breathtaking

Concerning the violence. Travel anywhere in the world carries risks, that is never a reason not to travel. Certainly Juarez is not a place for anyone to travel into lightly and the violence there is not a figment of the presses imagination; but since we were not shopping for either hookers or blow, we were never anywhere near danger. I reckon the most peril we were in was our time on the highway between Denver and El Paso.

The trip to Arbol de Vida (Tree of Life) orphanage was excellent.

We left Denver at 11:00 pm Friday, 20th. The drive took about 12 hours, roughly. Most of the travelers slept, a few of us took turns driving in 3 or 4 hour shifts. There was a quick cementing of personalities and good humor from the beginning. Having a common purpose, and an excellent leader in Kevin Centola, made the entire weekend's work an exercise in camaraderie and giving. Though we who came to give, received.

Our first stop once we reached El Paso, was the airport. We had two artists flying in from both Portland and Denver. Two additional stops included Costco and Chico's Tacos. Costco supplied us with bottled water, fruit, cookies and many other snacks to sustain us between meals, including a 2 pound chunk of Gouda. The cheese was the prize snack of our snack booty and was gobbled quickly.

Chico's Tacos was a required visit per Kevin and his kids. The tacos were beef tacos, rolled crispy shells rather than the traditional taco shell shape (say that five times quickly), and smothered in processed cheese and drowned in a tomato-grease broth served in a paper dish with a side of salsa verde. This masterpiece was met with varying degrees of approval, from pleasure to disgust. I fell somewhere in between, happy to participate in a Centola tradition.

Once we'd packed our arteries with El Paso's finest taco grease, we packed ourselves and our pounds of supplies back into the van and headed to Santa Theresa border crossing. Getting into Mexico is a snap, at least for the present. Next week may play differently, but we were waved through without a hitch. The border guards smiled and wore their rifles like guitars. (cue the mariachi guitar flourish.)

We were met just across the border by John Walker (cue the whistled-Clint Eastwood- spaghetti-western tune). John is an American and is the director of the orphanage which he founded 15 years ago and continues to run, with the help of his petit wife, who wields an iron hand gloved in velvet. John isn't actually fluent in spanish and his wife is not a prolific english speaker, but they have five children of their own, so they obviously worked something out.

Mr. y Senora Walker

John is a grizzly bear of a fellow. He escorted us from the border to the orphanage compound which lies on private property. The property is guarded at it's entrances by armed caberos who, at the first entrance, directed us to the second entrance, reason unknown. We drove through the town of Anapra which is a very poor community. To my eyes, it was a shanty town built from scrap and dust. Lazy dogs lazed, sat up and saluted as we drove through their hood.

The grounds of the orphanage look like a farm. We drove straight to the year old dormitory, a contrast in shape and presence juxtaposed against the dirt and age of the rest of the grounds. The dorm was built by a group of architects a couple years ago and is a blessing of the highest quality to the comfort and safety of the children who live there.

With the exception of meal time and church, the boys and girls are separated nearly all the time. In the dorm, the girls are upstairs, the boys down. We stayed in an empty wing of the dorm, downstairs with the boys. We had four rooms among us, the ladies shared a separate apartment along with the snack supply and the coffee maker.

Saturday night after dinner, we settled in and got our individual projects organized. Six artists needed six separate spaces to work, so we took the time to decide where each of us would work. I was very happy to be given a room right in the dorm. I'd never worked with kids as an instructor and my project involved taking photographs of the kids, printing the photos, and then helping them create their self portraits. So I was glad to have the comfort of electricity and climate control to begin with.

I had boys for my first session. I was able to take their pictures and print them before we all met for breakfast Sunday morning. This was a nice bit of pre-organization that let me get right to work with them once we returned from breakfast. The bit of magic that I brought with me was a portable photo printer. It's the coolest bit of tech gear I've bought lately, and it came in very useful on several occasions. The kids loved it and would gather around to watch their picture appear quickly from a little white electric box smaller than a loaf of bread. The ability to print photos made it possible to leave each kid a photo of themselves and their friends or brothers and sisters who might also be at the orphanage.

The wonder and convenience of the printer would have been so much fluff, however, if it didn't lead to satisfying artwork from the kids. Happily, the kids produced some truly beautiful and striking work. My intention in teaching self portraits was to give the kids an opportunity to see themselves from a different perspective. I wasn't trying to teach them realistic drawing, I was hoping that they would create portraits that showed their character and their personality. I think they did a very good job of this and I was relieved and very happy with their efforts, and I think they even had fun too.

