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.

Tobacco Barn, Caswell County, North Carolina

"Tobacco Barn, Caswell County, North Carolina" (c) 2021 Stu Jenks

As I was taking this image, I could see the final composition in my mind's eye. I love fine elegant composition. I like how easy my eye moves around this photograph: down the roof line, back up to the trees, resting on the upper door and the red wood for a second, then back down the roof line again. I'm also grateful to have really good glass (Canon 70-200 mm f/2.8 IS lens) to make it all happen.

My father used to say, "it's a sad dog that won't wag its own tail" 

Well, Dad, I'm wagging here.

"Dad Doesn't Leave The House Much Anymore"

"Dad Doesn't Leave The House Much Anymore" (c) Spring 2001, 2010 Stu Jenks

(Pinhole photograph taken six months before Dad died. Exposure time approx. 30 minutes long. Stuart Jenks Sr. died at home on September 3rd, 2001, twenty years ago this week. This story was written in 2010 and edited again today.)

    Dad doesn’t leave the house much anymore.
    “He sometimes goes outside but he rarely stays out,” Mom says. “It’s like he’s given up.”
    It’s been a bad few months. They can’t give Dad the Agent Orange Cancer Cure anymore. Too much of The Big Bad Chemo would kill him outright now. He went to John Hopkins in Baltimore recently and they’ve put him on very experimental cancer therapy which consists of Stuart taking Thalidomide pills. Dad’s now a guinea pig.
    “We’re running out of options,” Dr. Evers, my father’s oncologist, said. My Dad calls him Medger, after the slain civil rights activist. It’s not a compliment, and it's kind of a bad joke. Dad sometimes is less funny than he thinks.
    There’s one more last ditch treatment, they say. Another experimental procedure where they pump a caustic chemical cocktail right into my Dad’s chest. Stuart has to be under anesthesia for this and be closely monitored while they pump in the chemicals. Very experimental. Very risky. A last hope. We’re scheduled to go into the hospital in a few days. I just flew in from Tucson tonight to help as I can.
    Dad’s sitting in front of his mini-TV in the living room. He has on headphones to listen to it, for if he doesn’t, the regular TV speaker blasts out the house. Dad has been losing his hearing for years. He refuses to get hearing aids. He likes hearing less, he said to me, because without hearing aids he can barely hear Mom talk. Stuart fell out of love with Mary years ago, but is too cheap to divorce her. Sadly, Mom is still deeply in love with the man.
    Dad's just sitting there, watching the TV. I walk out onto the screened-in porch, then to the kitchen, then upstairs to my bedroom. I’ve done this circle a number of times tonight. I pass Dad each time, but after our first hand wave of the night, Dad doesn’t look up from the TV. He doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to the television. Almost like he’s looking right through it. A thousand yard stare, probably not that much different than the one on his face at Iwo Jima in 1945.    
    Without him knowing, I place my pinhole camera, with the shutter open, on a table in the living room. I then go outside to sit on the river pier in the dark. No moon tonight. A half hour later, I come back up to the house. Dad’s still sitting where I left him. I grab the pinhole, place my hand over the aperture hole and take it upstairs to my bedroom. I close the shutter once I’m upstairs.
    A few minutes later, I walk back downstairs to get a snack. I wave at Stuart again. This time he waves back. Dad goes back to looking at the TV. He’s not smiling. He’s not really anything. Like a quiet ghost in the house. Strange from a man who had such a big personality when he was well. It’s like he’s already gone now. I don’t fault him for this. Hell, if I’d gone through almost two years of brutal surgeries and horrible chemotherapies that barely shrunk my tumors, I’d want to be gone too. But I still miss him. And then sometimes I don’t. It’s complicated. He's a retired Marine Corps officer. I'm a woo woo artist. Yeah. Often I feel like I don’t know him at all or he, me. We’ve both tried, but we still don’t get each other. Never really have. It makes sad and a little angry. Mostly it just make me really really sad. You kind of missed out on getting to know your only son, Dad, by having unreasonable expectations of me being just like you.
    I walk back up stairs to my room, stow the pinhole camera away in its bag, and go to bed for the night. This is going to be a hard week.

