Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"Thank You, North Carolina"

"Thank You, North Carolina"

[Thank you, to Mike C., and to all the good folk in the Tarheel State, who gave Senator Barack Obama his impressive victory tonight, in the North Carolina Presidential Primary. Thank You to the state, where I kissed my first girl, saw my first Monet in person at the North Carolina Museum of Art, heard my first live concert (namely the Low Spark tour by Traffic), graduated barely with a fine art degree from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. The state where I loved watching the Tarheels play basketball on the Pilot Life Broadcasting Network (both as a confused child and as a stoned college kid), where I first fell in love with her, and then with another her and then another her. Thank you, North Carolina. Thank you.

Right now, it's 56% to 42%, with 62% of the votes in. North Carolina, you are making me cry tonight. Crying tears of joy. And Mike? Get well soon.]

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007

"Ebenezer Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

    "...Well, I don't know what will happen now. We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord." - Martin Luther King Jr., in Memphis, Tennessee, April 3rd, 1968

    [Rev. King's last words, to the musician Ben Branch on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel, Memphis, April 4th, 1968:  "Ben, Make sure you play 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty."]

"County of Cochise, Arizona" (c) 2008

"County of Cochise, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

    [I was at this three-day domestic violence training a few weeks ago. Some court staff from Cochise County drove up to attend it. They drove a county car. On the first day, I saw the official seal, attached to the side of their car. On the second day, I brought my camera.
    I talked with the P.O.s about the irony of the seal during an afternoon break. They didn't get the joke I saw. It used to be the 'county of Cochise', of his people, his family, his tribe, but not anymore. And my guess is he looked nothing like this picture, for no photograph was ever taken of the man, just like Jesus doesn't look like his portraits either. Not that funny of a joke, really. Frankly, I'm sad and angry, all at the same time.]

"...at the Singing Rocks" (c) 2008

"Dead Hundreds-Year-Old Ironwood Tree at the Singing Rocks, Ironwood Forest National Monument, Arizona" (c) 2008 Stu Jenks

[On the fifth anniversary of the War in Iraq.]

"The Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps " © 2007

"The Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps " © 2007

Top Image: "Last of the Great Buffalo Hunters" (Detail) [Paint, Leather, Ceramic, and Glue on Wood] (c) 1987 Robert Arneson, Denver Art Museum. Below Image: "Feather Sculpture #2" (Zoom Fuzzy Detail) [Willow, Feathers, Buckskin] (c) 1994 Truman Lowe, Denver Art Museum.
 

Contemporary Artists are the Neo-Cons of the Art World. Not that much difference between them and George Bush and his minions.

Now that I have your attention, let me explain and let me define a few terms too. And maybe give you a message of hope for the future of Art too.

Modern Art is pretty much everything from the late 1800's up to the 1970's. From Picasso to Pollock. Also Matisse, Calder, Warhol, Christo, Arneson and everything good and powerful in between. Modernism dealt with the ideas of abstraction, emotion, and life in the modern world, but it still had an eye for design, color and form. Contemporary Art, on the other hand, is Stuff that is called Visual Art that comes out of New York, Los Angeles, London and a few other U.S. and European cities since the late 70's and 80's. It's about some sort of idea about something, usually shocking or political, and has absolutely nothing to do with Beauty and very little to do with Design. The idea is the thing, what the eye sees is secondary. Most everyone who isn't involved in the Art World thinks it's pretentious, or meaningless or ugly, or all the above and most times they are right. Those inside the Contemporary Art World see it as cutting edge and original and forward thinking, and they are only right about it being original. Each bowel movement is different from the next. Same can be said about most of this shit.

People say it's not Art. They are wrong. It's Art. It's just bad Art.

[Brief aside: It's seem bizarre to me that people call Bad-Art, Not-Art. If you go to a crappy movie, you don't come out and say 'That wasn't a movie.' If you go to a concert and it sucks, you don't say that it wasn't music. You just say that it's shitty music. Only visual art has this distinction and it think I know why. Because people hold Visual Art up to a higher standard, to an almost religious height, which makes sense since some of the most beautiful Art ever made was spiritual. We have higher expectations of Visual Art. It must be beautiful or at the very least well done and well produced. It must be transcendent. It must not be merely entertainment or a joke. It must be not just a bumper sticker or a sign that someone needs therapy. It should lift us up to be better or at least lift up our spirits a bit.]

And sadly, Art which was the primary source of human creation for thousand of years is now a distant 4^th at best, behind Music, Motion Pictures, and The Internet. The number of people that go to an opening at a small city Contemporary Art museum or gallery on a Saturday night is less than the number of hits I get on my little Stu-Blog in a day. Not that my blog is all that wonderful but you get my drift.

And why are they, the Contemporaries, The Con-Temps, like the Neo-Cons and George Bush? Consider this. The Neo-cons look like Republicans but they aren't really. They are not fiscal conservatives. There are autocrats. They are bullies. They will break the bank. Same said for the Con-Temps. They looks like artists and act like they like art but they don't. They like themselves and people like themselves and no one else. They are an exclusive elite club, like the Neo-Cons, in which members can only enter if they fit a very narrow definition of Cool. Preferably Cool with a lot of Cash. The Con-Temps aren't interested in Beauty or Peace or Building Community. They are selfish and self-centered, only wishing to build in their power, ego and prestige. Same can be said for the political Neo-Cons. Chaos, be it War or economic downturn builds more opportunity to make money from cronyism and from buying low and selling high. Same with the Con-Temps. Cronyism is a key. You sell each other shit. It's a visual circle jerk in which everyone must grab the cock of the guy next to him. And finally, there is an orthodoxy to both the Neo-Cons and the Con-Temps. It's my way or the highway. Believe in my socio/political worldview or my narrow artistic worldview, and everything is fine. But if you don't, I'll bring you down with bombs, bribery, or vicious ridicule. All with a smile of the self-righteousness on their face. No 'live and let live' in these folk. No love and tolerance from them. But they may give you a sales pitch that says that they do love and appreciate you and your differences. Don't believe it. They are either trying to take something from you, or force something on you.

