Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press

American Democracy (1965-2022)

"The 41 Nights, Red Cedar, North Carolina (part of the American Democracy 1965-2022 series)" (c) 2022 Stu Jenks. Price upon request. 

I dislike long artistic vision statement. In my mind they all should be less than a page long, but this bit of writing is longer than I like. However I have a lot to say. 

Fun fact: This piece is named after a catastrophe that occurred in my Step Zero novels. I love looking at it in my backyard. If you want to buy it, let me know.

Here's my vision statement regarding my American Democracy (1965-2022) series. 

The Vision Statement for the series,
American Democracy (1965-2022)
August 20th, 2022

    Since the rise of Trump, many people have shied away from using words like ‘Fascist’, ‘Autocracy’ and ‘Theocracy’, myself included.
    Not anymore.
    We’ve only had a true democracy since 1965, with the passing of the Civil Right Act.
    We lost our democracy for good, with the overturning of Roe in June of 2022.
    American Democracy (1965-2022).
    Rest in peace, buckaroo.
    We only have two political parties now. The Democrats, made up of liberal and moderate Democrats, Independents and wayward Republicans, and The Republican Party. inhabited by grifters, bullies, racists, fascists, theocrats and wannabe dictators. That’s it. The Republican Party of my father is no more.
    It’s not only because of Trump and his minions. Trump was just the most recent permission slip to behave badly in public. For the entire history of The United States, a good 1/3 of the men have been anti-democratic assholes. They want what they want when they want it. They see women at best as necessary objects in their lives and at worse, property that they can do with as they wish. They don’t care about majority rule and rights and privileges of a working democracy. They just want to make as much money as they can, acquire as much power as they can, and have as few people get in their way as possible. They believe in a God, but it’s an Old Testament God, spiteful, hurtful, down right mean. They are not true Christians who believe God is Love. They are weird cherry-pickers from the Old Testament, to justify their greed, their hurtful righteousness, and their power over others.
    They are assholes, a neglected diagnosis in the DSM-5, if you ask me. Most are men, but there are some women in their ranks.
    So what can I do?
    Not much. Continue to vote Democrat in every election, even for candidates that we barely agree with on policies. Some Democrats are hypocrites, just wanting power and position too, but at least they aren’t fascists. At least they aren’t theocrats. We will hold our noses and vote D.
    And we can talk about what’s happening. Make art about it. Make songs about it. Shake my fists at it.
    But that’s about it.
    Making these sculptures, these fractured pieces of wood, symbolizing the brokenness of my country, helps me a little. Just a little. I enjoy the process of finding, molding, sanding and oiling this wood. I love the smooth feel of their surfaces, as I stroke those that hang from my studio walls. I love sharing them with others, selling some, giving many away.
    But does it change politics, policies and the majorly-fucked-up-country I live in?
    Nope. Nada. No.
    But will all do what we can, don’t we? I try to be kind to all, but frankly, I’ve had enough. If a stranger comes up to me and starts talking some ridiculous mendacious fascist bullshit, he or she is going to get an earful. I’ll be civil in my tone but I done being quiet.
    Sorry I didn’t bring the funny today. My sense of humor is still here. It’s just under a profound fear that the American Dream that I was born into is quickly slipping away, and I’m pissed off and scared about it all.
    But don’t worry. Self-deprecating humor will return. I promise.
    However.
    American Democracy (1965-2022)
    Life in wartime, baby.

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.

"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.

 

Images from the Winter of 2020.

"Shiprock Infrared, New Mexico" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks [Shot with real live Ilford Infrared film, using my medium format Rollei]

"Saguaro At Sunset, Gate's Pass, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [Taken from high above.]

"Pilot Mountain In Fog, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [It's not special that Pilot is in fog. Happens all the time. But it's special to me. I'm new to this land.]

"Cottonwood Trees, Near Dudleyville, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [Something about the whiteness of these trees.]

"South of Solstice Rock, Santa Catalina Mountains, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [Taken just after I did my annual solstice prayers.]

"God's Eye Tree (Red Oak), McCorkle Place, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Where we kissed, by an ancient stone wall on the Virginia/North Carolina Line," (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Four Trees, Happy Jack, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Peter the Sexton, at the Church of the Immaculate Conception, Nogales, Sonora, Mexico" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. (Peter led me upstairs, a few years ago, to help me shoot the photograph of the Virgin Mary that he holds in his hands. I brought him a print of Mary as a thank you, a couple of weeks ago. A very sweet man. A true man of God.)

"Christ at Bethesda (Detail), by Jean Restout, Ackland Art Museum, Chapel Hill, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Walk With Light, Franklin Street, Chapel Hill, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. (Brett Deal, what you said was true back in 1979.)

"A Trailer Fire, Winkleman, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [Shit happens, sometimes in a very quick and awful way.]

