Nigel Doughty, Great Light Hunter

Alexander de Maubry

2 Trottingham Court

Hackbridge, Surrey

UK                                                                                                                                           12 July, '74                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

                                                                                                                                                                                         

Dearest Alex,

Forgive my haste but I must get to the meat of my story straightaway. It is starting to rain here and soon they will come for me. 

As you know, few things arouse my passion as does big game hunting. I have been called cold, even ruthless, by certain Club members but it could only be true passion that would pull me halfway round 

the globe to this damned red clay region. And that, old friend, would be the passion of the hunt!

I had been outsmarted in Shanghai and bloody careless in Benares, but by God, it would not happen here! I had hastened all the way to Georgia in America to hunt and slay the fierce Raisin Bagel.

To appreciate the challenge, one must first consider the catch. The Raisin Bagel, at first glance, appears like its close cousin, the Common Rye Bagel. They are the same size and texture and both are rather cinnamon-like in color. But there all similarity ends.

The Raisin is much more elusive, lurking in mucky places or hiding near larger game. You will recall, Alex, I bagged my first Raisin found cooling off with a herd of huge Bialys. Though small in stature, the Bagel is a born fighter and the Raisin especially can be ferocious when cornered. To approach one bare-handed is asking to be burned. Most chaps never get that close, however. Bagels can hear even small people in the next room and will quickly fade away. Stealth is called for. Stealth and a large helping of patience. The best rewards come to those who wait and it is true also with the wily Bagel. 

But I digress. Shortly after my diminutive man-servant, Seymour, and I arrived in Atlanta, we began hearing promising reports. Hikers had recently spotted a trail of caraway seeds in a suburban park. And later, people reported smelling onions and chives near an ethnic deli. It all sounded quite extraordinary and with rising excitement we hailed a cab and hurried to the area.

After scouting the lay of the land, Seymour and I began our own sleuthing expedition. With eyes wide open and following our noses, we slowly made our way through fen and forest. No garbage can or trash bin was left unchecked. Finally, by mid afternoon the trail had led us to a posh Georgian manor house nestled amongst Dogwood trees. Looking all about, we quickly deduced that no one was home. Seymour, alert as ever, noticed a side door ajar. Mind you, I’m not one to enter homes uninvited but dammit man, this was possibly my last chance to nab a Raisin Bagel. We snuck inside.

I motioned for Seymour to check the back side of the home for more clues. I parked myself behind a china cabinet in the hallway and waited and waited.  After an hour of that nonsense, I thought about chucking it all. Suddenly, trusty Seymour, rounded the corner quite out of breath. He had spotted fresh tracks on the terrace and there was still cream-cheese on them. We were closing in. Silently, we dropped to our bellies and inched our way down the hall to the parlor sofa. Crouching behind it, I ever so careful peeked round and nearly dropped my monocle. There on the dining room table, close by the preserves, sat the largest bag of Bagels I had ever seen. Heat shimmered off the brown expanse of paper. The aroma was quite overpowering. My heart pounded. Sweat rolled off me. Could it be possible! Might there be one or more Raisins nestled among the Garlics and Pumpernickels?

While relishing the possibility, I flashed on old Freddy Dinsmore, asleep by the fire back at the Gastronome Club. Freddy had hunted all his life; nothing could elude him for long. Fearless Freddy you called him. He was the only one of us to ever bring down the nocturnal Cheese Blintz. One night, in his cups, he confessed how he had lied, how one trophy had always eluded him. He had never bagged a Raisin Bagel. Now here was I with perhaps a whole bag of them not fifteen feet away. Poor old Freddy!

Enough! It was time for action. I motioned for Seymour to circle downwind the bag while I tried a ploy the natives sometimes use. On my signal, Seymour began whispering in Yiddish from behind the pantry door. Instantly, the bag seemed to move round in that direction, as if listening.

That was it! No time to dally! Go! In a wink I charged, knocking over a parlor chair in the process. Reaching the table's edge, I grabbed the still warm bag before any wee beastie could escape. Quickly glancing inside, I spotted a beautiful cinnamon Raisin hiding on the bottom. I raised my fork high and brought it down again and again!