Below are the twenty works that I eventually pulled from about twenty-five total pieces that were completed. Some of these portraits are now in the process of being framed and made ready for the art auction on May 3rd.

 

  

For our meals, we all met at the church, which was about 400 yards from the dorm. Meals were quick, spare, and noisy. Lunch was the largest meal of the day and was usually pasta, veggies, some sort of excellent salsa, and tortillas. Water was served out of a large stock pot from which you dipped your cup into, if you had a cup. We sat shoulder to shoulder with the kids, scooping up the food with tortillas, absorbing the mayhem. 

Saturday evening after dinner, we spent about an hour with the kids outside the church getting used to each other. It sorta' felt like recess at a new school.   

The second art session happened after lunch, and my work location shifted from the clean contemporary space of the morning session to a building midway between the dorm and the church. This building had come to be known as the stink room. The stink room was named so, due to the powerful stink that came from the disabled toilet in the bathroom therein. Fortunately, the previous day, John, one of our resourceful travelers, took the time to fix the plumbing problem which resolved the stink problem. Overnight, the odor vacated and the air became merely dusty and warm. The name Stink Room remained regardless. This building, for part of the time, didn't have working electricity and holes were found in several places that allowed you to look outside into the surrounding fields. There were about 15 classroom desks that worked well as work stations for the kids. We used this space only for the girls, and the space was shared by Cara, John, and I. This was a nice arrangement because Cara spoke fluent spanish and was able to give me a hand when I needed bi-lingual help. 

Church, Sunday evening, was a full blown Catholic-pentecostal youth service. Singing, dancing, jumping. Julio is the pastor to the orphanage. He has a church in Anapra in addition to his responsibilities at the orphanage. He's a beautiful guy and he and his wife are one of a few couples who live full time and work at the orphanage. They have at least two boys of their own.

iglesia

Julio

Pirate in a rare moment of late afternoon exhaustion. 

The Stink Room (far left) and the Pink Building. 

The dormitory

the beds

the barn

the bus

the border (of private land)

Communicating was never a serious problem. I know enough spanish to get by, but to explain something in detail, I needed translation. Ivan was both my roommate and one of our group's translators and he and I were near each other often enough that he could lend me a verbal hand when I needed it. Ultimately, very little verbal communication was needed. Gestures and demonstrations  conveyed most of my instructions, along with a positive attitude and patience. Once trust was gained, relationships formed. I was even given a nick-name by one of my young beauties, "Chilito blanco". Translation: Little white Chili.

This is Frida, she gave me my Chilito Blanco nick-name

Ivan has lived at the orphanage since he was two and is now the self appointed good will ambasador. He's a beautiful guy.

This girl, Dulce, was my favorite. Full of beans and sharp as a razor.

The children who live at the orphanage are no different than any child you know in the States. They're loving and anxious for attention and approval. They have plenty of attitude and swagger, and concurrently show respect and compassion. They're also full of optimism, despite missing the sanctuary of a stable family life. The children are safe and clean and well fed at Arbol de Vida, which is why my time spent with these kids was not heart breaking. John Walker and his staff are continuing a ministry with no end in sight, and they are allowing themselves to be used to bring about miracles of compassion and love everyday, despite what seem to be a breathtaking lack of opportunity. This opportunity to contribute was, for me, a continuing lesson in humility and understanding and a blessing of breathtaking beauty.

I hope your Friday was Good, have a happy Easter, and Godspeed, John Glenn

Dave

out of kindness, I suppose

Happy vernal equinox.

Tom Stoudt, a friend of ours and one of the Firehouse 6, called Wednesday night. He was about an hour and a half away from being deployed to Afghanistan. He just wanted to let us know he was heading out and where he would be. I admit I was a bit verklempt when I hung up with him. He'll be in the east for about six months and is scheduled to be stateside again this Thanksgiving.

Tom, If you're passing through Denver during that time, please know there will be a seat for you at our dinner table.

It's important to use our days well, without any fear. I wasn't given a spirit of fear. Not rising to the challenge is my only worry. When we get a chance to use our powers for Good, it's bad form to stay home instead. If we've gotta leave the snug picket fences behind in order to offer some inspiration abroad, then damn the pickets, and bring me my boots.

