Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

"A 100,000 Prayers" (c) 2007

          
"A 100,000 Prayers, Bear Butte, South Dakota" © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

June, 1982:

 

I went to Bo's wedding in Chicago. Nice girl, Cathy. We were all surprised. (Bo had a long history of dating crazy girls. Cathy wasn't. They recently celebrated 25 years together.) I then proceeded West. Plan was a bit vague. First visit Eric in San Francisco and surprise Lisa while I'm there (She wasn't happy to see me), then swing south to Tucson and visit my Uncle Len and Aunt Virginia for the first time. (My Chevy Two broke down there, I became lovers with my cousin's roommate, had my first real live Déjà Vu in my life and feel in love with the desert. After returning to North Carolina it wasn't six mouths before I was back in Tucson.) I had plenty of Pot, some mushrooms and some acid with me. Ate the  psilocybin on the drive up to Chicago, switched to Acid in Minnesota. Saw wheat fields below huge violent storm clouds in South Dakota. Saw the Badlands and more magnificent rain near Wall. And for some reason I stumbled onto Bear Butte. Don't know how I found out about it. I hiked to the top that day and placed a whirligig there as my prayer token. I remember halfway up the mountain, that the acid and the pot had been overpowered by the spiritual energy of the place. I remember a saying by Bo, that Pot is OK for boring things but for exciting, and powerful places, it just takes away from it. He was right. I knew some about the plight of the Plain Indians in 1982. Was deeply moved by all of the prayer bundles on all of the trees. But I was still spiritually and emotional lost and confused. Didn't make me a bad person. Just an artistically flaky guy, who couldn't face his own inadequacies, much less face life on life's terms.

 

Monday, October 15^th, 2007:

 

My brain no longer runs on THC and LSD, but my veins do have caffeine and nicotine in them this morning. I have my own tobacco prayer bundles with me this time. Tony instructed me well on how to make them. 'Use the colors of red, black, white, and yellow,' he said. 'Cut the cloth into two to four inch squares, take a pinch of tobacco and as you place it on the cloth and tie the bundle, pray for a specific person or thing.' That's just what I did last week in my studio.

I'm now in the parking lot at Bear Butte State Park. Round 9 a.m. One other car and no one else. Even the visitors' center is closed for the season. The mountain is mostly naked of trees now. Bad fire came though in 1996, but it's still beautiful. I grab my camera gear, my water and my bundles and head for the trailhead. The summit's obscured with early morning rain clouds. I can put up my hand and feel the power of the place.

Immediately I start seeing prayer bundles. I smile. I bet some folk just don't need to get to the top. 'You go, son,' says the old Cheyenne man with bad hips. 'I'll just tie mine here and wait for you at the truck.' It's very cold, around freezing today. Got the heavy coat, hat and gloves on. I pull the bill down of my cap, to shelter my glasses from the drizzle and press on.

All the way up, I see bundles. Small ones, large ones, long ones, short ones. I fell pulled up the mountain as if by unseen hands. 90% of the trees were destroyed in the fire but that just means that almost every surviving Pine has a prayer bundle or two or twenty tied to its branches. It's pretty easy hiking until I accidentally get off the trail near the top and have to crab it up the final hundred yard of talus rock to get to the summit. But that's fine. A little healthy struggle is a good thing. In no time, I'm 1200 feet above the Great Plains below.

What is it about a spiritual place be it Bear Butte, a holy place for Lakota, Cheyenne and other Indians for hundreds of years, or St. Francis of Assisi Cathedral in Santa Fe, or Norte Dame in Paris or The Standing Stones of Callanish in Scotland. Is it about the place alone? The rocks, the buildings themselves? I don't think so. I think it's the collective prayerful energy over many years that transform a mountain or a church into a deeply holy place. It's the people bringing their energy, day after day, leaving their hopes, sadnesses, joys and fears that makes Bear Butte and other holy places the psychically glowing spots they are. It's the product of a 100,000 prayers by 100,000 people.