Seymour entered the dining room smiling broadly. Then holding up our prize, I announced,  “What say old fella’ to some hot Bagel and a smear?”

Warmest regards,

Your devoted pal Nigel

Mr. Gaston Is Not In Today

Yesterday was the first day of my hoped for weekly “Day of No Thing”, twenty-four hours of self-imposed solitude. With the world pushing in on all sides and society making increasingly restrictive demands, a period of time-out became necessary, even longed for. Instead of giving in to commercial culture’s seductive demands, I allowed myself the luxury of not leaving the house all day except perhaps to enjoy a cup of tea in the back yard. 

Marked more by what I did not accomplish than what I did, I found myself with blessed very little to do. No yard work, no house work, no bill paying or cooking. No phone calls, instant messages, e-mails or texts. No lunch dates, neighbor visits, television, Facebook or even answering the door. In this state of suspended world engagement, showers, shaving and dental hygiene became unnecessary.

That is not to say I descended into stinky slothfulness because I continued to make my bed and wash the food bowl. And, of course, I attended to my two feline friends because not to do so would have marked me a cruel unfeeling oaf.

I read and wrote, drew and painted, listened to music and enjoyed the excellent pastime of staring into space. Joining the cats in an afternoon siesta did not cause the least bit of guilt.                          

In this blissful way, I passed the day in contentment with a full belly and rested brain. 

But oddly, by day’s end I had not physically recharged and lay exhausted like a beached whale. One could only conclude that some type of exercise is the fuel for physical stamina. Right then I decided that next week I will change my routine and add some exercise. I will pick up my socks or perhaps walk to the mail box.

The Time My Father Invented Air-Conditioning

My 2018 Captain Marvel 16 month calendar just informed me that today, June 21, is the first official day of summer. Yeah right! Those of us who live in the Sunbaked State know better. What we call summer first arrives in these parts with the buzz of Cicadas and the low hum of countless air-conditioning units. And that would be sometime in May, depending on how close you live to the Coast.

Sitting in the cool comfort of this climate controlled home, it’s hard to remember a time without the miracle of air-conditioning. But such a time indeed existed in the sweltering Florida summers of my youth.

We lived in an old rental house with few amenities and although public buildings and people of means enjoyed air-conditioning, we did not. Window-fans, wet towels and sweating were the methods we employed to make living a bit more tolerable. But sleeping in such hot and humid conditions became nigh impossible. Waking from nights of fitful sleep, I often discovered sheets and pillowcases as wet from sweat as I was. Something obviously had to be done.

That’s when my resourceful father decided to put his inventive abilities to good use. He was, after all, a drop-out from Rutgers University’s Correspondence School of Engineering. Looking around with keen eye and mind, he hit on an idea to use three things we already possessed; window-fans, water and an abundance of Spanish moss hanging from backyard trees.

As my sister and I watched in silent amusement, Dad affixed sturdy metal racks to the backs of each window-fan. Onto the racks he draped several layers of fresh Spanish moss after first removing any little bug critters lurking therein. Finally with everything in place, he let hoses trickle water down over the moss and turned on the fans.

To our amazement and perhaps also to Dad’s, the contraptions worked. Air that the fans sucked into the house was cooler by several degrees, just enough to make living more pleasant and sleeping more peaceful.

Dad’s cool invention never caught on but for a short time in 1956 his ‘air-conditioners’ were more important to us than the ones built by that other Florida inventor, John Gorrie.

A Christmas Gift

Last Friday for a large part of the day I got to hang out in the Imaging Center of Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa. I had come with a friend who was scheduled for two MRIs. Anticipating a long wait, I made sure to bring along plenty of snacks, some illustrator pens and a well-worn sketchbook.

The waiting area filled up quickly with mostly older couples who busied themselves reading, texting, watching tv and in one case knitting. Then a young Spanish family sitting in the corner caught my eye. A thirty something husband and wife with two children, I figured they were waiting on an older relative, perhaps their abuela.

