it quits. One more thing and it's adios to Michael and the rest of art world cronies forever. He said he had written return e-mails to me but that they had bounced back to him because of his virus. He said that now having found my website and e-mail address through the search engines that he would send them along right away, as yet they haven't arrived.

So what now? Well, for one thing I will continue to keep up on my writing, if for no other reason that it keeps me sane and offers me an outlet for my expression uncontrolled by anyone but myself. And although I have quit the art world, my home remains open as Art Unseen Studio and Gallery, where anyone passing by is free to come in and view the art in the way that it should be, freely. The original works which I have created are no longer for sale so that it can remain so. Short of that, at the moment there might be one last painting left to do. It is the large one which I have wanted to do over the past ten years or so, but not done because doing it was difficult to rationalize ... because of who would want it and what gallery would want to show it? Now that this is no longer the problem it's amazing but I have never felt freer. The only problem now is the one that haunts us all, time. In working on other things artistic, albeit commercial, for Art Unseen in order to pay the bills it will be difficult to find time to do it. Perhaps I will just have to start getting up earlier.

In the writing of this letter of resignation I have dug deeper and more honestly then I have ever done before as an artist. And what honestly does it mean to be an artist? An Artist of Conscience is a label I used to define myself at the beginning of this letter and at the start I said "I am left with no other option but to resign my commission as an Artist of Conscience". What I have found in writing this letter is that in digging through my tattered heart and mind, the opposite has transpired. Life can be funny that way. When you give up on what you have always been searching for, you find it was right there all along laying at your feet. So in truth an Artist of Conscience may just be emerging and simply taking his place within the world.

So I say, screw the art world and all it's charlatans, there is a real world here which needs healing and I plan to take my part in it's recovery, whatever the end result may be. And to those who have made it to the end of my seemingly eternal babble, I thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to just listen.

More to come...

"Free at last.

Thank God, I'm free at last."

Martin Luther King

(epitaph)

† July 20, 2005

My Letter of Resignation from the World of Art.

~ Part One ~

I begin this letter of resignation on the day after taking my daughter Samsara to her first movie theater experience. The three of us went to see Johnny Depp as Willy Wonka in Tim Burton's version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, a Roald Dahl story. A story of how the good, Charlie in this case, will catch their breaks for just being that... good, and win the game in the end. It's a story that Stefanie has been reading to Samsara as a bedtime story because of how much it moved her when she was a child. Are those not the stories we all love, the ones where everyone, the good, the bad, and the ugly get to eat their *kar-muffins? My feelings on why I and most of us like these stories is because throughout life honest retribution or reward for our actions seems in short supply. Do we really need to live lifetimes in order to accept a universal law of cause and effect where karma does not appear instant? "Instant Karma", Mr. Lennon, I would like to see more of it, thank you very much.

Universal laws and just being good, being not good enough, I am left with little option but to resign my commission as an Artist of Conscience. I have not been able to find an art gallery with the guts to take me on and promote me for fear that my work would drive away the potential customers. So... to quote from another of my favorite films, "Falling Down" I have to accept that I am one of those in the world who is "not economically viable". As I resign to my fate, I find that I am in good company no less, for there are many, including the Earth itself, which seem these days to be not economically viable. Is the economy not the basis for the argument on global warming and that to change our ways by not putting out the pollutants into the air it would cost too much, hurting the global G.D.P. growth of the richest nations? It's a twisted logic because anyone with half a brain (which George doesn't seem to possess) can see that without a healthy environment there will be no economy. Same can be said about the art world, for without artists the galleries would have nothing to sell and no reason to exist. Of course they would and have artists believing it is the other way around and to a certain extent that is where I find myself today.

With my resolve stout over the past month or so, and in a last ditch effort, I have attempted to reach a gallery based in Sedona to take me on. I searched through the internet and weeded out the possible candidates by eliminating any that I knew for certain would not be interested. This weeding out was based simply upon what they chose to show on their walls. I chose Sedona as a location because (if you haven't noticed) the desert red rock landscape is what turns me on, and along with that one would assume that with numerous galleries located there, there would be at least one who would be interested.

I had it cut down to four possibilities and along with the help of a friend in Sedona, Rod Bearcloud, I contacted them through e-mail while he visited the galleries taking physical representations of my work to show them. The last of these four was a gallery called Spiritwind Gallery, owned and run by someone I knew as a friend when I was down there, Michael Howley. Now... my meeting Michael Howley while I was down in Sedona to some extent is an interesting one. It may be a somewhat long story, so bear with me, I will try to keep it short. Also, the names in my story are not changed in order to protect the innocent. I find it ironic that in most stories where they say "the names have been changed to protect the innocent" the opposite is true and it is the guilty who end up protected.

To continue... while living out of our truck in the Sedona Arizona desert, Stefanie and I lucked out on the first gallery we approached and the woman running it, Marilyn Weinbarger, took us both on. The story of how that one ended is another story and I want to stick to my experience in approaching the Spiritwind Gallery, so here goes. Stefanie and I were doing a show in Marilyn's El Mundo Magico gallery where I was present, drawing, to show people how the work is done. While doing this, in walks a man sporting a small graying pony tail and he seemed genuinely interested in the work. That was when I first met Michael Howley and as the rest of a sentence beginning that way goes, it wouldn't be the last. As it turned out Stef and I were not the only ones trying to catch a break in the Sedona art market while living out of their vehicle. Michael was another of, no doubt, more people doing just that. I recall on that initial meeting, him telling of his adventure during a night up on Schnebly Hill, where most of what little he had got stolen, this included his tent. Talk about a hard luck story.