And I'm not just speaking sour grapes. I was what they called a Conceptual Artist in Art School in the 1970's. Leashing myself to trees. Burying myself in fire brick in the center of campus while the cameras rolled. Painting outlines of traffic dead on city streets in the middle of the night, and getting in trouble with the law. I had some Big Ideas, and I had my shtick, my rap about those Ideas. But looking back, I had a couple of good pieces but most of my work was unfocused, marginally produced and smelled of Marijuana smoke. But even back then I wasn't completely sold on the idea, that The Idea was king and that The Visual was a serf you raped in the fields. I was making yearly pilgrimages to the Hirshhorn Museum in D.C. to see Rodin's "Burgher of Calais" and "Balzac". I've loved Calder since I was a kid. And my experimental 8 mm films from Art School did have some heart, not just brains.

Of late, I'm shopping around getting a book published of my Art and Words. Not going so well but I have friends who are helping. I may end up self-publishing at some point, when I get an extra 5000 dollars from somewhere. Anyway, the reason I'm working on books is I'm tired of dealing with the Entitled Rich (and I'm not talking about the Generous and Soulful Rich, so to my two rich Michaels I know, I'm not talking about you). I'm tired of them talking down my prices, of being fickle and arrogant, and I suddenly realized a few years ago that it's par for the course these days in the Visual Arts. I'm expecting a pig to be a pony. And I like books for I can sell them to people like me: the Struggling Middle and Working Class who always have enough money for a good CD, a good movie or a good book. I want to be another good book they can buy.

And I believe there is hope for Art. I hear that students out of high school are demanding that their university Art professors teach them how to draw better, sculpture better, craft better and if they don't, they leave and go to a school that will. I visited the Disney School of Animation in L.A. a few years ago and saw amazing draftsmanship on butcher paper hanging in the lobby after a critique. Master illustrators like Charles Vess are finally getting their due. Chihuly has a multi-million dollar glass chandelier in the Bellagio Lobby in Vegas. The elegant furniture of Scott Baker is winning awards. And Crane Day, weaver extraordinaire, can be found working magic with the mohair wool just ten feet from my studio door.

I think I'll to go to my studio now, and play my mandolin for a while. Play it through my Roland Cube with the Chorus and Reverb settings at 10 o'clock. My little ambient songs are quite pretty, I think, and quite Modern. And not Contemporary in the least.

 

 

"Stu's Fun Facts: The Pusch Ridge Rant" (c) 2007

“Stu’s Fun Facts #2: The Pusch Ridge Rant” © 2007 Stu Jenks

       [Image: "Pusch Ridge and Meghan's Hill"]

       Fun Fact #1: To paraphrase Henry Rollins, sweeping generalizations are never accurate but they sure are fun. I was politely corrected or confronted or something like that, about my generalization that Writers tend to be a more laid-back group than say, Contemporary Visual Artists. Well, I was told and I heard clearly numerous examples of crazy-ass writers behaving badly and I stand corrected. People are people, artist are artists. It has to do with the man or the woman, not about what they make.

       Fun Fact #2: How about a generalization that Crafts People are more fun than Contemporary Artists? Can I get an amen there? OK, OK. I’ll stop.

       Fun Fact #3: To flesh out something from my last Fun Facts, (Is this how it’s going to go, you might think? Is Stu going to now start explaining what he meant in a previous blog entry? They must an Web word for it.), when I said that a good number of Contemporary Artists have ‘mysterious sources of income’ and they let on like they make it from their product, I wasn’t criticizing the Old Money or the New Money that lets them make their Art. Frankly, I hope I get some family money someday myself (if there is any left). What I get pissed about is their unwillingness to be upfront about it, that I’ve never heard this once from these any of these folk that I know: “Boy, I sure am grateful my father left me all that money’, or “Thank God my wife makes a ton of cash as a real estate attorney”, or “Sure glad I have that trust fund.” Never. Nada. Ain’t heard them say it once. But I have often seen the smugness of their faces, and heard their subtle condescending remarks about those who 'don't make a full commitment to The Work.' That's code for meaning those who don't make Art full time aren't serious about it. Well, Fuck you. If I had $30,000 coming in from a trust fund, or someone else was paying my bills, I'd quit the day job tomorrow and make Music and Art full time. But that isn't the case. And again, I would love to have a lot of cash, but it ain't really about the money. Ok, a little bit, but mostly about the attitude of superiority. (Have you ever noticed that those that tell you to not worry about money are those who already have it?)
       And finally, you can bet dimes to a donut, I'd give credit to those who put the money in my pocket, if and when they did. I already do. Every print that's sold, every CD that's purchased is given with a big virtual sloppy kiss attached. Hell, I’ll thank my mother now too. She’s bought me my fancy Canon D30 for Christmas last year. I couldn’t afford the $1200 that camera costs. So thank Mary Jenks for many of the images you’ve seen on this blog and elsewhere in 2007. Speaking of Mary, she’s ____ years old and her health is dicey. Say a prayer for Mother Mary, if you are the praying type.

  Fun Fact #4: Speaking of Craft People, rent or buy “Craft In America”, a DVD of the three hour PBS mini-series. If you like beauty, good design, good people and a sense of community, watch this DVD. It has given me hope for the American future in the Visuals Arts. The Great White Hope of Art won’t be coming from New York or LA in the 21st century. She’ll be coming from Penland, or Helena, or Oakland, or Devon, or Raleigh, or maybe he’ll be coming from Alaska. Look for this DVD. It’s important, in a small way, as one of the Penland artists said.