I was surprised later when an assistant called the husband in for an MRI. And shortly after that my friend got called in for her own tests.

Faced with several hours of wait time, I settled in as best I could, took out my sketchbook and began to draw. It didn’t take long before the two children took notice. They stopped chattering, put down their I-pad and began staring at me. The longer I drew the more curious they became until presently, the brother, the bolder of the two, moved to a closer chair with his sister soon following.

As I continued drawing, their curiosity could not be contained. In order to get closer, they soon took seats directly across from me. I kept drawing for a while longer until growing hungry; I closed the sketchbook and decided to check out the Center café. The children’s smiles changed my mind and on a whim I held out the sketchbook to them.

“Would you like to see my drawings?”

“Oh yes!” answered the brother and he and his surprised sister thus began a delightful journey of discovery through a year’s worth of my sketches. When one or the other came upon a drawing they especially liked, the sketchbook was held up for their mother to see.

And with that unusual introduction all of our imposed reservations soon evaporated. The boy asked if I was an artist. Did I go to university? He told me that his mother’s brother painted pictures and he and his sister once took an art course back home in Puerto Rico.

By then I had become encouraged and started asking my own questions. What were their names? Were they visiting Florida on holiday? Had they gone to Disney World? The sister, Malaria, spoke little English so younger brother Gariel became translator for both of us.

They were refugees from Hurricane Maria and had come to Moffitt from the little town of Trenton west of Gainesville. Before that they stayed for a while in Ocala and before that Orlando. They liked Florida but were eager to go back home.

At that point, Malaria retrieved her I-pad and with new found courage began using the pad to ask questions.

“Do you draw the colors?” “Do also you paint the pictures?”

Through the genius of technology I showed this inquisitive girl my web site and videos. As image after image scrolled across the screen, Malaria and Gariel became more excited, pointing at their favorites and holding up the I-pad again for their mother to see. Now she too seemed more relaxed and after a while joined in the conversation. Finally I felt comfortable enough to ask a question that had been on my mind.

“Is your husband ok?”

She spoke at length to Gariel who then turned to me and repeated one word, “Tumor.” His mother pointed at her head and nodded when I asked, “Brain tumor?” In the most convincing voice I could muster, I told her that her husband was in the very best medical facility and not to worry, he would be fine.

The conversation trailed off after that and all of us sat in silence. When their father finished his MRI and returned, Malaria and Gariel were quick to show him my sketchbook, occasionally stopping to point at me.

As they turned the pages together, I marveled at how, for a short time, art had been able to bring strangers together. That refugee family had been through so much sadness yet I could see what a strong bond of love they had for each other. Would Malaria and Gariel still have their father’s guidance as they faced the difficult task of growing up? Would his wife have the privilege of growing old with her loved one by her side?

Their long ordeal over, the family gathered their belongings and prepared to leave. A sadness swept over me and I searched for comforting words to say before they drove back home. No words came.

As they filed past, Gariel handed me a candy cane and smiling, wished me a Merry Christmas. Malaria and their mother and father smiled and also wished me a Merry Christmas. And then they were gone.

Russell County Memories

In 1950 my grandfather passed away and for the first time in her long life, my grandmother found herself alone and needed our help in getting over the awful emptiness. So, my dad, looking for an excuse to escape summer’s heat, fired up the old Chevy and drove my mom, sister and I up to Virginia to stay with Grandmother Alice for what we thought would be a couple of months. My sister and I were sure we had been dropped down in a magical land of mist shrouded mountains, hollers and for five months of the year, snow. For us Florida flatlanders it proved to be a vacation wonderland.

‘A couple of months’ turned into a year, way too long for two young kids to lay about. Some adults decided we ought to continue our formal education and the schooling would take place at Finney School, the local seat of learning, just down the road from Grandmother’s place. Our vacation was officially over.

