Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

Dia De Los Muertos at the Jenks family plot in Lancaster County, Virginia.

I live here in Greensboro, North Carolina now, but I'm really from Tucson, Arizona.

Part of the border culture, is the annual Dia de los Muestos celebrations. In Sonora, Mexico and Sonoran Arizona, many families on the nights and days around November 2nd, go to their family cemetery plots and clean the graves. They also bring favorite foods and beverages of the deceased, and fresh marigold flowers to decorate the graves of their loved ones. Many stay throughout the nights, drinking and eating, telling funny stories about the deceased, having a good time with friends and family, both living and dead. It's a big deal. Some towns in Sonora, Mexico will have parades honoring the dead. In Tucson, we have the All Souls' Procession, where many thousands of people march through downtown, dressed as the dead, or with placards acknowledging their dead loved ones. A large steel urn filled of written prayers is taken to a site near the Santa Cruz river, where the urn is set ablaze, sending prayers skyward. It's a big deal. (I've been lucky enough to be one of the All Souls photographers over the decades.)

Having moved back to the South, I realize that I had an opportunity to go full-on Day of the Dead with my ancestors. On the way to the Jenks family plot the other day, I visited my grandparents and my great-grandparents in Richmond, along with visiting the grave of my murdered great aunt Bertie. The story of Aunt Bertie's murder and what happened to her two young children can be found at this link. After visiting my folks and my sister, I placed flowers and candles at my great-great grandparents and my great-great-great grandparents graves in Oak Grove Cemetery in Lexington, Virginia. It was kinda-sorta on the way home.

But the main event was at Mary's, Stuart's, and Pamela's graves at St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, in Lancaster County, Virginia, near the shores of the Rappahannock River.

Some background regarding St. Mary's Whitechapel and my mother's religious life:

My mother Mary was a big deal in the Diocese of Virginia, being on the Standing Committee and committing her life to service in the Episcopal Church. The rector at St. Mary's in the late 90's and early 2000's was a delight. Loved Mom. Loved trains. However, the rector after him, was an ex-divorce attorney who became a priest late in life. She was frankly horrible, a control freak, pushing mother out of her roles at St. Mary's. Granted, my mother was a force of nature and was a pain in the neck on more than one occasion, but that priest could have fired my mother with a bit more empathy and grace, given she is working with an elderly woman who is doing all this for free. It broke my mother's heart. The current priest at St. Mary's is a very nice woman who I've only met once. Seems very grounded, sweet, and genuine.

Some background regarding on the St. Mary's Whitechapel Graveyard:

The church and the graveyard have been around since 1669. Yeah. 1669. There have been in the past a lot of rules and regulations regarding what you can leave at the graves. No potted plants. No toys. No plastic flowers. No this, no that. They used to enforce this rigidly, but from what I saw the other night, not so much. Potted plants are there. Small figurines are there. A recent burial from a few months ago still had its wilting flowers and the cardboard photo of the deceased. The current priest I believe is doing the right thing, being more flexible. Then again, when she sees the mess I made she might think differently.

I looked all over for marigolds and only found a few late in the process. Trader Joe's sunflowers did just fine.

The food for each person consisted of these:

For Mom, cottage cheese. She loved her cottage cottage.

For Dad, a can of tuna, a can of collard greens, and a single tuna wrap from Trader Joe's. (I ate the second tuna wrap.) Dad loved his tuna fish.

And Pamela, it's bagels.

Many of you have heard me tell the Pamela Jenks Bagel Story. Of her yelling at the Harris Teeter clerk in the frozen food isle in Raleigh.

"Excuse me sir. Can you tell me where the fucking frozen begals are?!!!" Clerk running toward us. "Madam, please don't use that kind of language." Pamela yelling, "Why the fuck not!!!" Clerk's brain going into vapor lock. Him, slowly walking away. Me, just standing there smiling. Not my first Pamela Jenks rodeo.

Pamela yelled and cussed everywhere she went. She wasn't crazy crazy, but she was Southern crazy.