    [That week, the doctors didn’t even attempt the super-experimental cancer procedure they had planned. They opened up Dad’s chest and found he was full of cancer. It was too late. That was one horrible day. Mom cried. I cried. Dad, to his credit, tried to put on a good face, cracking a few jokes, but he knew. 
    I privately asked the oncologist just how long Dad had. He resisted telling me any estimate. I told him I’m not going to hold him to it. The doctor relented and said, “Three to six months.” Almost exactly 6 months later, Dad died on Labor Day night, with his wife Mary lying beside him. "It was so peaceful," Mom said at the time. We buried him at St. Mary's Whitechapel Episcopal Church on the next Saturday, two days before the world completely changed on 9/11.]

Dad as a young Marine. Photograph probably taken by his mother, Mama Lillie.

Infrared photograph taken of my father in the Spring of 2001 by me.

Step Zero: The Special Illustrated Edition for free, right here.

Right here, a free pdf download of my novel Step Zero: The Special Illustrated Edition.

Yep, I'm giving shit away.

Sometimes I have to do that for people to buy my other work, but in this case, I just want people to have this. I worked hard on this, and I think this is a pretty good book. Plus the hardbound book is way too expensive for most people to buy, and the paperback Step Zero edition doesn't have the groovy graphic pen images in it.

So here you are. All 688 pages of images and words. Hope you dig the book.

P.S. This is a hard R-rated book, with drug use, graphic sex and brutal murder. Just so you know. It also has sweet songs, funny lines and touching relationships. It's not all rough, but parts of it are.

Love y'all.

Stu.

Again, here's the free pdf download of the illustrated Step Zero novel.

 

The Extended Family Series wall pieces are now for sale! (Shipping cost included in the prices of all the art work)

“Vollis Simpson, Red Oak, North Carolina”, 63 inches tall. © Stu Jenks 2021

The Extended Family Series wall pieces are now for sale!

Shipping is included in the sale price of all art work. I know they are pricey, but due to the odd shape of the boxes, shipping is expensive.

All pieces are signed, dated and titled. Some can be used as walking sticks but most are wall pieces that can be easily hung from a wall. These art pieces represents people who are important to me: traditional extended family members, close and not-so-close friends, and people I love and admire, both living and dead, fictional and real.

Just scroll through my site to see the work, or go to the Categories listed off to the left. Look for the group entitled 'Extended Family Series.'

I really want this work to find homes. I also hope to show these pieces in galleries and museums in the future, but that's up in the air right now, due to COVID and such. Mostly I want to sell and mail these to good people who will be happy to have them hanging in their homes.

In this post, I've put up a small sampling of the work. I've produced over a 100 of these guys. This is just to give you a taste.

Thanks, y'all, for your love and financial support. I appreciate you more than you know. You help put gas in my truck, food on our table and a roof over our heads. You really do.

And you also put a smile on my face. That ain't nothing either.

Love and light, Stu.

Detail of “Gandalf, Hornbeam Wood, North Carolina” 61 inches tall, (c) Stu Jenks 2018.

 

 

“Frederick Douglass, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” 86 inches tall, © Stu Jenks 2020

 

 

“Stacey Abrams, Hornbeam Wood, Virginia-North Carolina State Line” 57 inches tall, (c) Stu Jenks 2021

 

 

“Legs For Days (Alexa Jenks), Aspen Wood, Arizona” 58 inches tall” © Stu Jenks 2020

 

“Norman Smith, Saguaro Ribs, Arizona” (c) Stu Jenks 2019

 

“Amanda Gorman, Beech Wood, North Carolina” 56 inches tall. (c) Stu Jenks 2021

 

“Gay Smith, Aspen Wood, Arizona” 59 inches tall. © Stu Jenks 2020

 

“Abraham Lincoln, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” 48 inches tall, © Stu Jenks 2020

 

 

“Dennis The Homeless Man, Desert Agave, Arizona” 59 inches tall. © Stu Jenks 2019

 

 

“Malcolm X, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” © Stu Jenks 2020, 54 inches tall.

 

 

“Galadriel/Cate Blanchett, Tulip Poplar, Virginia” © Stu Jenks 2021, 66 inches tall.

 

 

“Dean Smith, Ash Wood, North Carolina” © Stu Jenks 2021, 39 inches tall.