The faded old school was fascinating to us in its stark simplicity. Grades 1-6 were in one room and 7-12 in another one. The cavernous class rooms were heated by small fuel-oil stoves but the warmth never seemed to make it back to where I sat. With no running water or plumbing, trips to the water pump or outhouse were, especially in winter, acts of shivering courage.

With time on her hands and tired of staring at chickens, my mom signed up to be a substitute teacher in some of Russell County’s underserved areas. No teaching experience needed, just show up and manage to stay until 2 o’clock. Then one day someone didn’t show up and they asked Mom to sub at one of the most remote schools in the County, Possum Hollow School. She kept me out of school that day to go with her and I believe it was to teach me another kind of lesson.

Up a winding gravel road and wedged into a cleft sliced out of the mountain, Possum Hollow School made Finney School seem like a palace. Small, dark and cold, the school had seen much better days and I marveled that it somehow managed to stay upright. Mom and I sat alone for the longest time and she wondered out loud if students would show up at all.

But slowly children began to wander in one after the other until finally all eight desks were occupied and drawn close to the wood-burning stove. I saw no school bus or heard any cars delivering students and it dawned on me that these kids had walked all the way.

I don’t remember any of the schooling that took place but the lunchtime has stayed with me all these years later. I eagerly opened my brown paper bagged lunch and surveyed what my mother had prepared- a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple and a carton of milk. Just before laying into the sandwich, I glanced around to see what other students were eating.

Gathered around me were three of the saddest looking children I had ever seen. Two boys and a girl, perhaps brothers and sister, they were dressed in torn and faded clothes and in obvious need of basic hygiene. They stood staring at me, saying nothing and occasionally wiping their runny noses on tattered sleeves.

What in the world was wrong with those kids? Then I realized they were not staring at me but at my lunch. They did not have their own lunch boxes or brown paper bags and it hit me that the reason was because those three children had no lunches. Not one apple or piece of cornbread, nothing. At my young age, I had no clue why, but knew for certain I could not eat lunch while they ate nothing. I motioned for the three to come over and then divided the sandwich and apple into equal parts and gave it to them. With big smiles they wolfed down the offered food and finishing, turned and returned to their desks. I drank a carton of milk for lunch that day.

My visit to Possum Hollow School was the first time I ever witnessed poverty or even knew about poor folks. I never once thought about my grandmother or people in the valley being poor. I believed it was simply the way they lived. The gut-wrenching poverty of families like those in the hollers taught me a lesson I never forgot. Whenever possible, help a neighbor out.

  

The Target of Life

Before computer and electronic games took over, boys of a certain age wanted only three things; a bicycle, a baseball glove or a BB gun. I was that kid and when I turned nine my father gave me the gift for which I had long pestered him- a Daisy pump-action 50 shot BB gun. His simple hand- written card read, “Aim high at the target of life.”

For the first week I practiced on tin cans and bottles until one day I was drawn across the road to the abandoned orange grove. Maybe there would be some leftover oranges I could shoot.

About thirty yards from the nearest tree I noticed a rustling in the tall weeds and soon a covey of quail emerged. I doubted I could even shoot that far and without thinking raised the gun, sighted on the first quail and fired.

To my horror I hit it. The injured bird leapt into the air but fell heavily back to earth.  In a fit of pain, it ran in circles dragging its broken wing. Frightened and unsure what to do, I ran home and told my father.

I expected to be punished and perhaps have the gun taken away. Instead my father stopped work and sat down beside me on the couch. He told me the quail would never be the same again. Unable to fly, it would be easy prey for a hawk or a cat. “You need to go back and put that bird out of its misery.”

I ran from the house filled with anger and dismay. How could he say such a thing. Pacing back and forth in the yard, it finally dawned on me, I had no other choice. My anger now replaced by a gnawing dread, I picked up the gun and walked back to the orange grove.

I prayed the quail was only dazed and had flown away. Or maybe it was already dead. Either event would have let me off the hook. But no such luck. Nearing the orange tree, I saw that it was still there, sitting quietly in the green shadows.