As far as drink goes, that was problematic. All the beverages would have been alcoholic. Me being in recovery, driving with three liquid rattlesnakes in the back of my truck was not a good idea. I went with cans of Arizona Ice Tea, with what they liked to drink written in sharpie on the side of the cans. "Pamela liked scotch." "Dad liked beer." "Mom liked wine." It worked just fine. (Throughout the night, I actually drank Pamela's iced tea. It was very good.)

I placed the food, drink, flowers and candles at each of my loved ones' graves. Put one single flower on my grave, just to include me in all the fun. The Virgin of Guadalupe candles really brought it all together.

I arrived around 5 p.m. and stayed throughout the night, only leaving around 3 a.m. so I could make it to Lexington to place flowers and candles at the Beeton's and Jenks' graves. I place a towel on the "OK God Let's Do It" bench to keep my butt warm, and I played a little woo-woo music on my phone, specifically Steve Roach and Kevin Brahany's "Western Spaces". Hearing that music made me miss Utah and Arizona terribly, but it was still very nice to hear it softly echo throughout the forest.

It's hard to put in words the powers of those few hours. Sometimes if you say too much about a spiritual experience it lessens it resonance in your life. This is one of those times. I felt like crying but I didn't. Just felt sad, mostly because Mary is gone. I miss Mom.

At one point, I walked down to the road to see if I could see the burning candles. I could see the one on top of Dad's headstone. 'Man,' I thought. 'If you are driving down Lively Road tonight and looked up at just the right time, you will see that candle. Won't that be delightfully spooky.'

It was a very good night. Next year, I will return again to honor the dead.

I hope the priest doesn't feel mad at me about all of this. My guess is she will roll with it. But I did leave a candle burning, many flowers and food lying around. My guess is the deer and other wildlife will make short work of the cottage cheese, the tuna wrap and the bagels. The raccoons will have a tough time though, getting into the tuna fish can and the collard greens can, but those little guys are pretty resourceful. You never know.

Rest in peace, Mom, Dad, and Pamela. You were not always the best family, but you are my family.

There is an old metaphysical saying, that our parents did a shitty job, but they did the best they could with the skills they had, and in that paradox, can be find peace and compassion.

I found peace and compassion the other night, in the dark, at my family's graves.

I'm blessed.

#allsoulsday, #diadelosmuertos, #thejenks, #stujenks.

“Stuart Carlyle Jenks, Jr. (For Aunt Gracie), White Ash, North Carolina” [Extended Family Series]

“Stuart Carlyle Jenks, Jr. (For Aunt Gracie), White Ash, North Carolina” © 2021 Stu Jenks.

The terrible story of Grace Jenks Lester Wadworth's family abandonment is at this link.

The short version is this: Her mother, my great aunt Bertie, was murdered in 1914. Her and her brother Jimmy, ages 3 and 5, were put in orphanages in Richmond, VA by my great grandparents, my grandfather, and his siblings. No one ever visited. The family didn't take them in themselves. All the Jenks kids were adults but they just gave them up to the system and turned their backs on little Gracie and Jimmy, forever. Shameful. Horrible. Even my father Stuart Jenks was never told the story about Gracie and Jimmy.

Gracie died in 1994. I never met her. But I could have. I never met Jimmy either, nor know where he is.

As part of my Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebrations, Aunt Grace got a visit from me yesterday. Her grave is 3 hours away in Wilmington. She didn't get food or drink, because she rests in a Veterans cemetery, but she did get a candle and a walking stick.

About this walking stick.

I made it for myself to use on the trails. The problem is this: I don't use walking sticks when I hike. Never have. I've either got a 70-200 mm in my hand, or a mandolin on my back, or a saw and gloves in the other hand. A stick would just be another something for me to carry. (The irony doesn't escape me. I've made over a 150 of these suckers, but I don't use one myself.)

That being said, I thought Gracie should have it, or perhaps a passerby or a cemetery caretaker will take it away. That's fine. It's the thought, the intention, that counts. And I already have the "Gracie Jenks Lester Wadsworth" walking stick/wall piece at my house, which is part of my private collection.

Bottom line? Gracie needed a stick yesterday, and I have plenty of them.

I also played a little mandolin at her grave yesterday, as the sun went down. It was a sweet moment for me, maybe for her too.

Rest in peace, Gracie. I didn't know you at all, but I still feel angry on how my family treated you. If your spirit can hear me, know that I'm truly sorry for the horrible crap my family did or rather didn't do for you.

