Painting Show Friday Night A Lá Stuckism


Approaching New York When I Wasn’t Afraid

Opening up the house again for painting’s sake. I hope the art and writing students at the college on the hill stop by. They should see what they’re up against. In the past five years I have spent a few thousand dollars in promotion alone to encourage my peers to come out of their shells. The over-insulated shells with high r-value—32 avarice, 21 professional jealousy. Every show I send out invitations to professors at the art and English departments, pin posters up all over town and college, post the event in newspapers and radio, prepare foods, decorate, sing—a veritable hyper-clown of delusional preparation. Always the same outcome—several good friends, family, and one or two brave hopefuls. I am lucky to have anyone come by. Lucky and daft.

The past two mornings I have been painting fast “studies” on discarded press-cleaning sheets. I have ten and will charge $10 a piece. This will pay for the wine and cheese. Here is one. A provocative title makes up for lack of talent:


“Doubt’s Duck With The Vermilion Lips”

Art and artist can become a philosophical act. Last week a stuckist peer on the other side of the country referenced a quote of Picasso’s: “I would like to live like a pauper with lots of money”. I have been living that thought my whole adult life. All artists do, but not all those who “make art”. Riches could be substituted with the word’s “clan approval”, if we still lived clan-like without nomadic faux-status acquisition; if we were still local to the land, and needing real human support.

I guess that is my purpose with painting and hosting these shows whenever the urge strikes. The artist as fool attempting to connect his neighbors in joy. To become dependent on each other for comradeship.

If any of you have read the book The Joy of Man’s Desiring by Jean Giono, then you know that I am pining for a world like Grémone Plateau. Yes, I am Bobi, but a little bit of Jourdan too.


Or, like Inger in Growth of the Soil by Knut Hamsun, we need to live to find our niche without Dunkin’ Donuts fueling our blues.


All stuckists at heart invited! Country wines uncorked and pouring.




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