At my approach, the quail roused itself, ran a short distance and stopped. It could not fly, that much was clear, but it was also very much alive. If I were to get a good shot, I would have to chase the bird down. And so I did, running through the orange grove after the quail, pumping the BB gun and firing away. In any other situation, it would have been a comical sight. But there in that moment, I felt like a bumbling shameful boy.

After a half-dozen or so wild shots, I saw that some had hit home. The quail slowed considerably and once more began running in circles. This time I was able to come quite close to the injured bird. I pumped and fired again and again, now hitting it with every shot.

But the quail would not die and could only flop about on the ground. I felt utterly alone and helpless. In such an agitated state, I remembered the big game hunter’s advice, “Always aim for the head." But with the bird’s flopping around, I knew that would be impossible.

I had to find a way to hold the quail still. The poor creature, now oblivious to me, came quite close. In a rush, I knew what had to be done. Quickly I placed my foot on its quivering body, took aim and fired. And with tears streaming down my face, I fired again and again until the quail no longer moved.

Then I turned, walked out of the grove and back to the house where my father waited. Without a word, I crossed the living room to the hall closet and placed the BB gun there. I never picked it up again.

Can You Talk?

Then there’s this. You get a phone call from a friend you haven’t talked to in a while. He wants to know how you are doing but before you can even answer begins a long winded monologue about his sciatica, his lousy job, his terrible next door neighbor and something about the government.

Eventually he stops to breathe and you have a chance to talk about your cats or your art work or your hernia, but before you can finish he interrupts, “I know exactly what you’re talking about. The very same thing happened to me,” and he’s off and running again.

You realize the only way to get a word in edgewise is to talk over the friend. But he just starts talking louder and you talk louder and pretty soon the two of you are having a shouting match.

Well, that’s not working so you try the opposite approach and say nothing, just throwing in an occasional “yes” or “I know” to let him know you’re still alive. After a while even that gets tiring and you go stone cold silent.

Finally the friend recognizes that you are not agreeing with him about the high cost of his hip replacement and the jerk who cut him off on the way to Publix. Taking a concerned tone for the first time in the conversation, he asks:

“You’re not saying much today. Are you feeling ok?”

Small Talk

“What did you say? I can’t understand you. You’re mumbling again.

Oh, you want breakfast. Why didn’t you say so, instead of pacing back and forth like that.
OK, you don’t have to get all pouty about it. I wish someone would wait on me like I wait on you. I’m really getting tired of it.
Yeah, I know you can’t cook. Every day you remind me of it. And another thing, could you please stop making those noises when you eat. It’s irritating.
Yes, I know about your condition. Just eat already, while I finish the laundry.
OK, once again I can’t hear you. I’m in the laundry room. What? Yes, I fluff dried your precious pillow. You know, the next time you decide to get sick, just maybe be near the toilet like everyone else. This stain is just not coming out.
No, I’m certainly not making light of your condition. I’m just saying….
Now wait a minute, what’s my mother got to do with this? Well, how could she know you’re allergic to tuna?
Why are you looking at me like that? 
Oh, so now it’s the silent treatment. Look, I’ve just about had it with you. I’m getting out of here for a while.
All right, I thought that would get your attention. Where am I going? Where do I always go Tuesday afternoon? The grocery store of course.
Oh, don’t start on that again. I did not forget you last week or the week before. OK, smart aleck, here’s the grocery list. What’s the very first item? That’s right, Kibbles! I rest my case!"

Furry Bodhisattva

I keep having this recurring dream where I’m in a fascinating conversation with Andre, that great wisdom teacher from the movie My Dinner With Andre. In this episode we’re talking about cats and not those funny snuggly pets we see on Facebook. Andre takes a sip of champagne and leans forward.

“No, I’m talking about cats as these wise spiritual beings who have been sent back to this material dimension.”

“But why and by whom?” I interrupt.

“Well, this is what I think. There are these highly evolved Elders, who are special beings existing in the ethereal dimension and whose sole purpose is to teach us abiding and unconditional love. Their helpers on this mission are cats who are sent back here as messengers

.