"Wasp Nest and Christmas Ball, The Jenks Residence, Greensboro, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks. [Mark, from across the way, convinced me to not knock down this nest. Glad he did. It's a beautiful structure]

"Handmade Christmas Ball, The Jenks Residence, Greensboro, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Stronghold Dream, Cochise's Stronghold, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Lipan Point, Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Pamela's Baby Rocking Chair, Elk Tracks In Snow, Coconino County, Arizona" (c) 2020 Stu Jenks.

"Happy To Be Hiking With My Wife, Uwharrie National Forest, North Carolina" (c) 2020 Alexa and Stu Jenks. [I'm typing this on January 22nd, 2020 in Tucson, Arizona. Alexa is in Greensboro, North Carolina. I'm here. I miss her madly. The good news is she misses me terribly too. True love is a wonderful thing, a precious thing, but sometimes it hurts like hell.]

 

Fezziwig Press' 2018 Premium Fine Art 13" x 19" Print Sale

It's Summer and time for a print sale. All images in this post are 13" x 19" premium fine art prints, printed on archival papers using archival inks, signed and printed by me. If left out of direct sunlight, these prints will not fade for at least 100 to 200 years. $125.00, shipping included. (Retail through my art reps would be $250.00 and above per print.) Click on this link to go to my online store to order your prints.

Many more images are for sale than are shown in this post. These are just the ones that are bagged and boarded for immediate sale. Contact me via email if you are interested in other prints from my portfolio.

Thanks for your continued support of my work. Your purchases help keep me alive and well. Thank you.

Stu.

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.

Dear President Barack Obama, and First Lady Michelle Obama...

Below is a cover letter I sent to The White House with a handbound copy of my new book Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service. Some of you will like this. Some of you will think I'm naive. Some of you will hate this letter. Do me a favor. Keep your negative internet opinions to yourself. I'm a sensitive soul who hurts easily, and when I get hurt, I get mad or sad. I'd prefer to just feel happy about sending a nice note to a President I voted for twice. If you want to talk politics with me in person or on the phone, great, but don't type shit to me, all right? All right. Enjoy the letter. Or not.

Dear President Barack Obama, and First Lady Michelle Obama and First Daughters Sasha and Malia Obama,

Enclosed is the fourth book in my Step Zero series in which I write about The United States in the years 2079-2080. In this and in previous books, I created a fictional character named Sasha Obama Fulbright. I’m simply honoring the good work you and Michelle have done for our country, by making that character, a tough, sweet, elder, female President who has helped America also return from very tough times. I’m not crazy nor dangerous or anything. I’m just a writer and an artist with a good imagination. Hope you like the book.

Thanks again for the thank-you note and the lovely photo of you all and the girls, that you sent a few years back when you received the first book. (By the way, Mr. President, you make a brief appearance in the first book, Step Zero, as a loving ghost. Just saying.) The photo and note are framed in my house and are one of my most priced possessions.

Maybe in 2017 you might be able to read this book, after you leave office, but it’s not a big thing if you don’t. What is a big thing is the true and loyal service you have given to our country. I too believe, like you, that change is incremental, that justice and progress often happen slowly. But you have done much, Mister President, to kick the can of American Goodness down the road. Thank you for that.

I’ll miss you a lot, Barack, come January. I think Hillary will be a fine President, but frankly, she can’t tell a joke as well as you. She just doesn’t have your timing.

Much love and thanks again for all you have done.

Sincerely,

 

Stu Jenks
P.O.Box 161
Tucson, Arizona 85702
[email protected]

 

All photos by Stu Jenks (c) 2016. Top photo is a kaleidoscope image taken in front of The White House. Bottom photo was taken off my TV of the President crying after another mass shooting, in which children were killed. Again.

Book design of Victor Mothershead: U.S. Secret Service by Gail Cross of Desert Isle Designs in Mesa, Arizona.

"Ed-Lil"

 

"Ed-Lil, Along The Rappahannock River, Virginia (c) 2002; modified print version, 2016 Stu Jenks.

(From the hardbound book and e-book, Flame Spirals: Journey Through Nocturnal Photography)

 

Spring: 2002.
Dad's been dead nine months. Mom has to sell the river house so she can invest the cash and survive on the interest. Dad didn't leave Mom enough money to live on. Dad didn't believe in life insurance.

People loved my father, for he had the public persona of a funny, happy-go-lucky, smart, old Southern man. But his private face was darker. At home, he was a cynical loner who feared poverty and preferred his own company to that of his family.

But oddly, all that doesn’t seem to matter now, the man he was when he was alive, for I can feel him around me. I can call him to me, simply by saying his name. He seems to be this pure good soul now: loving, tender, accepting, and kind. I feel he actually likes me today. (And whether I'm making it up in my own head or Ghost Dad is really hovering around, the kind energy of my father is nice to be around.)

Months ago, I had to send Dad away for a week because the new-glowing-light-Dad was interfering with my grieving process of the newly-dead-Dad. I needed to be mad at my father for a while, but when God’s-Light-Bulb-Dad was around, I couldn’t feel that feeling and then let it go. But I called him back after awhile, after I released that rage. Unlike the living Stuart, Ghost Dad understood completely.

