Fezziwig Press & Photography by Stu Jenks

"Jingle Jingle" (c) 1997 Judith Lowry

"Jingle Jingle" (c) 1997 Judith Lowry, Denver Art Museum, Colorado

[A homage to the murdered cousin of the artist. He, the cousin, was killed after he threatened to expose the corruption he found at an Indian casino. And almost needless to say, the painting comments on Indian gambling as a whole.]

"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]

"The Death of Stonewall J. Howell, Tombstone, Arizona" (c) 2007

“The Death of Stonewall J. Howell, Tombstone, Arizona” (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

       Stony walked out of the whorehouse dissatisfied. He knew he would be, but he went anyway. Tomorrow is his 26th birthday, and it’s been a good week at his claim. Good six months actually. Anyway, he felt like giving himself a present and that present was Crystal. But while he was thrusting into her from behind, watching her breasts sway, he had a passing thought of Henrietta back home. He came quickly, gave Crystal a kiss on the cheek and paid her double her usual rate. Seemed rude that he had thought of Henrietta when he was inside of Crystal. Crystal smiled and kissed him on the neck and told him to come back any time.
       He’d left Henri a year ago in the Valley of Virginia. She still lives with her widowed mother on those fifty-two acres that they pretend to be a farm. Singing in the church choir every Sunday, she said in her letters. Wishing he would call for her, to board that train to Tucson, she wrote twice already. It just wasn’t time yet.
       Henri turns every man’s head on the Saumsville Road when she takes the wagon to town. The prettiest girl in the county. Top three at least. Bright smile and full lips, long blond hair the color of straw, cheeks like red apples, a body thin yet strong like a rail fence. The night before he left for Arizona he promised her that if he struck it rich, he’d send for her. They kissed each other long and hard on her front porch, their hands all over each other’s bodies, as if by touching everything, they would forget nothing. He’s made some good money now, but it hasn’t built a house yet. He needs to have a house for her to come to. He needs also to hire someone to help him start that house, soon at that.
       The muddy street is filled with cowboys and miners, going from hotel to saloon, spending their week’s earnings on whores, poker and whiskey. The Full Moon is almost directly overheard. He stops in the street and looks up at the Moon, thinking about Henri and thinking that all he really wants right now is a hot bath. He turns and as he’s walking across the street toward the Chinese bathhouse, he hears his name called.
        “Stony! Hey, Stony!”
        He turns. It’s Merle Johnson. The luckiest, stupidest, funniest man in town. He’s also his best friend.
        “Hey, Merle. How are you doing, this evening?”
        “Mighty fine. Hey, are you going to the The Grand to play poker tonight?” Merle seems a bit agitated.
        “I wasn’t planning on it,” says Stony.
       Merle looks a little disappointed, then bites his lower lip. He does that when he’s thinking hard. What’s the big deal? He usually only goes to The Grand a couple times a week, not every night.
        “Can I find someway to persuade you to come play poker with me tonight?” Merle asks.
        “Merle, what going on?”
        “Hell, Stony. Just come over to The Grand Hotel tonight.”
       “Just tell me what the fuck is going on. I need to get a bath and then I was thinking of turning in. Unless you got something special planned, I think I’ll pass.”
        Merle bit his lower lip again, then smiled to himself and shook his head.
       “Just like you, Stony, to spoil the fucking surprise. A bunch of us are waiting for you over there. Tomorrow is your fucking birthday, as if you don’t know, and we thought we’d throw you a little surprise party at Midnight. Both Bobbys are there, young Bobby Christiansen and old Bobby Lopez! Mexican Bobby came all the way from Fronteras, Stony, to celebrate your goddamn birthday.”
        “Bobby Lopez is here in Tombstone?”
       “Do I fucking lisp? Yes, Bobby Lopez is here. And Charlie McLean left his claim in Charleston for the night, to raise a drink to you, too.”
        Stony’s mouth dropped open.
        “Charlie came to town?” Charlie rarely comes to town. Only when he is down to his last pound of flour and his last jug of shine.
        “Yes, yes, yes, you dumb cocksucker. Charlie’s here and Harry Wood has even closed up shop at the newspaper to see your birthday come in, and he’s brought Millie Benjamin with him too. And Karl Eisenfelder and his wife are there as well. God damn it, Stony! I’ve been waiting a fucking hour for you to come out of Madame Clarice’s.”
       Merle now looked puzzled, biting his lip again.
       “I suppose we could invite Crystal, couldn’t we? She is a whore but she’s a good woman, and I know you like her,” said Merle.
       Stony stood dead still in the middle of the thoroughfare. He look at the bathhouse. He looked at the whorehouse. He looked down the street toward The Grand Hotel. Bobby Lopez was on the front stoop of the hotel, his arms crossed, his sombrero silhouetted against the golden light coming from the hotel. Stony felt his eyes mist up. He smiled. I’ll be God damned. Bobby’s here.
        He started to walk toward the hotel when he heard a clap of thunder. Little late in the year for a monsoon. Then he stopped walking. He felt short of breath, and oddly warm and wet. He grabbed Merle’s shoulder to steady himself. He then looked down and saw the large red hole that was his stomach. He collapsed in the mud.
        Next to the last thing he saw were the tears in Merle and Bobby’s eyes, as they look down at him in the muddy thoroughfare, the Full Moon above their heads.
        Then he saw a beautiful ball of purple light being born out of the Moon. The purple ball seemed to come down Fremont Street and surround him, engulf him in its light. He no longer saw Merle or Bobby’s faces. He no longer saw anything or anyone. He just felt fine. Fine for the first time in a long time. Then, suddenly, he was above Tombstone and flying in the night sky, heading fast and true, due East, toward the Valley of Virginia.