Sometimes I just can't speak about what I experienced. The talking just doesn't work. And coming from me, that's saying something, that speech become limited. It's like trying to describe what a Chopin Nocturne sounds like to someone who can't hear. Like attempting to specifically quantitate the chemistry between lovers, and tell someone else who has never felt that passion. It's seems wanting, words do sometimes. Music sometimes can do it. Art, Dance too. Words are far down the line I think, at least to me. Maybe Charles could brew up some phrases, but I'm having a hard time.

So:

I had some experiences on top of Bear Butte. I took some pictures. I have no adequate words.

I can tell you this. This has words.

On the way down, I said to myself, " I want to come back here and hike this peak again, in 25 years, when I'm 77 years old."

Without hesitation, the quiet still voice within and without said, "You keep doing what you are doing, and you ain't going to make it to 77."

I didn't even have to ask but I did.

"You need to quit smoking. Not today, not next week but within a year," it said.

"I figured it was that," I said to the disembodied voice.

"And you also need to get more sleep. That's hurting you too."

"OK, OK!"

"And finally."

"There's more?"

The still voice repeats, "And finally, you need to stop eating so late at night."

"Anything else I need to change?" I was mildly pissed, but mostly amused. I figured the smoking, but I didn't expect a little list of inadequacies.

"That's it. Quit smoking, sleep more, and eat earlier."

I'm smiling but it's a weak grin. I sometimes forget that when you visit a holy place, what God, Goddess or your Gut has to say, will at least half of the time be things you'd rather not hear. But on the flip side, the benefits are greater and magnificent yet difficult to describe.

Like the power of the colorful bundles on Bear Butte.

 

Halloween, 2007:

 

I was inspired by what I saw at Bear Butte. Could see that objects I want to make in my mind's eye. Mentioned the new project to a friend or two. They didn't seem too excited about it, or maybe they were worried about the fallout from the Indian community.

Usually I don't write about art projects before I do them, but it feels right here, or maybe I'm just want validation from the blogosphere. Probably I just need to say it alound and see what hell or heaven transpires.

Well, here goes:

I going to make my own prayer bundles, different from the Plains Indians but similar enough that I'll probably be accused of ripping them off, or different enough that I'll catch shit either way. But again, I've seen them in my mind for days, weeks, while on my trip and after. They're big, long, colorful, made not with tobacco but with lavender flowers. Hung from walls as well as from trees. Hung in homes and in the desert. And they will be both give away also sold. Flame on.

In my defense, the reason I'm moved to make these Lavender Bundles is to make objects that are specifically spiritual, not just implied like in my circle, hoop and spiral photos but explicitly for worship, meditation and prayer. It will give me great joy to see one of these hung in a friend's bedroom or a stranger's hallway, as an object of prayer. I'll take the risk of heat. I'm not using tobacco. I'm not trying to be an Indian. I'm just going where the Muse takes me, and I think it's going to take me to Aqua Vita to buy lavender and Jo-Ann's to buy fabric this weekend.

Stay tuned. We'll see what happens.

And Happy Halloween to you all and Happy Birthday to my mother Mary.

 

 