Andre glances around and leans in closer. “But here’s the thing. I don’t think they’re as much messengers as they are mirrors.”

“Mirrors? I don’t get it."

“Don’t you see? Cats teach us by becoming mirrors for what we need to deal with in our lives. They throw-up on the kitchen floor and become a mirror for our anger. They can’t decide whether to come in or go out and become a mirror for our impatience.

Doris and I once had a beautiful rescue tabby we named Chloe. Well, Chloe had this habit of running off every time we let her outside. Hours would pass and we became very anxious. We drove all over the neighborhood, asking everyone if they had seen her. But when we returned home still anxious and now exhausted, there was Chloe waiting for us on the back steps.

It took a long time but we finally realized that Chloe’s roaming habit was a mirror for our anxiety about losing control. After that we let Chloe do what she wanted to and we learned a lesson in trust.”

“But what happened to Chloe?”

“Eventually she ran off and didn’t come back. We asked around and posted photos but somehow knew that she would not be returning. Doris said she thought Chloe’s job here was done and she had reported back to the Elders."

The Critic

For many years I participated in the Florida outdoor art show circuit. During those years I set up my tent in venues ranging from parking lots and piers to cow pastures and river banks. One of the prettiest shows took place in Tarpon Springs in a park by one of the many bayous that weave through the beautiful city.

And every year I was fortunate to land the same spot right next to the water and under a lovely water oak tree. One of its spreading branches dipped low over the sidewalk, even forcing tall visitors to duck their heads. After a while the tree became the main attraction and more than one person called to their friends that the stately oak should win Best of Show.

Two long time collectors often came to the show in a boat and if I was lucky, they returned home with a piece of my art leaning in the stern. The quirky nature of the Tarpon show always made it fun to do.

But after several years my sales dried up and I began wondering whether I should even participate anymore. For every positive reason there were one or two negative ones; too hard to get to, no parking, no artist dinner, no sales.

During one particularly dismal show I had decided that unless some miracle happened I would not do it again. Sunday afternoon rolled around with only a couple measly sales to show for it and no miracle on the horizon. Against all rules, I decided to start breaking down my art display early. The worst they could do would be to blackball me from the show. Thank you very much.

Around 4:30 I took several small pieces off the wall and leaned them against the display. Maybe I could get a jump on the other artists and say sayonara to Tarpon Springs. Just then, an old acquaintance stopped by to say hello and listen to my moaning about the show.

While we were standing there chatting, he looked past me to my display and broke into a broad grin. I turned just in time to see a dog of indefinite lineage lift its scrawny leg on one of the drawings.

Thus relieved, the cur sauntered off, leaving me, for once, at a loss for words. My acquaintance, when he was able to stop laughing, pointed at the disappearing dog.

“Looks like everybody's a critic!”

                                                                    

  

Call For Art

Above is an image I recently created and one that I’ve titled Disdain. Its completion brought some satisfaction but left me with a nagging question. Is it art? Right now I’m not sure it even fits that category. But first allow a brief backstory.

Years ago I pulled a photo from a nature magazine of a smug African Baboon taking the sun. A compelling image, I tucked it away like many other photos for future reference. Some years later I scanned the photo and saved it in a large ‘miscellaneous photos’ folder. There it languished until the other night when I came upon an unusual image posted on Facebook. An artist had edited a photo of a woman in Photoshop by applying a special effect filter. The result resembled an abstract painting and the post comments congratulated the artist on a unique and beautiful work of art.

But was it art or even intended to be art? While pondering that, I remembered the odd baboon photo and decided to try my hand in Photoshop. I am by no means a Photoshop Master, but within a short time had created the above image.

At this early stage, could I dare call it art? Perhaps I could if following Marcel Duchamp’s dictum, “Art is whatever I say is art.” Going further, I might copy the image to a CD, take it to a fine art printer and have a 5’ image printed on canvas. Placed on a museum-wrap stretcher, the work would get a few strokes of oil pigment and voila, it would be done. The mixed-media painting is finally hung in an art gallery with a hefty price tag. On opening night a wealthy wine merchant from Argentina purchases Disdain for $14,500. Here at last, with conviction, could I dare call it art? Or, at that point, perhaps I should not say a word.