If you'd like to see where I'll be this week end, click here (once you're in google maps, click on Tree of Life on the left hand side and then click the satellite view on the upper, right-hand side of the map.) I've pin-pointed the location of the compound I'll be visiting, as well as the border crossing.

A tip for those who may not know: Here, you can zoom in and see pictures of the compound and if you click on the blue place-marks, You can see a bit more information about each point. You can also view this in Google Earth for a more interactive experience.

I've got all my supplies, including all of Beethoven's symphonies, ready to go. This time tomorrow, I'll be in El Paso. My troupe, eleven of us, will pick up two more artists at the airport and then we'll stock up on food and water for the weekend. Our crossing point into Old Mexico is through New Mexico at the Santa Teresa crossing station. Folks of ill-repute stay away from this crossing, they say, because it's to pretty. 

We'll be met there by John Walker who is the director of Tree of Life Orphanage. John will escort us to the orphanage compound and we should be settled in around 3 pm. I suppose we'll spend Saturday afternoon and evening meeting the kids, eating, and preparing for the next day. Sunday morning, after church, we'll begin makin' art with the kids, and that will last the rest of the day and all day Monday. Monday night we'll pack up all the artwork, load up the van, and fall dead into bed. We'll leave the orphanage at 6:30 am, Tuesday, with all intentions of breathing Denver air again around 7:30 pm.  

The art will be mounted and framed and will be auctioned off at the Tree of Life Art Auction on May, 3rd. All money raised will be sent back to support the kids, in the desert down in Mexico.

Alright, amigos, I'll speak to you soon.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, Tom Stoudt,

Dave

ticklish drug-running

Maybe you remember the trip to Juarez I've mentioned before. It's back on, despite the touch-and-go environment of our destination. There's a meeting tonight with the team. Mainly to answer any questions and finalize the travel details. We'll pull out of Denver in two weeks and hit the road 'round midnight. It'll be a quick trip, we will return home Tuesday, 24th, close to 7 pm. 

The project I've come up with, will be to guide the kids in drawing self portraits. I'm going to have them use oil pastels on black paper. I've been messing around this week with the pastels to get an idea for how I want to teach the kids. I hadn't much experience in this medium and I've quickly grown to like it. It's an elegant nod to my crayola days. 

In comparison to my own work, this little project will produce something very different.

Here are a four drawings I've done over the last two days. These drawings are a little more nuanced perhaps than I expect the kid's work to be, but this is what I'm shooting for. I thought I'd grow my technique by doing portraits of Sharon, myself, and our two roommates. Cheers.

Have a good week, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

au revoir et merci

My experience with a weakened economy hasn't been of great measure. Sharon and I keep our overhead low and our own budget has remained stable and without noticeable cuts. But we are not immune to the overall feeling of caution and uncertainty that rules the day lately. Few folks in our social circle are to far removed from the realization that thoughtless indulgence is not an indulgence we have right now. The need for economy calls that our times and choice of splurge should become simple and creative again. One of my simpler enjoyments is reading the paper.  

Today the Rocky Mountain News published its final edition,

Friday, February, 27th, 2009.

This is a big deal to Denver. It's a big deal to most people in Colorado. Few traditions are as reassuring and calming anywhere in the country, as reading the local paper. In 55 days, the Rocky would have celebrated it's 150th anniversary. I'm sad that it will no longer be a part of my community and that over 200 of my Colorado neighbors must begin looking for jobs to replace long held positions. 

My memories of the Rocky Mountain News aren't from the perspective of a devout reader. Instead, my time with the Rocky was limited to two weeks a year, during my family's annual vacation visit to Denver to stay with my grandparents. My Grandma's Newspaper was full of excellent stuff, stuff I didn't have access to normally. I remember turning the pages of the tabloid style newspaper, amazed by the seemingly unlimited choice of entertainment and activity available to us in the city. I remember turning the pages at the small glass-topped table at the end of Grandma's long kitchen. In the morning, the sun lit and warmed this end of the kitchen and you could see the bird feeder just outside the window. 

My best wishes and prayers will be with everyone at the Rocky who shared their talent and work with us for so long. Au revoir et merci.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

took a whole lot of tr-y-in', just to get up-a that hill

WASHINGTON - The US House defeated a bill Wednesday to postpone the upcoming transition from analog to digital television broadcasting by four months to June 12th.

Good. 

