Author: ronthroop

I am a determined man. Unlike Henry Miller who arrived in Paris at the age of forty suspecting that he was an artist but needing six months of stimulation-by-poverty to prove it, I have known all my life that I am another one in a long line, both ignored and distinguished, to have the (mis)fortune of that mysterious element "X" inside me. I am forty-six years old, home teaching a twelve-year-old daughter, and retiring every night into a basement studio with my music and paints. This has been my practice for over twenty years, for I have taught our other daughter (age 23) until high school, working as a line cook to make ends meet, and an artist at every free moment to tame the element "X". I have written and self-published ten books with provocative titles and very few readers, had several self-sponsored shows exhibiting my work, and putting our family in deeper debt year after year. One could say that to the present day my life has painted its own tribute to a persisting in folly that might make a Henry Miller envy another fool. Professionally I have remained an enthusiastic failure. That is I buy paints, canvas, wood, frames, work feverishly, and have over the past five years, joined the unsaid "show circuit", exhibiting my paintings where ever and whenever possible, always at my own (and wife Rose's) expense, having few if any sales in upstate N.Y., and yet getting up after falling down again, and again, and again. For years I have painted relatively small and compact, as funds would allow. There's a college next door that sells smooth Bristol paper for two dollars per 30"x 40" sheet and Golden paints for enormous sums. A 2 ounce tube for twelve dollars goes far enough for miserly painters, and I have been very careful to stretch the paints out smooth for economy. But this year I have discovered big. The painting mentioned above is comically rendered, not at all where I want to go with paint. I foresee brave, broad stokes with wide brushes across eight foot canvas, and palette knives replaced with old record album covers. I have always worked fast, but now desire more of an unharried dance to my painting. Forever confident in application of color and contrast, I now feel the pressing need to let go like the sage. When I daydream this possibility I feel a tingling in my fingertips. That is joy and optimism! It is what I seek for my future as a painter. And then the reality of living check-by-check becomes all too real, and I find myself fermenting country wines to supplement income to justify expensive paints. I shop at A.C. Moore holding my 40% off coupon to buy inferior pigment that dries as drab as a February day in Oswego. I am always seeking gallery representation and/or rich patrons to free me as an artist, to open up the door of giving myself, expressively, routinely, until it is my turn for the great sleep.



“Things Were Only Better Then Because You’re Alive Now” 2017. Acrylic on stretched Saint Petersburg postal linen, 19 x 30″


EXHIBITIONS: International Stuckism-Quintus Gallery, Watkins Glen, New York

Yup! Thanks Richard Bledsoe!


Richard Bledsoe “Petrified Forest” acrylic on canvas 20″ x 24″ 


International Stuckism

October 13, 2017 – November 12, 2017, opening reception Friday October 13 

Quintus Gallery 65 Salt Point Rd. Watkins Glen, NY

Featuring artists from the UK, Spain, Greece, Russia, Iran, France, the Czech Republic, Australia, and the United States 

New York artist Ron Throop continues to make things happen. His latest project has been coordinating over thirty artists from around the world to share their visions in the latest display of the global art phenomenon of Stuckism.

The great analyst Carl Jung understood what art does. He stated, “All art intuitively apprehends coming changes in the collective unconsciousness.” Before the rejection of elitist presumption and incompetence became the consuming political topic it is now, in 1999 a group of UK artists started waging the same fight against the corrupt and out of touch establishment art world…

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Been Very Busy this Past Week Exhibiting and Painting and Space Staring


“Just Keep Pressing On” 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″


“Are You Passionate?” 2017. Acrylic on dead man’s canvas, 18 x 24″


“The New and Slightly Improved Landscape of Mandy Schandt” 2017. Acrylic on canvas board, 20 x 16″


“Illustration of Space From the Back of my Tongue to the Underlayment of my Solar Plexus Whenever the Mouth Engages in Small Talk” 2017. Acrylic on slab of Styrofoam®, 12 x 16


“How to Break a Person’s Will Without His Being Aware of It” 2017. Acrylic on cardboard, 22 x 21″



I bought the book because Robert is a better institution than the last 473 non-creative ones I exchanged with.

O at the Edges

More than just poetry!

So you don’t read poetry? No worries. This book is a multi-tasker’s dream. Buy it and let your practical nature take over. No reading necessary!

1) Scorpion swatter – let the aggressive, pain-inducing arachnid know the full weight of poetry! SLAM! No more second moments for you, scorpion!

2) Coaster – a half-dozen copies of the book will keep you out of the doghouse, if you, like certain unnamed poets, occasionally, and without malice, set sweating pint glasses of frothy ale directly on antique cherry end-tables. Just place a copy of From Every Moment a Secondon all tabletops and flat surfaces around the home, and never worry about marring the furniture. Put your beverage glass directly upon the colorful cover, and let the poetry perform its magic. Who knew that paper was so absorbent!