 

“Dad, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” © Stu Jenks 2021 [Extended Family Series]

“Dad, Saguaro Rib, Arizona” © Stu Jenks 2021, 54 inches tall.

Price: $195, shipping included in the price. Simply contact me via my email address at [email protected] or Facebook message me, if you would like to purchase one of my pieces. Payments can be made with Paypal, Venmo or credit card with Square. All pieces are signed with its title, and can be hung from the wall. Love y'all, Stu. (This piece is no longer for sale)

"Dad at Ed-Lil, Virginia"

My father in 1999, during happier times. Photo taken by me using a 35mm Pentax, loaded with Ilford SFX 200 black and white film.

 

So here's the good, the bad, and the ugly about Stuart C. Jenks Sr., at least how I see it at the end of April, 2021. I have a lot to say. And I might change my feelings about some of this at a later date, so take this post with a container full of salt. Here goes.

 

Dad's been dead almost 20 years now, dying in September of 2001. We had a complicated relationship which took me a couple of years of therapy and a couple of decades of recovery to be OK with. Mostly OK with.

Dad didn't want to have children, didn't like having kids. He made that clear often when I was young. He felt obligated to reproduce the species he said, and he did enjoy having sex with my mother, so said Mary when she lost most of her boundaries when she was dying of dementia. Pamela and I knew he didn't like kids. He barely talked to us. Mostly just gave us harsh looks. That hurt both of us a lot knowing that. Me? I moved through most of the pain after a time. A long time. Lot of work. Pamela? She carried that bloody wound throughout her entire life, trying to drink it away and never fully succeeding. She died bitter.

Dad was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps, fighting in Okinawa in WWII and stationed in Japan during the Korean War. His only son, me, was a conceptual artist and sculptor at UNC-Chapel Hill in the 1970's, a young man who felt things deeply and voted Democratic since he was 18. Dad voted for Richard Nixon in 1960, 1968, and 1972. Two of the few things we had in common was we both liked NASCAR auto racing and we both found his wife, my mother, irritating.

But Dad did share a love of 12 Step Fellowships, his brother Edgar Jr. having gotten sober in AA. Dad would come with me to my Sunday Morning Cocaine Anonymous meeting when he would visit Tucson, mostly to get out of going to church with Mom, but also because he liked colorful people. CA and AA have colorful people in spades. 

To his credit, Dad had some form of epiphany when I was in college and started telling me that he loved me when we would see each other. I think Dad figured out that he hadn't paid much attention to me in my first 20 years of life and maybe he should start.

He tried to be a good father. Still wasn't very great at it but he tried.

We worked to get along, but we never completely bridged the gap. Dad was intrinsically judgmental and silently angry a lot of the time and even as an adult, he scared me. I think if he was alive today, that would make him sad to hear me say that. But it's true. Mom and Pamela were scared of him too.

However I am my father's son in a number of ways. Both he and I are creative people. He was a good photographer and so am I. Dad knew how to tell a story, as do I, and Dad really liked people. Me too.

However, in other ways, we were very different. I believe Dad felt trapped in his marriage with Mom, him being too cheap to divorce her. I love my wife Alexa and am happily choosing to spending the rest of my life with her.

Dad was not generous with his cash. I am, perhaps to a fault. Got my generosity from my mother. And Dad would on occasion say something extremely racist. "Son, you're spending money like a n----r on a Saturday night." In my 40's, I would ask him to not say the N word around me. The best I got was, "Well, Stu, I know you hate it when I say this, but you are spending money like a n----r on a Saturday night." Yeah.

On the other hand, I can see me through his eyes too. He wanted a tough guy for a son. He got a sensitive artist-type who cried easily and felt the pains of the world. He felt saddled with two children, one of those kids, my sister Pamela, had no boundaries, was loud and impolite, and started saying the word 'fuck' at age 17 and never stopped. He really hated that. He might have loved Mom but I don't think he liked her very much. I don't think he was really that happy, but I could be wrong. He could have just been a jerk, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Yep, I cut Dad a ton of slack nowadays, even though it may not sound like I do. He didn't want kids but I'm glad he had sex with Mom so that I'm here. He did pay for my college education. That ain't nothing. And he was supportive and proud that I got sober and stayed sober. He wouldn't admit it but he was scared that he would, at some point before I got clean, get a late night phone call saying that I was dead.