The argument that folks should be given more time to prepare for the switch is a bunch of bull-butter. News of the analog-to-digital switch has been before us for over a year and a half. People won't be more prepared four months from now or four years from now. If you don't have cable and you're concerned about having to spend the $40 - $60 for the converter box, then just take the next few months to save up for it. You won't miss anything in the meantime. Otherwise, buy a newspaper once a week and you'll be all caught up on the week's events. Flip the switch! Forward I say! Forward! THE FUTURE IS NIGH!

 

Sharon and I have seen five of the movies up for awards in a few weeks. Gravity reigns, though inspiration and hope always land on top. 

Richard Jenkins in The Visitor, lead actor. Beautiful movie, though quiet and melancholy. Jenkins is a master character actor. You've seen him many times. If you have a problem with immigrants, legal or illegal, or with the ridiculous immigration policies of our country, this movie is tender and frustrating and worthy of your time.

In a year of heavy, tense movies, Doubt applies the gravity in buckets. Meryl Streep in Doubt, lead actress, Amy Adams in Doubt, supporting actress, Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Doubt, supporting actor, Viola Davis in Doubt, supporting actress. All excellent performances, no doubt. 

Michael Shannon, supporting actor, in Revolutionary Road, another serious and tragic story, set in the mid-50's, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet. Michael Shannon plays a small part as a WWII vet suffering from mental illness. He delivers some of the most honest and devastating lines of the movie. Sharon and I just caught this one last Saturday. If you enjoy the traditional life, you might not like it, but interestingly, the tragedy of the characters was somehow reassuring to us as we examined and compared our own life choices.

Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, supporting actor. Creepiest performance of the last several years. Impossible to forget.

WALL-E for best animated feature. Great film.

Slumdog Millionaire, both up for best picture and best director, Danny Boyle. This has been our favorite film so far in the last several months. Please see this one. I can count at least forty-seven emotions that we are capable of feeling as humans. You'll feel fifteen-twenty of them as you watch this film, but you'll sigh a happy sigh as the credits roll. Hooray for Bollywood! 

...and speaking of happy sighs, Congratulations Mr. President.

Have a good weekend, and Godspeed, John Glenn,

Dave

fish don't fry in the kitchen, beans don't burn on the grill

Right off the bat,

I'd like to dedicate some art to my friend, problem child.

Last week our good friend Cindy left us. Not in the eternal way, however, it could be argued that she is now in heaven. Cindy has moved to Hawaii by way of a job transfer. We will greatly miss Cindy as we have greatly missed Cindy's man, our friend, Tom, who was also transfered away from us over a year ago to Alaska. A place with proportionate beauty to Hawaii's heavenly warmth, but decidedly cold as hell.

On Saturday, we missed our friend Tom as we went out to dinner one last time with Cindy and her friend Diane who was visiting from the east coast. The restaurant we ate at was Il Posto. It was Tom + Cindy who first introduced us to Il Posto, and it has risen to be in the top of the Pendleton's Best Restaurants list. The menu is Italian, as is the chef, Andrea Frizzi, he is from Milan, specifically. 

Sharon and I were both raised, Christian. As we've grown older, we've chosen voluntarily to remain believers and our faith continues to be our great inspiration and purpose for our time.

However, we are no less devout in the religion of fine food and wine, and for Sharon and I, experiencing a masterfully conceived meal together is undoubtably one of our most sacred past times. If we can find people who share our affinity for slow food, all the better. For Sharon and I, food is not a thing to be taken lightly, and meal time is not a time to be dreaded for lack of ideas on how to cook ground beef. If the idea of spending three or four hours over a meal perplexes you, Sharon and I would be honored to take you to school.

The menu at Il Posto is Italian. The property itself is located at 2011 East 17th Avenue, Denver, CO 80206, in between a Thai restaurant and The Thin Man bar. This was our third visit. Il Posto opens for dinner at 5:30 and tables can be had for walk-ins until about 6:30, beyond that time you'll be waiting. So I recommend reservations. Off the sidewalk is the patio which is closed during cold weather. During nice weather, the front walls of the bistro which are two garage doors, are raised to create open and airy dinning. This night, the front door was covered on the inside with a black curtain in an attempt to dampen the cold chill of air that puffed into the dinning area each time it was opened. When we entered, the hostess took our names and saw that we'd made reservation and seated us immediately. Our table was the first table inside, so the cold puffs were felt until the place soon filled up with warm hungry bodies. The decor is spare and modern but still cozy, intimate, and sexy. I'd guess there are about 40 seats total, all in one room. The ceilings are high and the kitchen is open for all to see. A few seats can be had at the bar which give you front row views of the chefs at work.