"Bullock Hotel, Deadwood, South Dakota" (c) 2007

"Bullock Hotel, Deadwood, South Dakota" © 2007 Stu Jenks

            David Milch's HBO Series "Deadwood" is easily my favorite show to ever be on TV. I own all three seasons on DVD and just this last weekend I watched a few hours of Season Two while waiting for the windshield repairman to arrive. I think I drove through the town of Deadwood in 1982 but I can't be sure. I sort of remember Lead, its sister city, that just up the hill but not Deadwood.
            I wasn't completely blindsided to the changes in Deadwood. I'd checked out their town's website and it looked a bit touristy. But as Gregory Bateson once said, 'The map is not the territory,' nor is a website the place either.
            I drove up the road to Deadwood at sunset, Dylan playing in the CD changer, a big smile of my face. Wounded Knee had been very moving, saw some prairie dogs in the Badlands on the way, and finally, the skies had cleared and I was seeing sunshine for the first time all day. I was very excited.
I entered town and quickly saw that Deadwood was just Tombstone on Steroids. (Tombstone is a two-bit tourist trap an hour plus south of Tucson. It's got its cheesy gunfight, got its Chinese souvenirs, got it tourist bars disguised as dives.) Or like a Bisbee that did not die. (Bisbee, Arizona is a cooper mining town, south of Tombstone, that died in the 1920's, was reborn in the 1960's as a hippie artist enclave and is now trying for another Renaissance, another rebirth, that never seem to take.) Someone has sunk a shitload of money into Deadwood you could tell. There's gambling but I quickly found out that it's just chicken shit gambling: Video Poker and Slots. No table games. No craps. No roulette. Nothing real. At least Ely, Nevada had blackjack and craps in its old hotel. A new Holiday Inn had taken up a whole corner of old downtown, and the fake knickknacks were ubiquitous.
            I drove around the block and settled on staying at the Bullock Hotel, a recent reasonably authentic restoration of Seth's old place. Seems that it was a dive hotel until being gutted and overhauled 10 years ago. I got to admit, for $70, the room was quite nice. Thick red pile carpet that you don't see in the vast majority of hotels and motels. A comfy bed and a nice bath too.
            After I'd settled in I decide to go for a walk around town. After a quick recon of the faux Western bars on Main Street, I took a hike up the hill to see Bill Hickok and Jane Cannery's graves. It was a steep climb but it felt good. The sun had just set and it was getting dark fast. Little gingerbread houses lined my way up the hill. Looked that a cemetery visit cost real money during the day but not now. It was too dark to read the stones and I didn't have my flashlight with me and there was no Moon. Would love to have found Seth Bullock's or Sol Star's grave but I settled for Jane's and that was just fine. Whitetail Deer ate dinner among the stones. A family of four, Mom, Dad and two young kids walked by. Very quiet on top of that hill. I found Bill's and Jane's graves quickly, big sign announced where they were. Too much fuss, Bill would say but Jane would liked that Bill got all of that attention. Since I cuss a lot, I left a penny at Jane's grave. I walked down the hill another way, thinking I should turn in soon, for I have an early appointment at Bear Butte. That is the real reason I drove two days north, after all. Deadwood was just a bonus and a place to stay the night.
            I stopped at the bar in Bullock's, before turning in, and filled up on free Buffalo Wings and Diet Coke. A middle aged white couple behind me turned their noses up at the wings. I had about 10 of them. It was just that couple, the bartender and I, on that Sunday night. I tipped the barkeep a few bucks for the freebies. Just seemed like the right thing to do, this being Deadwood and all. I finished my Coke, then when upstairs, watched some TV and went to sleep. And for the first time since I left Tucson, I felt lonely.
            [Postscript: After Bear Butte on Monday, I drove back through Deadwood for two reasons: One, I promised Annie I get her a glass and Two, other than the Interstate, the only way back to Wyoming was pretty much through Deadwood. I did a bit more driving around the neighborhood and rediscovered Lead, South Dakota (pronounced Leed). Lead is just upstream of Deadwood, a couple three miles I suppose. But in between is George Hearst's Homestake Mine, the mining property that was primary to the storyline in Season Three of HBO's Deadwood. George Hearst was a bad man. A very bad man. The mine was the deepest mine in all of the United States, and it was very profitable for a very long time. It just closed for good in 2002. Lead isn't a tourist town, just a western mining community with workingmen's homes, the coffee shops I longed for down the hill, a real grocery and a church or two. Lead is the real thing. Deadwood today is simply an electrified fake, to entertain overweight white folk in Ford Expeditions and biker wannabees partying in Sturgis. Then again, the tradition lives on of, helping fools part with their money in Deadwood. Hookers are replaced with tight slots, and I bet the whiskey is just as watered down in 2007 as it was in 1877. For some reason, that makes me very happy.]