And know that I love you. I hope you're OK wherever your soul might be.

#stujenks, #graciejenkslesterwadsworth, #extendedfamilyseries

 

Sarah Spencer and Charlsie Dickson

"Sarah Spencer, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) image capture 2021 Stu Jenks.

 

"Charlsie Dickson, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) image capture Stu Jenks 2020.

 

On Joe Thomas Road, not far from my wife's family farm, is an small cemetery. Atop a hill, surrounded by mountain pastures and farm land, this cemetery is a lovely spot to stop, walk, and look around.

I've walked the grounds a couple of times. The first time in 2020, I found little Charlsie's portrait, her having died in 1926 at age 8.

A few weeks ago, I found Sarah's grave. Unfortunately, I did not photograph her whole stone so I don't precisely know when she died and how old she was, but I recall she was in her 30's and she also died in the early 20th century.

I'm struck by Sarah's beauty and her passionate intelligent eyes. Speaking of eyes, and I may be projecting here, but Charslie looks so sad. Sweet and sad. But that could be my 21st century prejudices.

One thing I do know is the survivors pay for the grave stones. You can tell Charslie's parents loved her very much, enough to spend the money for a ceramic photo plaque. Those were not cheap, nor were the stones themselves. And Sarah's husband purchased a very fine stone too, and got a photo plaque made of her beautiful face.

Now I'm guessing here. I can see Sarah's husband visiting her grave often just to see her face. She was stunning with smart and kind eyes. I'm sure he missed her a lot. I can see why.

"Ira Hayes' Grave, Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks

"Ira Hayes' Grave, Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks

All images on this website can be printed by me on my archival printer, using archival paper, then signed, boarded, glassine-bagged, then mailed to you

8 1/2 by 11s are $45, plus S & H. 13 x 19s are $95, plus S & H. (Image rights are also for sale. Cost of those are specific to the client and the job.) Shipping runs between $10 and $20.

Contact me via email at [email protected], or through Facebook Messenger, if you want to buy something. Stay safe. Love y’all.

 

 

Ira Hayes was a Pima Native American man. He was one of the flag raisers on Iwo Jima. He died young at age 32. They say he died drunk from exposure in a ditch near his reservation in Arizona, but now there are some doubts about that. He probably died in a bar fight and his body was then dumped in that ditch. No autopsy was ever done.

I'm very moved by Ira's story. I'm also from Arizona and I am also an alcoholic, but I had the luck and good grace to get sober in 1985. From what we know, Ira had terrible PTSD after World War II and drank to deal with his pain. And back in the day, I could have easily died in a bar fight, in a traffic accident, or from my own hand. I never fought in a war, except for the war inside my own head, most everyday prior to 1985, and a few days since.

Rest in peace Ira. Love you, brother. By the way, Johnny Cash wrote a song about you. I think you would have liked it.

 

“Gracie Jenks Lester Wadsworth, Rhododendron, North Carolina” © 2020 Stu Jenks [Extended Family Series]

“Gracie Jenks Lester Wadsworth, Rhododendron, North Carolina” © Stu Jenks 2020 51 inches tall.

This wall piece is not for sale. It resides in the collection of the artist. However the piece can be lent out to be shown.

 

Richmond, VA, circa 1910. Photographer Unknown.

 

Gracie is technically my 1st cousin once removed, but I call her Aunt Gracie.

She is also the victim of a terrible Jenks family secret.

Her mother was my great aunt Bertie Jenks Lester, my grandfather Papa Edgar Jenks' sister.

Frank and Ella Jenks, my great grandparents had four children, William, Edgar, Frank Jr., and Bertie. Everyone lived in Richmond Virginia after the turn of the century. When the events of this tragedy occurred, all the Jenks kids were adults.

Much of the following story I gathered with the help of my friend Brad, plus some data from Ancestry.com, a little creative supposition on my part, and more than a little criticism from me. You'll see. I have strong feelings about what I'm about to describe.

So here goes.

 

In 1914, Gracie was 3 years old, her brother Jimmy was six. Her mother Bertie Jenks had married James Lester at some point but it appears he had abandoned her and his two kids and he was long gone. I've never found anything on James Lester Sr.

