Too Much Information

Mary Addison's recent post allowed me to submit this:

It hasn't been a shark attack. I didn't even have to cut off my own arm with a Letherman. My story has been a slog of weighted decisions and accumulative discomforts. Between you and me, I'm weary of hearing my own tale. I've tried to keep it brief and truthful but my soundbite needs an out-of-body experience or something.

http://pdxcontemporaryart.com/

There is a facebook group called No colon and still rollin'. I can't imagine joining it. For one thing, my ileostomy is temporary and second of all the discussions are too utilitarian for my taste. I want to warn people about the dangers of wrastlin' with their dogs while sportin' a pouch. Dr. Boo stripped my pouch from my body in a glorious rearing-stallion-style that certainly comes from the prancy poodle side of his family. I don't need to get involved in some back-and-forth about diet or clothing.

The Slog is the enemy.

Three weeks ago, I traveled 300 miles to Portland for 30 minutes of follow-up face time with a surgeon. I spent the rest of my visit pokin' around some galleries. The previous day was Monday so all the galleries were closed. Portland's TriMet is really great, but I was feeling The Slog and decided to stay close to my hotel. But even The Slog was no match for hotel cable.

http://www.chambersgallery.com/

I left the hotel room because I had had my fill of "Cash Cab". Funny thing is Cash Cab is what was silently flashing on the screen at Pappy's. Three in the afternoon on a torrential Portland Monday. Pappy's was once a diner. Behind the horseshoe bar a mildly tweakin' barkeep attended to the needs of five regulars. She'd left the building to have a smoke after checking to make sure we were all "ok for a minute." It actually took her 2.5 minutes to finish her cigarette in the rain. Her feet shuffling in unison with her nervous glances inside. I was so glad that she was out there. The ceilings were so low and the acoustic tiles were glazed with honey or nicotine. On the far wall was a wood paneled "Smokeeter". (Has that company been put out of business?) More regulars trickled in and I began to lose interest in romanticising Pappy's. Before I returned to the hotel, I paid for my beers and french fries with 5o dollars I won from the video lottery machines.

http://www.buttersgallery.com/

The next morning, after I blinked at the surgeon, I did the first thing any isolated Southern Oregon bon vivant would do, I found the nearest Phở dealer. Once my epicurean dreams had been fulfilled, I began sauntering amongst the galleries. All of the galleries were in some stage of installation for their upcoming openings.

http://www.chambersgallery.com/

That was three weeks ago. Currently, I am sitting in an overstuffed recliner with various solutions dripping into my system. I am trying to avoid lumping all the other patients in the room into one category. I'll be darned if I can't shake the impression that I am on that ship in Wall-E. I, for one, am trying to resist the television that is on a convenient and articulated arm that can easily swing in front of my face. Everyone else has their scorpion tail wrapping from around their recliner. Instead of a barb at the end, there is a flat screen. Half the people are unconcerned with their predicament because they are asleep. I promised myself I would begin work on an Artist's Statement while in my chair.

http://www.buttersgallery.com/

The paintings I saw in Portland all seemed so slick. Not slick in a (blank) way, but in a polished and shiny way. Do you remember my varnished surface days? Back when I was crafting a complex shtick around my early exposure to paintings which was entirely based on slides and glossy reproductions?

Superficial, back-lit, and yet seductive. Clearly my experience as a scenic artist contributed as well. To this day I am still enchanted with a good polished stone. Marble and granite are all organic wonderlands frozen in a machined perfection. Symbolic of wealth and taste.


I used to love disrupting that surface with a final palette knifed element. A matte eff-you to the slick gloss of snobbery.

Steven LaRose, The Whistle of an Arcadian Flute, 1995
Polyurethane and Acrylic on Wood, 18" x 24"

http://www.buttersgallery.com/

Natasha Kinski crashed through an acoustic tile and with an ebony scimitar lopped off the ends of the scorpion tails. The patients were all checking their translucent hoses to see if anything important had been severed, when Natasha took an elegant leap onto a stool with wheels and glided side saddle over to my recliner. It took all my will power to appear nonplussed. She took my face in her hands like she was gathering the jowls of a bloodhound. "Tell them about the craft" she cooed.

http://www.augengallery.com/