       Fun Fact #5: The Boss has a new CD out, "Magic" it's called. It’s good. I'm not a person who worships at the altar of Bruce Springsteen, but he, like Neil Young, Bruce Cockburn or others, are still pushing their limits and looking at the world with honest eyes, and with wounded hearts. Plus they also know how to write a good tune. “You’ll Be Coming Down”, “Last to Die” and “Long Walk Home” are my favs.

       Fun Fact #6: “Deer Hunting with Jesus”, Joe Bagent’s book on the unspoken class war in America is infuriatingly funny and sometime just infuriating. Joe is the Progressive Prodigal Son who returns to his hometown of Winchester, Virginia. His distaste and loathing for greedy business men and women is only surpassed by his deep and honest love for Rednecks and for Good Old Boys and Girls, who he calls 'my people'. A great read but be warned. You’ll want to throw the book across the room at least once, but you’ll also laugh so hard you may drop it. And if you are a Southerner, you will get it like a Parisian gets cheese.

       Fun Fact #7: What’s up with all these shows on TV that are about the problems of the spoiled and horny Rich? Do we really need more Desperate Housewives and Husbands? Even the fun shows on HBO like “Californication” and “Entourage” are about the very rich. I guess the middle class, and the poor ain’t that funny anymore. Reminds me of the time of the escapist films of the 1930's.

       Fun Fact #8: If you live in Tucson, hit the Conrad Wilde Gallery this month. The collage, assemblage and mixed media show “Parts of a Whole” is wonderful. It’s worth going to see Catherine Nash’s dark but hopeful work. And Margaret Suchland’s correspondences, David Adix’s knifes, and Greg Stephens’ blood red collages ain’t too shabby either. The show will be up until October 27th.

       Fun Fact #9: Who in the fuck am I going to vote for in the Democratic primary? Fuck me. I hate to say this…I really do…but the Democrats are almost as bad at the Republicans. Selfish, disingenuous, about themselves only. I guess I’ll vote for Edwards, for he is the only one talking about The Poor, but I saw him speak a couple months ago, and I wasn’t impressed. Slick. Not much meat. A lot of air, too little fire. I’ll vote for Hillary if she is the eventual nominee but not now. I saw her speaking at a barbeque in Iowa on CSPAN yesterday and it was like watching an actress performing. Her voice was quieter, more modulating, more compassionate but as soon as she was done with the formal speech, she was back to shouting in that loud angry shrill to someone in the wings. I love her husband and how he speaks. I don’t love her. And Obama. Christ, am I the only one that see it as slightly racist that many Liberals are falling over this very junior Senator from Illinois, simply because he is Black. And a ‘presentable’ Black man too. Oh, he's black but not too black. I think Barack is a good guy, just not his time to be President. Be a Senator for four more years and then run. Richardson looks like he’s going to have a heart attack when he speaks, sweat pouring off his brow. Biden, my early choice, I now think is just plain nuts. The stuff that comes out of his mouth is sometimes bizarre. I like his Iraq Partition Plan but besides that I think he is one french fry short of a Happy Meal. And Kucinich. Dennis, just go and be with your gorgeous wife, fight for liberal causes and make a little cash. And what’s up with you saying “Thank You” after ever time you speak in a debate. You’re not a performer. You're not in a band, saying “Thank You’ at the end of a song before the audience applauds. Geez.
        So Edwards it is. For now. Can I vote for Elizabeth instead?

       Fun Fact #10: Greed and ignorance, unfettered and encouraged, will eventually kill our economy and diminish what's left of the Hopeful American Soul. It won't be a terrorist's nuclear weapon in Topeka. It'll be us. Americans will kill the dream themselves, and most won't even see it pass as they watch Russian porn on their Dells.

       Fun Fact #11: Fear is a useful tool that Republicans and some Democrats have used since 9/11 with great skill. You get the people scared enough and they will turn in their own grandmother if she says a nice word about Allah. You can also get Poor People to vote against their own best interest, with false hope, denial and fear. “Someday I won’t be working at Wal-Mart. I’m going to be a millionaire someday.” I actually heard that spoken once.

       Fun Fact #12: But there is hope, not in the big but in the small. It’s always been that way. A gentle word to a friend. A touch on the shoulder of someone who is hurt. A small check to The Food Bank. The laughter between lovers. The awe at seeing a desert sunset. Doing some heavy lifting for a co-worker. National healing may come from the initiative of bold leaders, but I won’t hold my breath. Most likely, it’ll come from the kindness, generosity, and soulfulness of a very good friend, an impassioned colleague, or a present and caring relative. One person at a time. I can’t give up hope, even though I'm close at times. I may be surrounded by a rude and sleeping populace but I’m committed to being awake, to being kind even when I’m mad, to being generous with what I have, and to living in the blessed and endless moment. That’s all we have, you know. Right here. Right now. Nothing else exists. And next time I’m worrying about my indebtedness or the selfish direction of this country, feel free and remind me, friend, that all that really exist is that sweet e-mail or that funny phone call or that pleasant face to face, I'm having with you.