Bertie was raising Gracie and Jimmy on her own, working as a laundress in Downtown Richmond.

At some point, Bertie fell in love with Richmond police Sgt. Philip Neisz. Here's where I have to guess about. Was it love or was it an affair? I don't know, but I'm going with love. Sgt. Neisz was married. I'm guessing he promised to leave his wife but didn't. It appears the affair had being going on for a while. I'm guessing too they met when Philip dropped off his uniform to get cleaned at the laundry where Bertie worked.

Just before April 6th, 1914, Bertie made a fatal error. She mailed a letter to Neisz' wife, telling her about the affair. When Neisz got home from work that day, his wife confronted him, He went into a blind rage, grabbed a bottle of chloroform, a rag and his gun and went to Bertie's apartment where Jimmy and Gracie also lived. He burst throw Bertie's door and began to punch her in the face. A neighbor came out and tried to stop him. Neisz then pulled and raised his pistol and murdered my grand aunt Bertie. He then turned to gun on himself and killed himself. It was big news in the Richmond Times-Dispatch for days. Sadly but not unexpectedly, they blamed Bertie for her own murder.

From the Richmond Times-Dispatch, April 7th, 1914

 

OK, that's sad enough, but here's the real fucked up part of the story.

As a kid, when we buried my grandfather Papa Edgar, I saw Bertie's grave along with Frank and Ella's. I asked my father what he knew of Bertie. I was curious because she died at the very young age of 27.

"I don't know. She was either married to a cop or was murdered by a cop. I don't know," said Dad. I believed Dad then and I believe Dad now. I think his father Edgar never said anything, because of the family shame that had happened when Edgar was a young man.

According to records, both Gracie and Jimmy was put in separate orphanages in Richmond, Virginia. There is no record of their grandparents, Frank and Ella, doing anything on their behalf. There is not record of their one aunt and three uncles having anything to do in the lives. Records show Gracie was in her orphanage and Jimmy was in his until they became adults, and all of her murdered mother's family lived for years and years in Richmond, literally just down the street.

Death Certificate of Bertie Jenks Lester.

 

Jimmy, Gracie's brother, married twice and died in 1991. He had no children. I never knew he existed. I know very little about him. There is a rumor from a family member that he might have contacted an aunt of mine at one point, stating that his sister Gracie had been a prostitute, but my gut feeling is that's bullshit. Maybe Gracie dated a number of men. Maybe she had a drinking problem. Maybe Jimmy was making shit up. I don't know, but I don't believe Gracie was a whore.

Gracie married Harry Berstein in 1938 when she was 27, divorced him in 1941 and married William B. Wadsworth Jr. in 1948 when she was 37 years old. She had no children with either man. She stayed married to Mr. Wadsworth until his death in 1980. Gracie died on June 3, 1994 at the age of 82. She is buried next to her husband in a military cemetery in Wilmington, North Carolina.

The grave of Grace Lester Wadsworth, Wilmington National Cemetery, Wilmington, North Carolina (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

That's the facts as I know them. Now, my feelings.

What the fuck?

I'm angry that my great grandfather Frank and my great grandmother Ella abandoned their only two grandchildren at the time to separate orphanages. 

I'm angry that Frank and Ella nor Papa Edgar told us they even existed.

I'm angry that it appears that no one, none of their uncles or their aunt, ever visited them in their orphanages.

I'm angry and really sad that I was alive and an adult before Gracie died in 1994. I could have visited her. I could have told her about her mother's family. I could have apologized to her in person for the despicable behavior of her grandparents and her extended family. My family. I could have gotten to know her.

The best I could do was to make her a wall piece in her memory.

And to visit her grave in Wilmington last Christmas.

We had a nice chat. I profusely apologized for my fucked up ancestors. I told her I wish I had gotten to know her. I told her I'm sorry my family abandoned her.

And that I would tell her story, as I know it.

So I have. Right here. On the internet. I omitted most family members names who were not guilty of anything, but I have identified some family by name who are guilty as hell.

I'm rubbing my face and shaking my head as I type this.

Fuck.