There were plenty those stories going around during our time spent living in the red rocks which surround Sedona, and they have a way of pulling people together through shared experience. We hung around with him, talking spiritual crap, sitting on the rocks and enjoying the view on more than a few occasions. Then there was a night when Stef and I drove into Long Canyon looking for a spot to call home for the night and who should we meet but Michael. I recall this particular meeting because it was then that I developed a wariness as to his intent and motivations. Some may not buy into this way of receiving signs but I remember the visual to this day. Michael, framed within the window of our 4 Runner, the rocks of Long Canyon glowing with the light of the setting sun, perfect ... except for one thing and it was just a feeling, not a good one... then the coyotes began to howl. Coyote the trickster in the Native tradition. A great teacher, if a painful one should you follow him. Through experience, trust for me is something which now needs to be earned and rarely, if ever, simply handed out. And this is the lesson brought to me by the coyote through the energies of Michael Howley.

It has been ten or so years since my time in Sedona and continuity is not a memories strong point. Perhaps I wrote of it in my journal, which I kept throughout our travels but I don't have time to dig through that. So I will tell it the way I recall. In our time spent with Michael I would hazard to guess that upon one, if not more occasions, we would have mentioned the friendship we had developed with Rod Bearcloud (a respected artist with his own gallery in Sedona), for it was something we were proud of. He was one of those people who invited us into his home and gave us shelter when camping became too much to bear. It was a friendship where trust, although still an infant, had developed through time and I believe ran both ways. So you can imagine my surprise when having returned to Sedona during a six month hiatus (Canadians are allowed to stay in the U.S. for six month durations) and not finding Bearcloud at home, we went to a special place of Rod's on Munds Creek, and who should we find but Rod along with his newest gallery employee Michael. This visual is another of those that is burned into my memory because it was so unexpected and strange. As I have said, I had developed a misgiving as to Michael's true character but I assumed Bearcloud's instincts were intact and that his intuition was sound, so I let it go. I thought he must know what he is doing hiring Michael. After all, who am I to question Bearcloud's or for that matter anyone else's way? In a way, it made me question my own previous feelings about Michael, not only because they were vague and just feelings but because I had acquired a certain respect for Bearcloud's judgment. He was and remains to this day a successful artist. But I wondered nonetheless, did Michael in passing happen to mention knowing us and through the use of our good name, did Bearcloud make a decision he would later regret?

We continued in our quest for some sort of artistic break, not only within Sedona but up along the California coast, hitting every gallery along the way. That too, is another story. Having little luck in that venture, it became increasingly clear that our time in the Southwest had come to an end and all that was left to do was to go back to Canada. Before that time came, I believe we had a dinner with Michael once, where he spoke of Rod in questioning terms and we also spent time with Rod just watching movies and hanging out. I do recall leaving Michael some of my Mandala prints to see, if anything, he could do with them. I was at the end of a journey to which I had invested much but gotten little in return and yet I was not ready to admit that it was over. I saw no hope for my artistic career in returning to Canada, I felt I had pursued every avenue possible up there but that is what we did. Driving out of Sedona by way of The Village of Oak Creek and in passing Court House Rock along the way, tears of sadness and feeling defeated we made our way, the long way, up to Flagstaff and Interstate 40 heading East.

~ End of Part One ~

This letter of resignation took longer then expected. Click on journal entry July 25, 2005 in the journal index menu for ~ Part Two ~ .

* kar-muffins ~ A made up word based on the word comeuppance which means getting your retribution or reward, whatever the case may be. I simply combined the words karma (which loosely means the same, cause and effect) and muffins because I thought it was cute. Hence, eating your kar-muffins.

† July 15, 2005

With no disrespect for the victims of the London bombings and the memorials of silence, which have been bestowed them in countless locations across the west, I offer my own moment of silence.

I would like to offer a moment of silence to those who died in a suicide car bombing in Eastern Baghdad this past week. Of the 26 who died, 24 were children.

In my time of reflection of this tragic act, equal in horror to any taking place in the West, I am left to wonder and imagine. Imagine for a moment a parallel world, if you can, where all was the same but for one event, the invasion of Iraq under false pretenses. Would these children, while gathering around U.S. troops for sweets, have died? And imagine further, if you will? Imagine of those 24 Iraqi children, just one who may have been that special one, the christ like child. The one who would have, if only given the opportunity, ended the reign of terror associated with the tyrant. Not to mention the ones who supported him through most of his days of treachery.

"All tyrants will fall..."

Mahatma Gandhi

But no that's not the world we live in and I can only hope that it is true, that the universe is multidimensional. This dream offers me hope that sanity reigns in a parallel world where perhaps George had rode his bicycle to a more tragic end before all this got started.

Again no disrespect intended to the one U.S. soldier killed along with the 24 Iraqi kids on that day but what were the U.S. troops doing offering candy to these kids? It's not Halloween and don't they know by now that they are targets. In researching the facts, I found out that this is not the first time this has happened. In September of last year 34 Iraqi children died for the same thing, candy, handed out by U.S. troops.

One more thing and it is time for me to return to work, my day job. I have heard it said a lot lately of how the London bombers (most of them just kids 18 and up) where inspired to perform the unthinkable through the twisting of the holy book of Islam. And that somehow this is unique to the Muslim people and only a problem within their society. I beg to differ, for is it not the same, that American and Western kids of 18 and up are no less inspired by the same twisting of the holy book of the west, the Bible coupled with nationalistic pride. I am pretty sure it says, and I have said it before but I will say it again, "Thou shalt not kill." No amendments, no ifs , no buts, just simply "Thou shalt not kill. And as far as inspiring youths to blow themselves up, the invasion of Iraq would be more than enough for most.

Note: To reach other entries of the past just use the Index on the right by choosing the date, a flyout title will also appear to help in your inquiry. Or click here for Page 1 of the Journal.