[Image: "Daddy's got a new pair of boots" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks]

"PHX 200 KMS" (c) 2007

"PHX 200 KMS" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       [This image was taken last year in the Avra Valley, just west of Tucson. Those are the sneaker prints of illegal immigrants who don’t have papers, who walk into America everyday, looking for work. I’m left of Lenin on this issue. No, they are not terrorists. The terrorists come with well-crafted documents, in air-conditioned SUVs. They hand their papers to the Border Patrol and are easily waved through. These footprints belong to the Poor.
       Coyotes lie to the immigrants, saying Phoenix is just over the next hill, when in actuality, it is almost 100 miles away. The title of this image comes from something I did last year. I craved in the dry earth, near an immigrant trail, the words “PHX 200 KMS”, just in case the trekkers were dreaming of relief from the heat in the next few miles. I should have made another carving that said “TUCSON” with an arrow pointing east, but I didn’t think to do that at the time.
       Notice the treads of the shoes. They are not wearing hiking boots. These are prints of cheap sneakers. Not something I would wear if I were walking 100 miles, but then again, these Poor can’t afford the $150 Merritt boots I bought last weekend.
       In the summer of 2006, I was walking back from shooting petrogylphs on a volcanic hill, deep in the Avra Valley. The temperature was way in the 100’s. I had plenty of water, but I was still getting beat by the sun. Three miles in, I shot and prayed, and then while I was walking back to my truck, I saw something. Off in the distance, I saw three young men walking north, all dress in black. Black t-shirts, black pants, black shoes. The front two were striding strong but the boy in the back was struggling you could tell. I was walking east, they were walking north, to Phoenix. Our paths didn’t cross. They didn’t even know I was there.
       I thought at the time that there can’t be two more different reasons for people to be out in this hot, wonderful but lethal desert. I had come out here to hike, to take some pictures, to build my little spiritual muscle a bit, to pray for myself and for others, and to try and let go of the city life for a while. They had come out here risking their lives to walk to Phoenix so they could get a job, a crappy minimum wage job if they were lucky. I'm exhibiting the crazy luxuries of a middle class American. They showing the dangerous necessities of poor Latinos in need of a job.
       Fall is coming. More will come. Pray for them.]

"Stu's Fun Facts: The Bisbee Mona Lisa" (c) 2007

“Mona Lisa, Bisbee, Arizona” © 2007 Stu Jenks

       [Writing teachers tell me to show not tell. Sorry. I feel the need to rant. This is a blog after all. So. Welcome to perhaps the first of Stu's Fun Facts. OK, not really facts. My opinions based on selected data that validates my point of view.]

       Fun Fact #1: “We’ll wait until there is more blood in the water, then we’ll step on their necks,” said a real estate developer friend to me recently. No sense of irony was in his voice, no emotion, very matter of fact. And he's not a bad guy.

       Fun Fact #2: Per the current conventional wisdom in the Psychotherapy Field, you don’t give Antisocial Personalities and Sociopaths treatment or therapy. That just gives them more tools to hurt people, and they also tend to fuck up a good group therapy dynamic. The only therapeutic regime that is recommended is to get them involved in small business and entrepreneurship. Seriously. There, they can be hurtful and cutthroat without actually cutting real throats. Plus they are applauded for their business acumen, thus feeding their huge egos.

       Fun Fact #3: Blood in the water is a good thing in American Business today. Probably always has been to a certain degree, but now it’s apparently the rule of thumb, not just what that bastard downtown did last week. Whatever happened to making a good product, providing a good service and getting a fair profit in return? Now, it’s buy as low as you can, sell as high as you can, and make as much profit as possible, screwing the people at both ends and the consumer in the middle. You’re considered a fool if you do otherwise.

       Fun Fact #4: So why does The World, Old, New and Third, hate us? Ain't because of our freedom or maybe it is, our model of a Free Ecomony. American Business has financially fucked and exploited most of the world since the end of World War Two. Buy their oil, their diamonds, their rugs, their trinkets for chicken feed; sell it in Americans for more than it’s worth. Ain’t unfettered Capitalism grand?
      
       Fun Fact #5: Old Southern Expression: You can’t worship both Money and God.

       Fun Fact #6: A good third to a half of all successful Modern and Contemporary Artists in America (and I mean those where it LOOKS like they are solely financially supporting themselves on their Art) have ‘mysterious sources of income’, namely trust funds, rich spouses or family, hidden investments, etc. They don't keep the wolves away only from the sale of their art, or from doing Have-Mouths-Will-Travel. Funny though. They never tell you this, nor admit to other income. They seem to have a need to impress upon you, that their Nightmare On A Wall that’s hanging in a gallery somewhere, really did sell for big bucks. Most artists in America have day jobs, or boring jobs, or teaching jobs, or design jobs, that support their passion for creating good Art and good Music. Me? I’ve had a day job for almost ten years now, that has allowed me to get 20 grand into debt, while I've tried making a ‘career’ i.e. Make money, or at least break even in the world of Art and Music. I’ve made some good work, gotten some good notices, met some wonderful people, and sold a few tunes and images, but I still have only a hundred bucks in my checking account until payday. And I'm still trying to get that book published. But I keep telling myself that it ain't about the money, but sometimes when I'm broke, it sure feels like it.

        Fun Fact #7: Romantic Love is a a Big Feeling with a Big Surrender with the added punch of Big Desire. Ownership is not part of the deal, even though many fuck it up by holding on too tight. It’s about Sex and Trust, a faith that you won’t hurt me too much. Not, not hurt me at all. Just not too much. Sounds easy, but it’s gotten harder as I’ve gotten older. I was more willing to jump hand-in-hand off the Cliff of Love with someone I barely knew, or kinda knew, or knew real well, back in my Twenties and Thirties. Now I'm 52. The heart has only so much tissue that can scar without it starting to get hard. But I still pull at my heart, stretching it as much as it’ll go, adding God's linament of Forgiveness to it, and love and trust as best I can. It's a good thing.

       Fun Fact #8: The Internet gurus may be right. YouTube videos and MySpace garage bands may be killing Art and Music. Then again, it wasn’t that long ago that a hundred Art aficionados and critics to New York and London were telling us what was Good Art and what was Bad music. The Web will either kill or free Art. Jury's still out.