I really don't think my father knew anything. The secret was kept by his father and Dad's grandparents, not by Stuart. I'm pretty sure if he had known of the existence of his cousins he would have sought them out. He's not guilty of anything I believe. 

But Frank, Ella, Edgar, Frank Jr., Mahalah and William are guilty of abandoning their kin to the turn-of-the-century orphanage system in Richmond, Virginia. They were all adults when their sister Bertie was murdered. They had to know about her kids and they did absolutely nothing to help those little kids or to be in their lives.

Nothing. Not a God damn thing.

I wish I could wrap up this story on a happy note but I just don't see any silver lining. Except me visiting Aunt Gracie's grave and me making her a stick, but that is very cold comfort.

She and her brother Jimmy were family that were hidden from me. Airbrushed out of the photographs of my family by people who appeared to not give a sweet god damn.

I'll say this: Gracie, again, I'm sorry for my screwed up family and for what they did and didn't do. I'm sad I never met you. I wish I could have told you about your mother's family and I wish you knew I was family. 

I never knew you Aunt Gracie but I love you. I truly do.

I'll come and visit your grave at least once a year from now on, since I now live in North Carolina. Maybe at Christmas time.

I'll see you soon, Gracie.

#auntgracie, #stujenks, #extendedfamilyseries, #familyshame, #bertielesterjenks, #familysecrets

"Eterally Grateful" (c) Stu Jenks 2021

"Eternally Grateful" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks.

Assemblages are tricky pieces of art. They usually end up looking like "shit on a shingle" created by a first semester art student or an old retired guy who thinks he's making something pretty. Hopefully this piece isn't crap.

I believe my job as an artist is to take the personal and make something that expresses the universal. That's true whether you are a singer/songwriter, a filmmaker, a comic, a writer, or a guy like me who takes photographs of chairs, nightscapes and whatnot, hangs sticks and things off a wall, and who, on occasion, lays his hands on a musical instrument. I feel very strongly about this. Self-indulgent, hey-look-at-me Art is a thing, but it ain't my thing.

That being said, a lot of things in this old Playskool wooden wagon, that hangs off the wall, are very personal to me. I don't know if it'll translate to you, my audience, but I'm trying to make something bigger than me.

So I'll just list the individual elements and leave it at that. I like how my eye moves threw this piece. I'm OK if it doesn't float your boat, but I hope you like it. Some artists say they don't care what other people think, but that's a load of shit. We all care. Just some don't admit it. Don't tell me John Prine didn't care if we liked Angel From Montgomery. Of course he did. Rest in peace, John.

OK. I'll shut up and list what's here.

 

1) A 1950's Playskool wagon. This used to be filled with colorful woodblocks but only a few are left and I don't know where they are. I do remember playing with this when I was 4 or 5. It was fun.

2) A smooth piece of drift wood found on the shores of the Rappahannock River below the old home place on Mothershead Neck Road in Virginia. Mom sold the place in 2003, a year or so after Dad died. Dad didn't believe in life insurance or having many investments so Mom had to sell it to survive. Yeah. Dad fucked up. No big surprise. I still love the place though. The current owner lets me go down sometimes and walk on the pier.

3) A large piece of crude crystal picked up while walking around Coalmine Canyon on the Hopi Rez in Arizona. Coalmine Canyon is a personal spiritual space for me for almost 35 years. It's gotten a little overrun by tourists in trucks the last 20 years but you can still find a isolated spot to pray and meditate. It's a groovy place. If you ever go, be kind to the land.

4) A rusty old railroad spike found on the tracks near The Cienega Creek Trestles in Southern Arizona. Another holy spot for me, that part of the Arizona trail. I didn't pull the spike out of the tracks. It was just laying there. I swear.

5) A piece of tree fungus harvested just north of the Smith-McIntyre farm in Ashe County, North Carolina. That's Alexa's family old summer home place. The Smiths and McIntyres are generous enough to allow me to occasionally go up there to hike the hills around their property. I recently found 2 new holy spots there since I moved back to North Carolina, one, an old stone cairn across the state line in Virginia, and the other, a piece on a high ridge south of the house. Can't tell you how grateful I am to them, and to the land.

6) A broken gold watch given to me by Alexa a few years ago. It be broke. It don't run. Ain't going to pay to get it fixed, but it came from my wife and it sure is purdy. Just like her. It's set at 12:03, for no particular reason. It just look cool.