 

 

"Raining at Wounded Knee" (c) 2007

"Raining at Wounded Knee" © 2007 Stu Jenks

 

       Never been to Nebraska before. Northwest Nebraska is a pretty place. Rivers, some hills, and acres and acres of farmland. Saw a field of Sunflowers, ready for harvest, that wasn't just acres-big, but sections-large. No yellow petals but hundred of thousands of seed-heads stretching to the western horizon. Very impressive. I saw a cattle ranch named Stuart's, advertising 'Bulls and Females'. I laughed loud, thinking that's what I'll call my next CD, 'Stuart's Bulls and Females'. I stopped and shot an image of a long-closed service station that had the pattern of a Star Quilt painted on two of its doors. That was in the small town of Crawford, Nebraska. People going and coming from church. Sunday in October in rural Nebraska. I liked what I saw of the state. But I was sad too, for Buffalo where once all over these plains, back in the day. Not now, though. I could feel the ghosts of those Buffalos everywhere. The cattle and the crops don't fill the void with me at all. (And that feeling of No Buffalo was with me for a whole week, while I drove through South Dakota, Montana and Wyoming.)

             Had breakfast in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Eat an Everything Omelet and drank some weak coffee. Then back on the road and drove in the snow for a while. Snow turned to drizzle, then back to snow. Good tires and 4 x 4 if I needed it. No worries.

       Made the decision to hit Wounded Knee before Deadwood, hence the drive into Nebraska.

       Crossed into South Dakota and into Pine Ridge Reservation. I've heard talk of the abject poverty of Pine Ridge for decades. Mile after mile passed, little town after little town and I'm not that shocked. Lots of government housing, some rusted cars, plenty of open prairie and many low ridges with Pine trees snaking across them. It's poor but it doesn't feel destitute, nor hopeless. No different than Navajo town of Tuba City or the Tohono O'Odham town of Sells in Arizona. I felt like home, their home. They have been here for way over a hundred years. Sometimes, I wonder if all the hoopla doesn't come from an Urban East Coast prejudice, of middle class and rick folk who don't ever drive through the working class neighborhoods of their own hometowns, and only see poor and working class people when they are on vacation while making their tours of Indian Reservations in the West.

       The rain is steady but light. The sky's gray but the clouds are high, leaving lots of space overhead. Big sky even when it rains.

       I find the crossroads of Wounded Knew but am confused. My map is ambiguous. I see a Pine Ridge Lakota policeman in his SUV, parked near me. He begins to drive away, but I flag him down.

       "Excuse me. Can you tell me where the Memorial is?"

       He is a young cop, with a soul patch on his chin. He smiles and pointed toward what looks like a church on a hill, just a couple hundred yards away.

       "It's over there," he says.

       "Over there?"

       "Yep," he says.

       "Thanks. By the way, how's your day?" I say.

       "Long,"

       "Well, I hope it ends soon."

       "Me too."

       "Well, have a good day, officer."

       "You too." He has a light in his eyes, everyone is home. No fear and bluster like Officer Ercole D'Ercole in Trinidad, Colorado last night. Another story, but I bet Ercole D'Ercole still get teased about his name, even though he is  a officer of the law.

       I get back in my truck and the Lakota Policeman drives away. I look at my map. I look at where the cop pointed. Doesn't seem right. Looks like just a church, not a memorial to one of the worst Indian Massacre in history. I look at the map again. Maybe down that road. I put the truck in gear and leave the crossroads.
       After five miles of driving on a very well maintained but very muddy reservation road, I begin to have doubt about what I'm doing and begin to have less doubts about what the cop was telling me. I turn around.

       I get back to where I began, where I talked with the cop and I find a rough two-lane track that heads up the hill toward the church. As soon as I crest the hill, I realize that it's not a church but a cemetery. The cop was right. Well, I guess he would be. He does live here you know. Jeez. I shake my head. So much for listening to others.

       It's still misting. An old white couple's walking between the stones in the cemetery. A black marble obelisk with all the names killed on that Winter day stands near the middle of the graveyard. Stones and crosses, new and ancient are here and there. It's the town of Wounded Knee's graveyard now it seems. I nod my head. I take some shots, and look for a place to leave a prayer bundle of my own (Tony, a Navajo friend, instructed me on how to make a prayer bundle. I have a number of individual ones and three short strings of prayer bundles with me. Mostly I've made the bundles for Bear Butte tomorrow, but I have plenty of extras.)