When I'm worried about money and going further into debt around my failing art photography business, I hear him softly say, "Don't worry, son. The money will come, and if it doesn't, it doesn't matter. You have the love of your friends, the love of your Art, the love of us." Other times, when I'm filled with self-doubt and internal hatefulness, I hear him whisper off my left shoulder, "I love you just the way you are, Son. You don’t need to change a thing." A month ago, when Ghost Dad was saying another ethereal message of Love, I actually said out loud, "Who is this guy?”

A little about Ed-Lil, The Jenks’ ancestral summer home on the Rappahannock River, which Mom is selling:

It was bought by Papa Edgar Jenks, my grandfather, in the 1920’s from Johnny Mothershead. It consisted of a two story house with five bedrooms and a bath, and a smaller one story house that had the kitchen, the dining room and a tool shed. My father deeply loved the Rappahannock River, the Ed-Lil house, and the people who lived along its banks. Loved them since he was a teenager.

Every August, Mom, Dad, Pamela and I would come to the river for two or three weeks. I hated the river as a kid. Hated the mosquitoes, the fleas, the stinging jellyfish but mostly I hated being around my parents. They were so judgmental, so critical, so volatile in bullshit ways. I couldn’t wait to get back to Raleigh and back to school in September. But then, 25 years ago, I started coming here because I wanted to, not because I had to. I always had a car, so I could come and go as I pleased, if things got too dark.

After Dad retired from IBM in mid 80's, he built himself and Mom a modest three bedroom house next to the old houses. He then tore down the bedroom house and the kitchen and left the old dining room as his workshop. The dining room/tool shed was and is gorgeous, with its ancient tongue-in-groove wood walls, the rusting gas fixtures from the 1920’s that still hang from the ceiling, and the tattered and stained white lace curtains that haven’t been washed since the Eisenhower Administration. The new smell of gasoline is added to the mix, that comes from the riding lawn mower that’s parked on the shed’s stained hardwood floors. An old map of Richmond County is pinned to the wall. It’s been crudely attached there since before I was born. Change is good sometimes, but consistency and tradition are beautiful, too, if they are humble. That is one humble map. This is one humble room.

I'm standing in the old dining room this afternoon, with the lace and the tongue in groove and the old map on the wall. A big rain is coming. Spirit Dad is here, but I sure wish Old Living Stuart were here right now. Dad and I so loved watching big storms cross the river.

The window facing the river looks great. So would a flame spiral next to it. Wonder if I can pull it off. It’ll have to be a short exposure, maybe ten seconds. I put all the red filters I have on the lens of my Rollei and hope for the best.

I open the window, get out the Zippo and wait for the storm.

A line of rain crosses the seven-mile width of the river. The river slowly goes away, replaced by a dark gray of big rain. Halfway across the river now. Just a mile away. Almost here. Now it’s here. The storm is here.

Thunder crackles in the corn fields behind me. Lightning highlights the lace curtains. Heavy dense rain blows in through the open window. The river completely disappears.

I open the Rollei’s shutter and ignite the Zippo. I paint a spiral to the left of the window. I close the shutter after ten seconds. I do this a few times.

Then suddenly, in between exposures, a small gray finch flies through the open window. Confused and wet, it lands on the lens of my camera. We stare at each other. He's scared, fidgety and soaked to the bone. My first thought is, “Don't shit on the lens. Please don’t shit on my camera.” The bird's first thought is probably something like, “Where the hell am I? How did I get in here, and who is that guy?” He stays perched on my camera for at least a minute. We continue to look at each other. I don’t care about bird shit anymore. I just care for the little bird.

 

Suddenly he flies off the camera, but now, poor thing, he can’t find the open window. He’s feverishly flying around the dining room. I quickly grab a broom. I open the ancient screen door and prop it open with an old gas can. The finch is banging itself on the ceiling of the room, completely frantic now. I gently put the straw broom head on the ceiling and usher the bird to the door. He see the open door and streaks out into the pouring rain. Success for both of us.

I go back and paint another Zippo spiral, this one for the bird. The exposure feels right. I call it a day. I put the lens cap on the camera and sit in an old chair now, looking at a large puddle of water forming under the old cedar tree out front.

I love the River now. I'm going to miss it. But you got to do what you got to do. Mom needs money to survive, and she really doesn’t like living this far away from civilization anyway. She only came here because Stuart came here to live. Now, he’s gone. Now, it’s time for her to live where she wants, for her to have her own life now.

She’ll be soon living in a cute little house next door to the organist from church. Glen’s his name. He’s a wonderful guy. I'm hopeful. For all of us.



To buy "Balthazar & Zeeba", "A Rolodex of Haikus" and other books directly from me, click on the big blue button below.

Stu Jenks' Fezziwig Press