After the hostess took our coats and we were seated, we were each brought a small glass of Lambrusco wine. This is tradition at Il Posto and it's a perfect aperitif to begin the meal. If you've never had Lambrusco, it's a light, slightly effervescent red wine, served lightly chilled. The alcohol content is around 7 percent, not much, so it's easy to drink and it wakes up your taste buds.

The crowd that you'll see at this neighborhood magnet is the usual Denver dinning crowd. twenty-five to sixty years old, casually but smartly dressed (no ties), and slightly bohemian. The servers and managers are food lovers themselves and their dress and manner is also casual and reflective of individual preference. We were being served by Dario, himself a native of Milan, and the second time Sharon and I had been under his excellent care. In addition, Bob, the general manager and wine guy, was a friend of mine. We had worked together for a short time at another restaurant. Bob was at our table frequently with a generous hand on the wine bottle and a curious eye for our friend Cindy. 

The use of individual menus is forgone here. Instead, two large chalk boards, hang high on either side of the room are hand written with each night's offerings. The menu changes daily, so if you make return visits, you will not have the same meal twice. The menu is broken down in traditional Italian style. Tagliere (in this case, cured meats + true cheeses served at room temperature), Assaggini (which means, a small taste, usually a tiny portion of food, or a small piece of something), Primi (first course, usually pasta or gnocchi), Risottos, and last, Secondi (second course, usually the entree).

We started the meal with the Tagliere: Parma prosciutto, riserva mortadella, cacciatorino, teleggio, dolce gorgonzola, black-truffled raschera. The first three are cured meats, the second three are cheeses.

Sharon and I usually share our primi, which the kitchen happily splits between two bowls, without a stupid split plate charge. We shared Sea Urchin Tagliatelle with mizuna, San Marzano sugo and baby parsley. Neither of us had ever had sea urchin.

Sea urchin meat is very delicate, and has the consistency of soft scrambled eggs. It is served in sushi houses raw, but here it was simply stirred into the tomato sauce with the arugula and then folded into the house made tagliatelle. When cooked, sea urchin simply melts apart and infuses the sauce with the taste of the ocean. It was simple and delicious.

Cindy and Diane split a serving of Stracci, ossobuco ragu, sunflower sprouts, Sardinian pecorino. Stracci means "rags". The pasta is simply, sheets of pasta cut into rough, un-uniform ribbons, "rags". The ossobuco ragu was combined with the pasta and garnished with the sprouts. Real Italian comfort food. It looked and smelled addictive.

For her entree, Diane ordered the seared coco-dusted scallops, brussel-sprouts, with citrus glaze. The scallops were huge and there were three on her plate with an equal amount of brussels sprouts. The sauce was some sort of butter citrus glaze. Fantastic. 

Sharon and Cindy copied each other and ordered the same main course. Cortese wine braised pork belly, served with roasted parsnips sauteed with Stracchino cheese and sunflower sprouts. 

My entree was roasted Black Sea bass with olive oil fennel broth, caramelized fennel and arugula. Some people don't eat fish, some people don't eat vegetables. Both varieties of folk suffer from the stupids. If you don't enjoy eating fish, you're cracked. In the hands of a chef who knows how to treat fresh fish, matching it's texture and flavor with complementing ingredients, fresh veggies, silken sauces, mm, mmm, mmm. Simple, elegant, precise. My eyes were closed most of time as I ate that entree.

We did have conversation over dinner, mostly about our food. Mostly we just made noises of pleasure. Each course was perfectly served, perfectly timed. The kitchen didn't begin preparing the next course until the present course's dishes were being removed from the table. The portions allowed for indulgence, but not excess. 

Throughout the meal we drank two bottles of Valpocelli. This particular red is the standard wine we drink when we're at Il Posto.    

Despite ethereal choices, we passed on dessert, but accepted manager Bob's offer to buy a round of after-dinner drinks for the table. It was merlot-cab grappa for me, and a sweet red muscato for the ladies. Bob joined us with a grappa as well and we all clicked glasses at the center of the table.

Sharon and I play a game when we eat out. We watch to see how many people come and go from the tables around us while our own plates stack up, and we compete with each other to see which of us can order the best dish. By the time we'd paid the bill this night, and the hostess brought us our coats, we'd spent three and a half hours over an inspiring, nurturing (both body and soul), slow meal cooked by people who care about the details. As we left the restaurant, I remembered my one complaint about visiting Il Posto, at some point the visit ends.