       Fun Fact #9: And the bottom line is? It isn’t about the bottom line. It's not about the money. (Even though there is another old Southern Expression that says, that Money Makes Unhappiness Easier.) I know a good number of rich people, whose husbands, wives or children are distant and that they never believe they have enough. But I also know a good number of wealthy people who use their money for good, know that have more than enough, and have the love and respect of their neighbors, family and friends. And I can say the same of the poor too. I have a bipolor recovering drug addict friend, who live on SSI, but takes a good portion of that money so he can race his Hornet car on the dirt track by the dump every Saturday night. Now, granted, I do wish I had more money. Right now, it’s more hand to mouth than I like and I have no savings to speak off.  But I do have friends who love and care for me and I them, and occasionally I have a girlfriend who knows how to touch and kiss and listen and do that funny hip thing. I have a nice little Art studio, a cute little apartment, and food in the fridge. I have ears to hear to problems of my friends, lips to speak the truth when it is called for, and some level of compassion for even those I don't like very much. I have a 19-year-old truck that rattle and squeaks like a son of a bitch, but I ain’t taking the bus anywhere. And that old Pathfinder will take me to Owl's Head whenever I like. I'm a rich man, even if I have maxxed out a number of my credit cards.

       Fun Fact #10: The Beatles and The Christ were right. Love is the answer. To everything.

"The Championship Bout" (c) 2007

"Tucson Roller Derby's Championship Bout: Furious Truckstop Waitresses vs. Vice Squad; 9/15/07; Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[All Photos by Stu Jenks except the below image of The Furious Truckstop Waitresses which was taken by Cathy Spann]

"Alejandro Escovedo & DBT at the Rialto" (c) 2007

"Alejandro Escovedo at the Rialto, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

     Last Saturday night, I went to the Rialto to hear The Drive-By Truckers. The more Jack Daniels they drank, the worse they played. But the act before them was frankly, unbelievable. A very tight band with some of the most honest yet innovative music I've heard in years.
     I knew Alejandro's music only vaguely until the other night.  A graphic designer bought the limited rights to a sand spiral photo of mine, a few years back, to use in an album of Alejandro's, a re-release of some old tunes to help pay for some of his medical costs. I listened to the album once and wasn't drawn into then. On Saturday, I was taken completely taken in by his music. His new album, "The Boxing Mirror", is wondrous. Pick it up on Itunes or at your local store. Alejandro is the real deal, and so is his band.
     Oh, The Truckers? I used to think they were being ironic with their songs about bad cops, confused kids, NASCAR dads, stoned rockers, and drunk but goodhearted Southerners. After seeing them live again the other night, I realized they are just writing songs about themselves. The image of the female bass player reluctantly putting down the bottle of Black Jack after a song had already starting, her coming in late to lay down the back beat, will stick with me for a while.
     But the honest and open soulfulness of Alejandro Escovedo, his amazingly tight band, the cellist on fire, the strong drummer from El Paso, the white guy on guitar screaming electric licks one song and playing sweet acoustic lines the next, the young classically trained bassist near the end of the set enjoying the three chord Punk song he was playing, the brightness of Alejandro's eyes, for us and his band, the song about Arizona and about him almost dying; all these will echo in my head longer then hearing Patterson Hood of DBT screaming "It's fucking wonderful to be alive." Look and listen to Escovedo and his band, and you know that they are happy to be alive too. And then some. And then a bit more than that.

[Below is an article by Robert Hicks of The Daily Record from April 17th, 2007. I borrowed it off of Alejendro's website, http://www.alejandroescovedo.com/?p=106. Mr. Hicks tells the story better than I could, by a long shot. Enjoy.]

Alejandro Escovedo is a survivor. Diagnosed with hepatitis C in 1996, the Texas singer-songwriter continued to drink and to smoke pot occasionally. His rock habits caught up with him, though, on April 23, 2003, in Tucson, Ariz.

He coughed up blood in his hotel room shortly before going on stage to perform songs from his theater piece “By the Hand of the Father.” After his performance, he collapsed and emergency personnel rushed him to St. Luke’s Hospital.

Doctors discovered Escovedo suffered from varices of the esophagus, advanced cirrhosis of the liver and tumors in his abdomen. After leaving the hospital, he spent a month in Arizona before returning to Texas.

He faced daily doses of Interferon and Ribavirin. The medication left him fatigued and depressed. Traditional Western doctors suggested more blood transfusions and the possibility of a liver transplant. Finally, on the advice of friends, his manager and his new wife, Kim Christoff, he visited a holistic doctor who prescribed Tibetan herbs to turn around his life.

As news of his troubles and medical expenses spread through the music community, 31 musicians collaborated on a fundraising double CD, “Por Vida: A Tribute to the Songs of Alejandro Escovedo,” in 2004.

Today, Escovedo, 56, abstains from drinking and smoking and devotes himself to his family, Tibetan Buddhism and his new music career.

Escovedo’s trio, with violinist Susan Voelz and guitarist David Pulkingham, will perform at Outpost in the Burbs in Montclair on Friday.

“We’ll really be spanning my whole career stuff,” Escovedo said from his home in Wimberley, Texas.

Back Porch Records released Escovedo’s latest CD, “The Boxing Mirror,” in 2006. Producer John Cale worked with Escovedo on the 11 tracks, which run the gamut from his Tex-Mex and punk roots to gritty rock and reflective songs about his father’s death, reaching middle age and confronting mortality.

“Once I got into the studio with John, I wanted to do something different. I just wanted to work with new sounds. I let John guide us as far as taking us someplace new,” he said.

After feeling so low and isolated during his bout with hepatitis C, Escovedo concentrated on creating positive songs about his experiences and his new outlook on life.

“I wanted to show how I’d found a much larger family than I was aware of at the time,” he said. “It was an awakening to mortality and to my relationship with people. It was a great revelation about the cycle of life.”

Escovedo met his wife at one of his concerts in Arizona. She introduced him to Tibetan Buddhism.