There is an old saying in recovery, that we should look for the paradoxes. Two contradictory ideas when put together often show a greater truth and a pathway to wellness.

He's one. "My Dad did the very best he could with the tools he had, and he did a shitty fucking job being a father." And with me holding those two opposing thoughts in my head, I feel a greater compassion for Dad. It's weird but I do.

One last sweet story about Dad.

After he died I felt his presence often. He was kind, generous, happy, forgiving, and encouraging me to spend money on my art business. At one point I said to the spirit off to my left “Who is this guy?“ I had a chat with Dad’s ghost at one point saying “I need you to go away for a little bit because I’m still mad about what are used to be like when he were alive. But don’t worry, I’ll call you back.” 

He went away as I asked and I called him back in a couple of weeks. He was sweet and kind as ever. I got used to it. After a year or so, I didn't feel him around anymore. Maybe he had Angel Ghost work to do.

Dad's ghostly presence reminded me that underneath all of our failings and crap is pure light, pure love, and joy. That’s how all of us are in our soul of souls, don't you think?  If we choose the light, the love, the joy as we live our lives. As the old Todd Rundgren song says, love is the answer. It really is.

I miss you Dad. I wish you had met Alexa. You would have liked her a lot. A lot a lot.

I'll see ya when I see ya. Love ya Dad.

"Stu & Stuart Sleeping, Virginia" Photograph taken by me, using a cardboard pinhole camera, loaded with Ilford HP5 400 ISO film. The camera was given to me by Mom and Dad for Christmas, a couple years before. Exposure time: 90 minutes or thereabouts. Photo taken a few days before my father's death from cancer in 2001. 

#stuartjenks, #stujenks, #extendedfamilyseries.

“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

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. 

 

The Colorado River School by Stu Jenks.

"The Ghost, Navajo Rez, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

The Colorado River School by Stu Jenks (c) July, 2020.

Pictorialist photography was a turn-of-the-20th-century movement where some photographers wanted to be in more museums, to be taken more seriously, and to be seen as artists in and of themselves, up there with painters, sculptors, printmakers, etc., using very soft focus and adding colors to the black and whites to express emotion and mood. It was a thing for a while.

It was a thing for a while with me too, using an old Brownie camera with a softening plastic lens in the early 2000's, printing black and white negs on color paper. Also in the 2010's, I used a painterly add-on in my Photoshop to make images look old and painterly.

And a week ago while hiking in the Sierra Anchas Mountains, it became a thing again, with my SLR and my killer 70-200mm lens. I saw, in my mind's eye, images with soft focus and exaggerated colors, not razor sharp but dreamy like those old Brownies of mine. Lucking I remembered a thing I can do in the RAW image section of Photoshop to make this happen. And a couple of other tricks I have too.

Three days ago, I was up at the Grand Canyon shooting stock. Again, in my mind's eye, looking into that great big hole in the ground I imagined a softer image, with lots of color that wasn't there, lots of feeling that wasn't in my initial gaze, a mystery I would like to see outside of my head and away from the Canyon.

And I thought of the Hudson River School.

That was a nineteenth-century movement in American painting that featured the landscape as a pastoral setting, a place where man and nature lived in harmony. It was a fantasy, but a nice dream, using extreme colors and fine composition to create a mood of peace. Thomas Cole is seen as its founder but other painters like Frederic Church, Albert Bierstadt, Asher Durand, and Susie Barstow were also prominent. Cole's work at the National Gallery in Washington has moved me often in my journeys there, particularly his Voyage of Life. These artists were not plein air artists, painting outdoors, using nature as a firm template. They mixed and matched ideas, creating landscapes out of whole cloth, taking a little of this mountain and a little of that river, then maybe throwing in a house or a human. They were not painting what was exactly in front of them. They were trying to make a point but also trying to make magic. When I've seen these enormous canvases in real life, they've awed me, made me speechless, which for those of you know know me, is not any easy thing to do.

So staring at the Grand Canyon, I saw a loose template for me to create something emotional, soft, colorful and new, or at least new to me.