7) A XXXII sobriety chip from AA, received at my old home group Smoke Free Nooners in Tucson. God willing and the creek don't rise I'll have 36 years on February 7th of this year.

8) A blue heavy Fender guitar pick. I don't play guitar. I play the mandolin. Poorly.

9) An aluminum Mexican heart given to me by my good friend Mark this last Christmas. We've known each other since 1985. It's a big deal.

10) A tiny piece of wood scrap from the top of a walking stick/wall piece that I'm currently working on. Been doing this series the last few years called The Extended Family, featuring pieces named after family, friends and people I admit and love. This piece is called Bono, Beech Wood, Uwharrie Mountains., North Carolina. Bono, for those you living under a rock, is the lead singer of U2.

11) A 23 year sobriety chip from Cocaine Anonymous. This fellowship and its members have meant the world to me over the last 35 plus years. We're here and we're free, as they say.

12) The absence of anything in the upper left-hand portion of the wagon. The lack of something is a thing to me. I love spaces.

and 13) A special three-spiral chip from CA entitled Eternally Grateful. It's created for those members who have died but we still wise to honor. I placed it here for my friend Chris R. from Atlanta, who died of COVID in 2020. He was a wonderful man who helped many people.

I hope this small thing speaks to a larger truth. It now hangs back in the Jenks' garage where I see it often. Needless to say, it's not for sale. Unless you are talking a shit load of money.

Love you guys.

Stu.

Images From Ashe County, North Carolina (& Elsewhere)

"Up On The Ridge, at the Smith-McIntyre Farm, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Along Helton Creek, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Ancient Chimney, Smith-McIntyre Farm, Ashe County, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Two Chicks in Marble, Cemetery in Surry County, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Spiral Along The Yadkin River, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"A Rooster In Virginia" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Old Pump House Along The Eno River, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Place 2 Kiss, Abandoned Motel on the Navajo Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

"Oink, Dia De Muertos Mural in Nogales, Sonora, Mexico" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. 

 

"A Chair in the Wilderness" is coming...

Above image: "Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, After The Flood, Sonoran Desert National Monument, Arizona" (c) Stu Jenks 2018

A Chair in the Wilderness, my 15th book, is coming. Like my previous tomes, there will be semi-iconic photographs of rocking chairs and such, but unlike my other books, this one will be purposefully funny. And political. And spiritual. And a little sad. But witty and funny is what we are going for, like a dark chuckle in the night from a wounded man while the civilized world burns. Fun stuff. Trump stuff. Good times.

The dedication for ACITW is probably going to be a quote from my good friend Karen Hardy from the Northern Neck of Virginia. We were talking on the phone a while back, mostly about how her mother Victoria was doing, when, as I recall, I talked about how I perhaps cared too much regarding what other people think of me, and that I'm more than a little sensitive to art criticism from strangers on the internet.

Then Karen spoke this chestnut:

 

"They talked about Jesus Christ, Stu. They are going to talk about you and me, too."

 

Look for A Chair in the Wilderness before Christmas, wherever you buy your books.

Love you guys,

Stu.

(P.S. below are some images from the past couple of months and some older ones. If you have an questions, don't hesitate to call. Or email. Or tweet. Or message me. Or heaven forbid, talk to me, face to face, like they used to do back In Olden Days. Don't lose hope, y'all. Resist.)

The Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair Installation at Tohono Chul Park

As part of the Dia De Los Muertos show at Tohono Chul Park in Tucson, The Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair Installation is up and ready to go. The opening is Thursday, August 24 at 5:30 p.m.. The show runs until November 8th. Thanks so much to James and Karen for allowing me to be part of this show.

And this post goes out to all those folk who live outside of Southern Arizona, so you all can see and enjoy the piece too. To read the artist's statement for the piece, just click on this link.

Again, thank you everyone for your financial and emotional support this summer. It's been a tough one for me and for many. You all have helped more than you know.

From the road, south, east, and west...

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Lake Brandt, Greensboro, North Carolina." (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"The Magician's Assistant and The Chair, Lake Brandt, Greensboro, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[One of the best images from my trip south I think, because you can make up your own story about this woman and this chair. Mystery and magic are good things in art and in life.]