“I’m not a Buddhist. I’m just practicing it. It’s a constant practice. It’s really changed my life in a way. I relate to people differently. I’m more open and less guarded than I used to be. I’m a lot more relaxed around people. It’s made me see life in a different light. I see the interconnectedness of everything,”he said.

His focus now is on collaborating with other songwriters for his next recording, which will be produced by Glyn Johns. He’s been working with songwriters Chuck Profit and Gordie Johnson. His aim on this new project is to tell his life story in music.

Escovedo also is writing music for the soundtrack to Jonathan Demme’s forthcoming documentary on former President Jimmy Carter, and he is writing new songs for his forthcoming CD to be recorded in late June.

BY ROBERT HICKS
SPECIAL TO THE DAILY RECORD
April 12, 2007

(Below are two images of The Drive By Truckers from last Saturday night's show)

David Aguirre's Letter to the Editor of The Tucson Weekly regarding MOCA: 3/29/07

It's Time for New Leadership at MOCA

Searching the Internet to re-read Tim Vanderpool's Feb. 22 article ("Getting Toole'd," Currents) regarding the serial evictions of Toole Shed artists instigated by MOCA executive director Anne-Marie Russell, I came across Pamela Portwood's July 4, 2002, article "ReTooled: Toole Shed Artists Celebrate a Decade of Downtown Revitalization."

Striking, the contrast of where that corner of Toole Avenue was, and the sad state of where it is now. What happened?

I thought the "Getting Toole'd" article captured Russell's personal style perfectly. When asked about the artist evictions at a recent committee meeting, Russell said that it wasn't she who was at fault; it was the founders of MOCA. When questioned further, she changed her mind and said it was the MOCA board of directors that was responsible for the evictions. She also blamed those who don't like contemporary art, which to her seems to mean the same thing as not liking her management of MOCA.

It's no great leap to think that MOCA is in need of new leadership. When the Toole Shed debacle finally exploded onto the media level, I wasn't surprised. MOCA is chumming up with power players on the backs of evicted artists, losing what's left of earlier MOCA grassroots support.

What happened to all the cool and inspiring exhibitions that Elizabeth Cherry, former director of MOCA, was creating? Why was Cherry ousted, and who was behind it? The exhibitions were never the same after she left. I was recently in a meeting with the city's real estate chief when he mentioned that there was a split in the arts community, referencing MOCA as the source of information. A split? Surprise to me. So what's going on?

I think we've been had by Russell, who first floated the idea of a split in the arts community during the last few months. She recently emerged to offer a remedy to the "split." She wants to bring in someone, say, Eric Abrams, a local developer, to take the lead in developing a section of Toole Avenue. OK. I attended a meeting recently where Abrams and Russell did most of the talking, and it felt like the fox wanting to help out with securing the henhouse.

The only fragmented arts community is the one created by MOCA's ongoing insensitivity (or perhaps, one should say cruelty) to the inherited daughter that is the Toole Shed. Bad management is a very big part of the problem. Tucson truly needs a successful Museum of Contemporary Art, but ... this museum, with this leader? MOCA's old 3,000-square-foot exhibition space remains dusty and dark while the aspiring Dinnerware Contemporary Arts Gallery has to look for a new space. Could the problem not be more obvious?

The MOCA exhibition space does not need that much work to satisfy code requirements and certainly is not a cause to start kicking out the Toole Shed's artists. Now we have a new MOCA touted as Concept MOCA, but what is that? It's the MOCA gift shop with a never-changing art exhibit (oh, I mean permanent collection). A gift shop by any other name would taste as saccharine.

Now, I've heard that MOCA has created a splinter group called Friends of Toole Avenue. It has the ring of Bush's "Clear Skies Initiative," which allows for more polluted skies, or in this case, less art and more of a trickle-down approach toward artists, MOCA-style.

David Aguirre

"Dr. King's Grave, Ebenezer Baptist Church, and Auburn Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia" (c) 2006

“Dr. King’s Grave, Ebenezer Baptist Church, & Auburn Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia” © 2006, 2007 Stu Jenks

[Image: "Dr. King's Grave, Atlanta, Georgia"]