       I thought I'd feel sadder but I don't. I just feel cold. I just think about the Lakotas living here today, hoping that they don't hold onto too much resentment about what was done to them a hundred plus years ago. I know some of my Southern brethren are still pissed off about The War Between The States, and it doesn't seem to do them any good. I know I have some old resentments that I still carry, and they just seems to cloud my view of the Path I'm on.

       No, I'm just hoping for the Lakotas, and for all of us really, Red, White, Yellow, Black and Brown, that we just be ourselves, know ourselves and be the best we can be. Advice mostly for myself, that for any unknown Indians near by. But I still pray for a lifting of resentment and an atmosphere of forgiveness for all of us. Just kind of how I'm built these days.

      I get back in the truck, and head down the muddy two track to the wet two lane and drive North. I hope to get to Deadwood by dark.

 

 

"Bowling In Walsenburg" (c) 2007

"Bowling in Walsenburg, Colorado" © 2007 Stu Jenks

       "Beautiful weather, isn't it," says the cheerful old obese woman.
       "Yes it is," I say, smiling back to her.
       While we're both buy gas, we exchange pleasantries. I'm guessing she lives here. I'm just passing through on my way up north. It's about 8 p.m. The over-weight sweetheart walks to the convenient store. I finish pumping my gas, pull away from the pumps, and park the truck 20 feet away. A couple dogs bark at me from a backyard to my left. The air is cool and crisp but not too cold.
       Walsenburg is a small town on I-25. South of everything, north of not much. A town that was probably a farm railroad stop back in the day. Now, it's a town that gets much of its money from the Interstate as well as from the ranch and the farm. Walsenburg holds a special place in my heart, for this was the first small western town I stopped in, on my first quest out west in 1977.
       I first hitchhiked from North Carolina to visit friends of friends in Austin, but got stuck outside of town. Stood all day on a two lane, but no one picked me up. Took a bus then to Walsenburg and after I arrived, I called an old college friend at Adams State in Alamosa, from the bus stop. I asked if he could put me up for a couple of days, if you could come get me. I still remember that phone call. I was a stoner flake back then. Hadn't even bothered to call ahead, to see if Bob was busy or in town. Just assumed it was OK. Lucky for me he was home. Bob laughed when he heard my voice and when I asked for a ride to Alamosa, a hour away, he said, sure, we'll be over as soon as he can.

"But let me call you back in 5 minutes," he said. "I need to check to see if the mountain pass is closed."
       Closed, I thought. A light drissle was coming down in Walsenberg.
       "Closed? What do you mean, Bob?" 
       "There may be snow on the pass. We might not be able to get through to pick you up."
       "Oh."
       It was August. I was floored. I had no idea.
       Welcome to the West, Stu.
       I was a baby, back then. 23 going on 50.
       Now, I'm not. I'm sweetly naïve in some ways, but I ain't nobody's fool anymore. Or at least I tell myself that. No large molecules of THC running through my veins either, but I still have Nicotine in them. My eyes are brighter and clearer and have been for years. I do get angry at the greed and selfishness of America in the 21^st Century, but I still know that what really matters, regardless of who's President or what others do, is the kindness, compassion and love that one person give to another, one person at a time, one day at a time. Like the short exchange I just has with that pudgy old woman. She greeted me first with kindness. I easily returned it. It does make for a better world, when we smile or laugh with each other or simply acknowledge the strangers around us with a grin.
        One dog's still barking to my left but the second one has lost interest in me. I then see my first artsy shot of the trip (even though I've already shot 40 snapshots driving through Arizona and New Mexico today.) That bowling alley over there. Looks to be five- or ten-laner. That sign's wonderful. Can see lots of activity inside. It's a hopping place on a Saturday night. Good clean fun, in a small western town.
       I pop a half dozen shots, and look at the back of the D30. Yea. This'll make a nice first image of my trip, a trip down memory lane, but also to brand new places too. A journey through my Western past into my Western Now.
       I stow my camera, start the truck and head back to the Interstate. All is well.