Have a good weekend, eat real food, John Glenn,

Dave

glass rickshaw on a bumpy road (revised)

Happy New Year everyone. The holidays were great for Sharon and I as we spent a week in Oklahoma City with family. Great cheer prevailed.

The Friday after Christmas, we spent and excellent evening with old friends. It is a wonderful thing to have a group of friends that you are able to grow older with; when time and geography seem to have no effect on the common affection and admiration between you. Tom, Carrie, Tim, Bec. Thanks for a great night. We'll see you in July.


I shall now use the word, behoove, in a sentence:

It behooves us to be patient with our neighbors, even when we feel that they play their music to loudly after we are in bed for the night.


I exchanged salty words with my neighbor last night over the abundant volume of his music. In my hoodie and ball-cap, I strode wraith-like towards my ruckus intruders, firing my high powered flash light at them as I hissed verbal venom, demanding explanation for my sleeps murder.


Sound melodramatic? It was. My reaction was overkill and snarly, and almost immediately after I'd berated my neighbor, I felt ridiculous. My neighbor is a decent guy and loud music has never been much of an issue before. In addition, my complaint smacked of hypocrisy. Most afternoons I paint to music than could easily be enjoyed from the sidewalk outside my front door. Of course it's not unreasonable to expet my neighbors to keep noise levels low after dark, but this is the city, and we have chosen to live where we do, for benefits that for us far outweigh the negatives. Also, my neighbor is not the most advantaged fellow, and I hate attacking someone who doesn't have nearly the ammunition that I've got in my arsenal. Dangerously, my mouth is a delicately balanced model that comes fully loaded, and is standard equipped with a factory installed hair-trigger. Sometimes it's better to just empy the chamber in my mind and put in ear plugs.

I apologized to my neighbor this afternoon. I feel much better, and everything's cool between us again.




Despite possible feather ruffling, I'd like to continue a debate, which possibly only I care about. So with all due respect.

Earlier this week, the discussion came up of whether or not it is appropriate for a group of entertainers to interrupt their performance to solicit donations to benefit a non-profit organization. In this case, the band the Flobots were promoting their own non-profit, Fight With Tools, whose mission is according to their website: to "create a community of empowered music fans, that are actively engaged in social change". Exactly what this means I'm not sure, but I can always appreciate any group of people who use their talents and passion to lift people up, to give them a sense of worth.

Now, I understand when you go to a concert, art opening, theater performance, rodeo, or any other event that you've paid good money to attend, that the idea of paying more money to fund yet another altruistic vision, might cause some of us to stiffen and become annoyed, but let me point out, that when an artist or group takes the time to promote a cause and perhaps even ask for donations, the giving of donations is entirely optional. You will not be scoffed at if you don't donate and it's perfectly fine not to lend your money to every cause and charity. Perhaps hour budget won't allow it. Maybe you don't agree with a groups politics. The question was not meant to personally offend and it's ok to say 'no thanks'. Just today, in fact, I turned down and opportunity to underwrite Greenpeace as I walked home from work. I'll sleep fine tonight.

Unfortunately, good ideas sometimes are hampered because we become paralyzed by politeness. Stubbornly supporting only the common-form of etiquette inevitably leads us to such hypercritical and jaded points of view, as to call it bad-form when a group of musicians, who are known for promoting social justice and awareness through their music, asks that we might consider making a small donation that would put us out financially no more than the amount of money that might be wasted on a pack of cigarettes.

In the end, it's great if the art we enjoy entertains us, but we should be willing to be challenged by it as well.




Have a good weekend, Godspeed John Glenn,


Dave

queer courting and strange breeding

On Tuesday, I watched a silent movie, or drama rather. Out side the restaurant, standing on the corner were two young people, a man and woman, having an argument. By their poses and expressions, it seemed to be a lovers quarrel. More specifically, a break up. What made the exchange unique to me, was the fact that I knew that these two people were actors by trade. To be accurate, they were student-actors who attended the theater conservatory around the corner. I knew this because, while working at the restaurant, I had befriended a lady, who was an instructor at the conservatory.