3) Body armor – well, maybe not. The pen is mightier…

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$23 Lecture On Why the Young Must Defile the Currency


Justice can be found by taking cerebral baby steps. It’s never far from the truth, which any child or enlightened adult can reveal instantaneously if confronted by a wrong. Law, on the other hand, is determined by a toddler with mouth sewn shut, glued to a Rube Goldberg ball, and sent rolling from the better part of a day (a minor traffic ticket) to upwards of oblivion or longer (premeditated revenge killing). The tremendous apparatus of law was constructed by the children of wealthy planters and industrialists who raised an outlaw nation on the strong backs of recently descended Africans and dirt poor Ellis Island immigrants. Law made slavery, the Civil War, tenement houses, and 400 homicides in Chicago last year. Today the government snubs its free citizens with constant monetary reminder of oppression’s dark past. Law works ’round the clock for the owners of a society, both antebellum and modern. Yesterday the planter class. Today the banker class, skeevy private plane persons who are probably not too far removed ancestrally from the planter class. Hence, slave owners in our wallets. People who owned/own people. Presidents who owned less people before becoming President, and then got to be head of state, and bought more people to make themselves richer. They were dirty privies. Yesterday and today.

Many established university historians make the argument that these men were products of their time, as if every one born American had a 3/5 person to call their own. White women and men without property, and all little farmer girls and boys not of Africa were burdened by the same good fortune wrought by a slaver economy. No. Not even close. A majority of dark people were owned by a small “planter” class of Caucasian men, who needed a culture of racism and prejudice to reap their private goodies.

Yet no matter how crisp and clear my hindsight, arguments above do not justify pasting these “men of their time” on today’s currency. We have a diverse freer nation now. The land is ours, inherited by revolutionary thieves, who themselves inherited it from metal working colonial squatters. So why are they still “owning” our coinage? Have no other good men and women been born from their usurpation? Why people anyway? How about the woodchuck, turkey, pickerel, or pike? How about a purple mountain majesty, a geyser, a Great Lakes chain? Canada trades a loon and an English Queen. Freakish. But at least no slaveholders.

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So, to the above piece. Three presidents who owned (and got rich) off slaves. I painted a lectern because I think all good Americans need some educatin’ from time to time. I took a $1, $20, and $2 bill and glued them to the top. I carefully cut out the heads on each and lobbed them over to Frederick Douglas to juggle. I replaced the cut out holes with heads of decent and good people from revolutionary America. Phillis Wheatley where Washington was. Absalom Jones in place of Jackson. Finally, Benjamin Banneker to replace Jefferson on the forgotten, yet still circulating two dollar bill. I also invisible-inked the money with a fact about the slaveholding history of each. A black light reveals the truth. For instance on the twenty dollar bill one who possesses the necessary equipment will read the following: “Jackson was paternal with his slaves although I do not think he fathered any.”

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On the left side of the lectern is Washington holding the true meaning of the Declaration of Independence. Phillis Wheatley was a poet who did not general the death of anyone nor own another human being. Leave it to the hyperactive painter to misspell her name. Sorry Phillis.


On the right side is Jefferson, excited in the prospect of ravaging young girls. He will father a child with one of his slaves. Kind of like the guy in Cleveland who stole three girls off the street and locked them in his basement for ten years. Benjamin Banneker was not known to be a serial pervert, and he authored a beautiful almanac.


On the front is Andrew Jackson, the most vile, with his face burning off in Hell. Absalom Jones was a clergyman who tended to plague victims during the Yellow Fever epidemic in Philadelphia in 1794. Coincidentally, George Washington, featured on another panel of cowardice, hightailed it out of the infected city and didn’t come back until all the bugs were dead.

$23 Dollar Lecture On Why The Next Generation Must Defile the Currency

There are three shelves in the lectern, each depicting slave quarters at the estates of the currency Presidents. They read respectively:

Mount Vernon B&B—Sleeps 18

A slow day in Monticello (notice the empty whipping post)

Winter at the Hermitage—Old Hickory let us cook his old horse

I plan to show the lectern at my local art association. I will invite the history and economics departments from out state college, and local school districts. There is so much our children can learn from our money. They never asked for the hero-making of lessor men. Why do we give them these dead racist kings? I wish to see a just currency replacement before my grandchild’s first lemonade stand. These Presidents are historical. Each has an importance to history. But they were not good men. Intelligent? Yes. Crafty? You betcha. So was Adolf Hitler. I forget now… Which euro honors his triumphant legacy?