[Art Critique: I looked up Hudson River School of Photography on the internet and found a group of dudes. Bros really. They were taking their landscape shots, sharpening the shit of them with HDR and who knows fucking what and they all seemed very proud of themselves. That's a bit unfair, and for those of you photogs who see yourself in this artistic vane and are humble about it I apologize. But these guys really like what they are doing, which is nothing new or meaning at all in my eyes. Sharp as a razor images with slighted popped color and no soul. BFD. You see this a lot in photography these days. Bottom line: This ain't Hudson River School. This is Bro River School. End of critique.]

However...

I like the idea of the true old intention of the Hudson River School (and if you ain't got intention in your art making, you ain't making art. Sorry bro.) But I can't use Hudson River School in the names of my photographs because of these guys. So I thought Santa Cruz River School, named after the mostly-dry river in Tucson. Nah. Don't feel right.

Then I remembered what I thought at the Canyon. I was standing, shooting and praying at Lipan Point, one of my most powerful spiritual and artistic spots on the planet, which I've visited dozens of times over the decades. I looked down at the Colorado River as it made the big turn, coming down from the north then flowing west and I thought, "Colorado River School. I like that. But it's a bit pretentious."

Two days later, I got over that. It's a nice name.

Colorado River School it is.

So off we go. Hope you dig the magic I'm trying to make here. Often times I fail, but from time to time, it works.

One thing I learned in Art School at Carolina from Mike Cindric is we need to keep making stuff, throwing pots, making sculpture, painting paintings, shooting photographs, weaving tapestries, writing books, singing songs, etc.. Keep at it. Don't stop. If you're going to be a successful artist, you make stuff everyday. It's the job. A good job emotionally and spiritually, perhaps financially not so much at times, but it's good work. Really good work. And from the work comes results. Just like from any other kind of committed effort. Eventually you make The Good Shit.

When in art critiques at Carolina, when I made something that was successful, Cindric and the other students would say, "It works."

True in 1977. True in 2020.

I pray these pieces work too. Sometimes they will. Sometimes they won't. But I'll keep making the stuff. Everyday.

And hoping to make for The Good Shit.

 

 

"Lipan Point, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"The Colorado River, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"The Kaibab Trail, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"Vishnu Temple, Grand Canyon, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"Montezuma Pass, Arizona/Sonora, USA/Mexico Border: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

"Sierra Ancha Mountains, Arizona: Colorado River School" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

 

 

Images from the time of the Coronavirus

Been a little behind on getting recent images up on my website, with my pending prostate surgery pre-op stuff, my recent employment and money challenges due to the Coronavirus, and I'm missing the living crap out of my wife too, but that's no excuse really. I just haven't made the time to upload until now.

So on this Easter Sunday, here are some images from the past few weeks. And as always, prints and images rights are for sale.

Much love to you all. Stay home, stay safe and be well.

Love, Stu.

"Red-Tailed Hawk & The Full Moon, Oracle, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Abandoned Factory, Hiatt & South Lindell Street, Greensboro, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Green Doors, Lowell, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Abandoned Shell Station, Lowell, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Beware The Ides Of March Spiral, Tohono O'Odham Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"The Sun & The Moon Pictograph, Cochise Stronghold, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Manzanita Flowers, Cochise Stronghold, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Tehachapi Loop. California (New Version)" (c) Stu Jenks 2020.

"Two Billion Year Old Rocks, Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona (New Version)" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"December Lightning, Road to Sonoita, Arizona (New Version)" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"A White Sycamore Tree From Above, Cathy's Fault, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"The Virgin Mary, The Church Of The Immaculate Conception, Nogales, Sonora, Mexico" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"St. Barnabas, Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, Greensboro, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"The Road To Magdelena, Sonora, Mexico (New Version)" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"A Grave Decorated In The Topowa Cemetery, Tohono O'Odham Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Topowa Crosses, Tohono O'Odham Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"A Milagro On A Wooden Cross On The Old Sonoita Highway, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Norman Smith, Saguaro Ribs, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

This wall piece and other walking-stick-inspired pieces are part of an ongoing series called 'The Extended Family'. Along with these sculptures, I have more traditional walking sticks for sale for $80, made from aspen, saguaro, agave and other natural materials. Just send me a email and I can shoot you some jpegs of what is currently in stock. And I will ship.

"Abandoned Ranch Building, Tohono O'Odham Reservation, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.