 

"The Death of Money, (For John B. McLemore), Green Pond Presbyterian Church, Alabama" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[John B. was largely unbanked, and had much hidden gold or so folks thought. I couldn't find his small headstone, but I think John would have found this image amusing, given his views on God, the financial markets, and the world at large. Rest in peace, John B.]

 

 

"Noah and Effie Carroll's Headstone, Rutherwood, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[I worked as a magician at Tweetsie Railroad, near Boone, in 1981. I lived in a mice-infested house just up the hill from Noah and Effie's graves. My old house is still there, looking about the same. Still kinda shitty.]

 

 

"Nannie's Mirror at Zelma Carroll's Grave, Rutherwood, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Nannie's Mirror, The Cragway Trail, Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[Note to those wanting to be professional landscape photographers: Sit in one spot and wait for the light to come to you, and take tons of images. I took around 30 images to get the desired depth of field and to get those green pine needles in the mirror in proper focus. It just takes time, like all good things.]

 

"Atop Grandfather Mountain, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Grandfather Mountain Infrared, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"One of Rodin's Burghers In The Rain, Hirshhorn Museum, Washington, D.C." (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"I Have A Dream, Lincoln Memorial, Washington, D.C." (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[A rare moment at the Lincoln Memorial, when there wasn't a ton of people. Perhaps it was because it was late in the day and raining. One of my favorite spots in the District. Fun fact: My mother saw them building the Memorial when she was a child, living just across the river in Alexandria.]

 

 

"Purple Flowers, Mary's Grave, St. Mary's Whitechapel, Lancaster County, Virginia" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[I bought these silk flowers at a Walmart in Oklahoma expressly for my mother's grave. My mother liked the color purple for it was the color of royalty. Been thinking many kind thoughts about my deceased, very complex mother. She was mostly a pain in the neck, don't you know, but she taught me some wonderful things when I was a kid, and frankly, she, along with her mother Nannie, were the only family members who gave a damn about Little Stu. Fun fact: Mary gave me $30,000 in 2008, before she got sick, so I could quit my day job and be a photographer and a writer full time. It was 10% of her worth at the time. That was very generous. The money is gone now but it gave me a very good kick start. Rest in peace, Mary. The Nannie's Mirror series is now as much about you as it is about your mother.]

 

 

"A Blue Heron on the Eno River, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair in a forest near the Eno River, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"The OK God Let's Do It Bench, St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church, Lancaster, Virginia" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[Was this image photoshopped? You bet your sweet bippie it was.]

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, The Eno River, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Why Not, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Burnt-Down Liquor Store, Shit-Town, Alabama" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Glen Alpine, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Big Witch Tunnel, The Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Nannie's Mirror (with dumpster and baby doll leg), Chattanooga, Tennessee" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pink Dogwoods Going To Sleep At Sunset, Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, The Haw River, North Carolina" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Washita River, Washita Massacre Historic Site, Cheyenne, Oklahoma" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Black Kettle's Camp, Washita Massacre Historic Site, Cheyenne, Oklahoma" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[An incredibly tragic thing happened here. Google it and read all about it. Ghosts wander these plains.]

 

"Cobwebs on John B.'s Chair, Woodstock (S-Town), Alabama" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

[I trespassed and spent all of ten minutes at John's house. The property is now owned by the man who owns K3 Lumber. K3. Get it? A very strong unwelcoming vibe was all around me, both at the house and all throughout the town. I'm guessing they has all heard the S-Town podcast by now. The property felt especially haunted and I don't use that word lightly. Everything is gone from John's house and his clock workshop. I didn't even go searching for the hedge maze, I was that spooked. I said a prayer for John, took photos of a lonely wooden chair on the porch and the three old chimneys and made my exit. As I drove away, I blew a kiss at the South Forty Trailer Park sign and made my way to the Cahaba River. Rest in peace, John B. and much love to all the folks in Shit Town, the good, the bad and the in-between.]

"The House With Three Chimneys, John B. McLemore's House, Woodstock (S-Town), Alabama" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.

 

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Cahaba River National Wildlife Refuge, Alabama" (c) 2017 Stu Jenks.