The instructor was a regular for breakfast, coming in once or twice a week for a couple of years. She either order: a bowl of Raisin Brand with berries or one egg with toast. She hasn't been in for nearly six months, as I heard that her marriage had failed and she had returned to New York City where she is originally from. Sensing the distress in her personal life wasn't difficult as she was naturally a dramatic and emotional person. Once, upon seeing an example of my art work, she exclaimed, "This is f*!%ing beautiful!!". She did not use her indoor voice. She was merely looking at my business card, which has a portrait of myself on it; not exactly an ideal way to view a large painting. But she was none the less enthusiastic. I appreciated the emotional response to my work, however, in hindsight, I realize now that she could have just as easily been speaking about her bowl of Raisin Brand. This woman lived and breathed theater and was of a particular breed of creative-type who preferred her eggs poached, and slightly unstable.

In speaking with Madame Instructor one day, she became interested in the fact that I paint my portraits from photographs that I take myself. She asked if I would be interested in taking some pictures of her students as they rehearsed a series of 10 short plays written by Tennessee Williams. Ten by Ten was the title of the presentation, and over about two and a half hours, I watched the dress rehearsal of all 10 plays. It was great. I was one of only four other people in the audience and along with watching the dramas, I was privy to the direction and critiques of the performers by Madame Instructor as they worked. I shot about 24 pictures.

I think there were about a dozen actors, men and women, moving in and out of each drama. Two of the actors were now standing on the corner outside of my restaurant, in 20 degree weather, squared off against each other. To me, it looked like the girl was admitting she'd made a bad mistake and she was taking her medicine as the young man lectured at her. She would occasionally interject her point of view, but rarely made eye contact with the lad and simply nodded in agreement to her berater's accusations. This silent drama went on for at least 30 minutes, as I watched separated from their sound by the window glass. I wondered, had they had a tryst that the girl now regretted? Had this couple become intimate and now lusts flame had been doused? There was no doubt that the dispute involved a romantic cause. I watched their tragedy unfold, and was riveted. The two never moved from their spots and it didn't appear that they raised their voices. She kept her arms and hands still, either folded or clutching her bag. He was an inch or so shorter than her and was a bit more animated. I think I was observed spying by each of them, but they paid me no mind. Both times they looked my direction, I retreated, embarrassed. Then I'd find another location to peep from. I think I found this scene so interesting because I saw two people who were learning to make their living by making believe the very situation they now found themselves in, for real.

I soon found myself behind the bar and picked up the paper and began reading. I could both read and peek over the top of the paper and check the status of the silent struggle. I don't remember what article I was reading, but I glanced down at the paper for just a second. When I looked up, the girl was walking away and the boy was wiping his nose, looking at this hand, wiping his nose, looking at his hand, watching the girl walk away. I think he had just received a punch to the nose and he was checking to see if he was bleeding. Wiping his nose, looking at this hand...the young man watched for a moment in the direction of her departure, and walked the opposite way.


I'd missed the climax of my drama! It was sort of like watching Star Wars and deciding to walk to the kitchen to get myself a beer just before Luke blows up the Death Star! I'd been building up in my mind how it might end. Perhaps a sword fight! They were actors after all. Maybe a When Harry met Sally ending with tears, love, and a proposal. But here, it ended with a pop to the nose. Maybe just before she smacked him, everything went black and white and the film speed increased just enough to be comical. The smack caused the young man to fall down on his bottom and the beautiful young lady spoke one last insult to his manhood and turned with a jerk to leave him sitting in the snow, legs splayed, hair mussed and his dignity lying about him. I'm sure that's how it happened, I think, I didn't exactly see it. Dang.

It serves me right. Peeking through a keyhole to watch someone else's misery can't be justified. Still.... Here are some of the pictures I took last summer of the angry ex-lovers during my visit to the Williams' plays.













A thing that might make you go....

Long time Colorado resident Hunter S. Thompson, deceased as of February 2005, self-inflicted via .45 caliber, has apparently left behind a bit of himself. In a recent interview, Thompson's wife, Anita Thompson, reported that her late husband had left behind an undisclosed amount of his sperm for her to use in any child bearing she might wish to partake in. "Hunter, you always remembered the little things."

Ms. Thompson has, of yet, not decided whether to use the Gonzo sperm. I imagine, not before she answers the ethical and moral question of reincarnating another possible Traveler for the Lords of Karma.

.....Hmmm.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he or she grows up. Very true, Pablo. Go create something.


Have a good weekend everyone, and Godspeed, John Glenn,


Dave