           My E-MU synthesizer and my Johnson mandolin sleep in the their hard cases along the wall. The door to my mini-balcony on the 22nd floor is open, letting in the warm breezes of an early summer Atlanta morning. The soft distant sounds of honking car horns echoes up from the street below. A cup of expensive but good coffee is in my hand. I step out onto the balcony and light a Camel.
           Yesterday was weird. Got on a plane out of Tucson at 6 a.m. Landed in Atlanta at Noon. A massage therapist associated with the conference picked me up and got me to the Hyatt at around 2 p.m. Brief sound check at 4. Ate some snacks at 6. And then there I was, a bit after eight, playing my spiritual soundtracks on my E-MU for the meet and greet after the opening ceremony of The Mythic Journeys Conference 2006.
           Ari reported later at the bar, that when Carolyn saw me playing the keyboard she said, “Is there anything that Stu doesn’t do?”
           Sweet of her to say but the gig sucked. I had no monitor so I couldn’t hear myself and I couldn’t turn up my headphones for they were in series with the master output of the XK-6 (And what I do is lay down ambient background music, loud enough to set the mood for the event, whatever that might be, but not play so loud as to draw attention away from the conversations of others. A New Age lounge performer if you will.) I’ve done this kind of gig before, playing for art openings and parties back home, but this was different. Way different.
           First, I didn’t have my own P.A. Was using Mythic Journeys’. Couldn’t hear shit. Playing just from muscle memory, praying it sounded OK, out there on the floor.
           Second, there were a shit load of people in the room and they were louder and more rambunctious than I’m use to playing to. At one point, someone almost put a cocktail glass on my keyboard until I gave her a dirty look with a phony smile attached to it and she backed away.
           And third, I was dead tired and really hungry and I could smell the strong scent of the pricey buffet table, just twenty feet to my left. But I was working, doing my gig, filling the space with clouds. I couldn’t take a break for chicken wings.
           After 45 minutes of playing blind and knowing if I didn’t get a Diet Coke soon I would just scream, I stopped and went to the open bar and got a soda. Standing there, I smiled, thinking about my conversation with Charles a couple hours prior. I had mentioned to him that I was incredibly tired and if I fell asleep playing my music (which I have done at home while recording a couple of times), that I needed someone to come over to me and yell “Shift!” so I’d get off the A Minor 7th I’m stuck on.
    Bless his heart, ten minutes ago, he came by and did just that.
           “Shift!” Charles yelled, with a big grin on his face.
           I laughed as I went to play a big C chord.
           There were some good moments though. I did play well (I think), and my atmos did give the room a nice feel, but all and all, it was one weird fucking gig.
           After the meet and greet, I caught up with some friends at the bar that I hadn’t seen since the last Mythic Journeys Conference two years ago. Caught a few songs of Michaela’s gig in a back room of the Business Center, but I was too wired and tired to sit still for long. Back to the bar I went, for a few more rabid stories and a few more flirtations with that pretty girl from California and then I was done for the night.
           Didn’t sleep well, but that’s fine. I don’t sleep well at home either. Getting old I guess or maybe I just haven’t tasted the soft skin of a red headed woman for a while, and that's affected my sleep. I wish.
           I take a big draw off my large coffee. Take another drag off the Camel, and lean over the concrete railing and take in the view from 22 stories up. This is a sweet room. Too bad I don’t have someone to share it with. But who knows. This is a convention. What happens in Atlanta stays in Atlanta.
           Another sip of coffee. I look down. A drunk hits up a tourist for change. I check the clock near the king sized bed. Around 9:30. My panel on “What the Soul looks like” isn’t until tomorrow so today I’m pretty free. I checked the list of other panels this morning and there is nothing there I can’t live without.
           This morning is when I should shoot. Light blue sky. Few clouds. This’ll do just fine.
           I promised Judith I would shoot Ebenezer Baptist Church while I was here, and judging from my MARTA map, a subway station is just one block south of here and then it’s a quick skip and a jump to a train stop near Dr. King’s grave. I smile. I get to take the subway here in Atlanta. The only subway in The South I bet.
           I go to my bags and get out my Brownie. I check the front pouch of the camera case. Plenty of film. I leave the Rollei, and the Pentax. Going for the Artsy Fartsy shot today.
           I take another drag off my Camel and drop it in my makeshift ashtray on the balcony, a Diet Coke can with some water in it. I drain my coffee and check my pocket for smokes. Enough. Check to see if my room key is with me. Tucked away in my wallet. Spectacles, testicles. I’m good to go.
           My room door slams loudly behind me as I head for the elevator. Sorry, neighbors.

           Forty minutes later, I’m getting off the MARTA at the King Memorial Rail Station. I could have walked just as quickly from my hotel downtown as taken the train. Perhaps I’ll walk back.
           I follow the signs with Dr. King’s likeness on them and in a couple of blocks I’m there. Been here before, two years ago, twice. First when I was setting up the Open Cairn Installation for Mythic Journeys 2004, a second time with my mother when the conference was in full swing. The first was the most powerful. Ain’t that always the way it is.
           These few blocks of Auburn Avenue are now a national historic site, fully equipped with park rangers in dark green polyester uniforms and Smokey the Bear hats. Not a good part of town but not a bad part of town either. And back in the days of segregation, Auburn Avenue was uptown for black folk, coined “Sweet Auburn: The richest Negro street in the world”. Standing at the corner of Auburn and Jackson, I can still see hints of its past grandeur. To the east, up a little hill are the restored homes of Martin Luther King Junior and Senior. Just across the street to the north is the new Ebenezer Baptist Church, a red brick palace of faith rising high to the skies. Next to it, is the expansive Visitors Center, with its many exhibits of the history of segregation and the fight to freedom. To the west on the other side of I-75, the skyscrapers of Downtown Atlanta grow out of the high hill ground. A little off to my left is the elevated tomb of Dr. King, resting in the center of a calm reflection pool. (I can’t see his grave but I know it’s there.) And directly behind me and above me is the humble old Ebenezer Baptist Church, looking the same as it did back in the 1960’s, still displaying the neon-signed cross at its threshold.
           I walk in. I know the way. Two black women in green uniforms say hello. I say hey back. Up a quick flight of stairs and I’m in the sanctuary.
           A small church really. Modest balcony. A good number of pews. A pulpit for preaching. An altar for prayer. A half dozen narrow stained-glass windows grace the east and west wall. I take out the Brownie and take a few shots. So little light but I’ll try. I pop the shots and then find a place in a pew.
           It’s around ten on a weekday when school is out. I’m the only person there. From small white speakers on either side of the altar come the words of Dr. King, his recorded voice loud and strong and digitally cleaned. I remember before, two years ago, listening to the ‘I Had A Dream’ speech. Today, it’s the Memphis Sanitation Workers’ Speech, my very favorite one, the last speech he gave the night before he was shot. I sit and listen and after a while, I begin to cry. I know this speech. Have it on tape somewhere at home. I listened as Dr. King talks about almost being killed while at a book signing in New York City in the late 1950’s and that if he had sneezed he would have died, and that he was grateful that he didn’t sneeze. And then he said,
    “And then I got to Memphis,” and on the tape, you can hear someone in the audience laughing, as if to say, ‘yea brother, you got to Memphis and things are even worse here than in Atlanta.’
           And then the last part of this speech begins and all I do is cry.