 

"One Penny At A Time" & "The Sale at BR-549"

"One Penny at a Time”

       I recently discovered something that is fun and sweet and profitable to boot, in a very childlike way. If you go online and preview a track from my last CD, “West of the Fire” on any of the major music download sites, guess what happens? Now I’m saying just preview the track and listen to a part of it for free, but not buy the track. Can you guess? I earn a penny! That’s right. I get a penny for every time someone pushing the ‘Listen’ button on one of my tracks on many of the legal download sites, like ITunes, EMusic, Rhapsody, MSN Music, CDBaby, etc. Isn’t that something? So if you want to help me to have a little more money to make a little more Art and Music, just go and hit those buttons. And it’s free.

“The Sale at BR-549”

       And in conjunction with the “One Penny at a Time” campaign, it’s that time of the year for my annual sale of photographs. This year, it’ll be simple. Everything is half price. Simple as that. But if I have to print something up special, it’ll be a bit more, but of my existing physical portfolio, which is extensive, it’s all half price.
       What does that means, as far as price and size of print go?
       Well, it’s like this. If you come by my studio in Tucson, all the large framed things on the walls are half off the price listed, and the unframed 13 x 19s Archival Inkjets in clear plastic with the cardboard back, that are normally from $100 to $200, will all be priced between $50 and $100. 8 x 10s normally between $20 and $45 will all be $10, and CDs bought in my studio will be $7. Also, I always have the odd-sized matted images at my studio as well, and those will be ½ off too. Now the catch is this. If you want me to ship them to you, there will be a shipping and handling charge, around $10 to $20 depending on what continent you live on. But if you come by the studio, it’s cash and carry. I’m at my studio many nights, at least for a little while, and almost every weekend night, way into the evening. Just call or email me if you want to come by. Also, I’ll be at my studio as part of the Tucson Open Studio Tour on November 10th and 11th  from Noon to 5. And the address for my studio is 549 N. 7th, Tucson, Arizona. It's the old Tucson Arts District Partnership Studios, the one with the quanset hut on site. Again, call ahead or email me and set up an appointment. That's the best way and I’m pretty flexible.
       So go to www.stujenks.com and to www.stujenks.typepad.com and check out my inventory. Both old stuff and new stuff are available. And go to any of the music download sites and push that button and you will give Mr. Stu a penny. One penny at a time. More Art, More Music, Less debt. It’s a good thing.
       Thanks y’all. And oh, this sale will go one through the Winter Solstice on December 21st.
       Much love and know that you all matter to me. And I say this every year, but I’m truly grateful to your partronage, be it with your kind words and praise (and helpful criticism too) or with your pocketbook and physical generosity. Both matter.

       Love, and Light,

       Stu Jenks
       BR-549 Studios
       Tucson, Arizona
       520-370-4797 (cell)
       stujenks@gmail.com

       P.S. I'll be out of town until the 21st of October, hiking the Black Hills of South Dakota, if the truck gets me there. Contact me about prints and studio visits after then.

"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.]

"Calamity Jane at Trail Dust Town" (c) 2007

"Calamity Jane Portrait at Trail Dust Town, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Starting October 13th, I'll be away from all computers for a week or so. The plan is to go to Bear Butte and Deadwood in South Dakota and hike the San Juans in Colorado. But a strong wind might blow and I may end up in Wyoming. Film (or rather Digital Negs) at 11.]

"Tumamoc Vision" (c) 2007

"Tumamoc Vision, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

"The Christ in Barrio Viejo"

"The Christ in Barrio Viejo, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Taken at a shrine in a vacant lot in this Barrio just south of Downtown Tucson. Barrio Viejo is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Tucson. Used to be much larger until 'Urban Renewal' destroyed much of it in the 1960's, to build the ugly Tucson Convention Center and some other forgetable buildings. Many of the original Latino families have moved or have been moved elsewhere, but some still live in The Old Neighborhood. Mostly now it's occupied by middle class whites, some working poor people, the elderly, and a few artists and musicians. It's a checkerboard of $400,000 gentrified courtyard homes, modest family adobes and simple working-class row houses. But the spirit of Barrio Viejo still lives. As a longtime resident said, "The barrio will never disappear. It has gone through a lot of changes, even urban renewal, but it's the families that made the barrio no matter how many times the city tried to move them. They can't get rid of us." This image is for Charles DeLint, Ari Berk and James Graham.]