           “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s Will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen The Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to The Promised Land. And I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

           Applause explodes out of the speakers in front of me. Still just me in the church. I take off my rose colored sunglasses and for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, I wipe my eyes. I rise from my pew and say an impromptu prayer, quietly but aloud.
           “God protect all of those I know and all I don’t know at Mythic Journeys these next few days and most of all, just help me to do God’s Will, OK? Thanks.”
           I cross myself, turn and head for the stairs that lead out.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

    “Hey,” I hear a voice yell from across Auburn Avenue.
    A black man waves at me and begins crossing the street. Not badly dressed but he appears homeless. Not a bad vibe coming from him, though. I stop and wait for him to get to my side of the street.
    “Excuse me, but could I bum a smoke?” he asks.
    “Sure,” I say, pulling out my pack of Camel Filters from my front pant’s pocket. I have a smoke lit in my right hand. I put the butt in my mouth as I fish out the cigarettes.
    “Take one for latter,” I say, as I pull out two butts from my pack.
    “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
    I now notice that he has a pack of cheap cookies in his hand. You know, those imitation Oreos with the cheap vanilla cookie on one side and the bland chocolate cookie on the other and the creamy filling in the middle that tastes a bit like Tin. Looks to be a small package of ten, with a couple already eaten.
    “Need a light?” I ask.
    “Yea, that’d be great,” he says. He puts one smoke behind his ear and then cups his right hand around the cigarette in his mouth as I light it with my BIC, all the while holding the cookies in his left hand. He exhales a big cloud of smoke.
    “Thanks, man.”
    “You bet.”
    “Hey,” he says, “Would you like one?” holding up the clear plastic tray of cookies.
    “No thanks. I’m good but thanks.”
    “OK, well, take it easy Bro.”
    “You too.”
    The man walks down Auburn toward Downtown. I’m heading that way too. His stride is longer than mine so he’s quickly out in front. I continue walking, sending a little love his way. Can’t hurt. After about a minute, he stops about 100 feet in front of me and turns, and with a smile on his face, says in a loud voice…
    “You know, these cookies are sure making me thirsty!”
    I laugh. I reach around and pull out my wallet. I’m pretty sure I got some small bills. I silently pray that I don’t accidentally pull out the couple of fifties I have and show them to the whole street. Doesn’t have a damn thing to do with this being on Auburn Avenue. I don’t like to pull out my wallet at all on any street, even in Downtown Tucson where I’m from.
    I find a couple of Ones. I walk up to the guy and give him the cash. Before he can thank me, I say,
    “Now, get yourself off the street. Find yourself a good woman, like I did a few years ago” I say.
    I wince. Haven’t a clue where that woman line came from. Sure I found women to enable my bullshit years ago but is that really a good piece of advice? Shit, that’s the last thing I would wish on a good woman, is to be the codependent to this guy. He’s a nice guy but still. He’s a homeless addict.
    “I’m trying to get off the street,” he said with his head slightly bowed.
    Damn it, now I’ve shamed this guy.
    “Well, just take care of yourself, now” I say, with gentle compassion in my voice or at least I hope it sounds that way. No condescension or pity please. Pity sucks. I kind of like this guy and I really hope the best for him. I really do.
    “You too,” he says, raising his head.
    I smile and then he smiles too. I then turn and continue walking toward Downtown Atlanta. He stays a bit longer behind me, looking at the cash I gave him.
    I normally don’t give paper to homeless folk, but today seems different. Maybe it was seeing Dr. King’s grave again. Maybe it was just I liked this guy. Maybe it was Grace. I really don’t know. I’m not really this nice a guy.
    I finish my cigarette and look toward the skyscrapers a couple of miles away.
    Time to get back to Mythic Journeys.
    Hmm. I have to be on a panel tomorrow that asks the question: ‘What does the Soul’s look like.’ Well it looks like me, it looks like that homeless man, it looks like all of us, I think.
Sounds a bit glib. Have to work on that a bit.

    A block later, I hear a sound. Just a staccato ‘Hey’, in front of me and to my right. Not loud but it gets my attention. I look toward the sound and see a nicely dressed man, in a FUBU jacket. He is making eye contact with me and then he shows me his left hand. In his palm, is a two-inch stack of bills, with a twenty on top. I look at the money. I look at him. He looks at me. I look away. I keep walking.
    Twenty some years ago, I would have stopped and gotten a little something for the evening. Not today. Not anymore.
    A half a block later, a big grin breaks on my face and I quietly chuckle to myself.
    That guy’s got great style, though. My kind of drug dealer.

    [Addendum: At the panel on “What does the Soul look like?” I talked about these two men and I on Auburn Avenue the day before. About how my job on Earth is to have my Spirit grow and not to have it be diminished by myself or others, and that also part of my service to Mankind is to, when I can, help other people’s Spirits grow as well, whether it’s through my art work, or loving people when I don’t feel like loving them or gently touching the arm of a friend or just sharing a kind moment and a couple of bucks with a homeless man on Auburn Avenue.
    And by not buying any Crack Cocaine for myself for later.]

http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/the_biscuit_papers_part_o/drkingsgrave.html

"PHX 200 KMS" © 2006

“PHX 200 KMS “ © 2006

        Got the proof sheets back. The Rollei didn’t cut it. Not a wide enough angle. Too flat a neg from the thin cloud cover that day. The red filter didn’t help. And frankly, it’s just a boring, contrived set of images. But that tall hill of black rock surrounded by century-old Ironwoods ain’t boring. Just need to go back and reshoot, I reckon.

        Today is different. No clouds to speak of. A warm late Winter day in the desert. First leaf buds on the Mesquites. Dry and dusty from no rain this winter. Creosote bushes struggling but doing OK [They’re used to going months without rain].
        I’ve been in four-wheel drive for a while n