The Question

Recently I gave a talk about my art in connection with an exhibition at Hillsborough Community College in Tampa. Afterwards visitors asked general questions about my process, about materials and inspiration. Near the end of the evening, an art student approached me with what turned out to be the most important question. Important because it gave me pause and continues to perplex.

How, she asked, would I respond to certain people who might charge that I am appropriating important and even sacred cultural symbols and beliefs. The question caught me off guard and I’m afraid my answer might not have been satisfactory.

I told her that artists down the ages have sampled ideas and images from other cultures. Their appropriations were deemed valid because under the artists’ creative influences the images became part of unique new art works. Picasso, van Gogh, and Gauguin, in particular, were adept at re-interpreting ‘foreign’ artistic styles.

The student’s question may have been in reference to a piece in the exhibition titled “Singing The World.” The title is based on an Australian native people’s story of how the world and everything in it were created. The painting features an image of a kangaroo and a style that harkens back to Aboriginal art.

My intent is not to disrespect Aboriginal culture but to celebrate it and to do so in a way that is unique and true to my particular vision. And I believe the piece fits in seamlessly with the other works in the exhibition.

I’m thankful the young woman asked me that question because it continues to bring up other questions. How would native Australians respond to “Singing The World”? Perhaps they would have no objections to it and could even come to celebrate the painting. Could it be that in modern society's rush to be politically correct, we simply reject that which we don't understand? I wonder.

The Call To Collect

Years ago I attended a dinner party given by a couple who were well respected in the art community. Their contributions and endorsements over the years had made a considerable difference to both artists and institutions.

Walking into their waterside home, I was stunned to see many of my art works hanging on their walls. It turned out they had been collecting my work for years and I was not even aware of it. While it was true several pieces had been purchased from me, most were picked up at fund raisers and charity events. That experience convinced me of the many different ways to collect art.

One of the largest private art collections I’ve seen belongs to a local dentist. He once asked me if I would come and authenticate two pieces of art with the name Gaston on them. His high ceiling Victorian home was filled salon style with the most intriguing art work, many of which had been purchased at yard sales. On the walls, almost up to the crown molding, hung fine examples of outsider art, African art, abstract landscapes and even paint by number pieces.

The two works in question hung side by side and occupied a central position in the hallway. One was an early piece painted by my father and the other a small drawing of mine purchased at an outdoor art show. My father and I did not see eye to eye on some of the vagaries of life but we were both passionate about art making. Standing there I had the sense that somehow a circle had been completed.

In order to support my art making habit, I have, over the last thirty years, worked at various part-time jobs. Twelve of those years were spent at a natural food store, where on free time, lunch breaks or on the telephone, I doodled. One day another employee came to me with a worn scrapbook she wanted to share. The book was filled with dozens of my little doodle drawings she had collected over the years. Some had even been pulled out of the garbage can and proudly added to her collection.

These examples of art collections won’t make it onto my resume, but in their own way they have become as important to me as my works in museum and corporate collections.

But if you're looking for advice on collecting from a business perspective, you should check out Invaluable's blog In Good Taste which features the latest trends in art and antiques.

(art works courtesy of Aydelette Kelsey and Denis Gaston)

My Father The Map Maker

While renovating the old homestead a few years ago, I found this magnetic sign behind the living room wall. My father most likely placed it there during an earlier renovation when he and my mom moved here in 1971. He did things like that.

When I was a kid I tried to impress friends by telling them my dad was a cartographer. But, truth be known, Richard Gaston was much more than that and, as far as I know, the only one - a traveling salesman and promoter who could also draw.

In Virginia and later Florida he created dozens of hand-drawn points of interest maps of off the beaten path towns. In a time before shopping malls and urban sprawl rendered town centers obsolete, dad's maps were a celebration of small owner-operated businesses.

On his maps you could usually find ads for barber shops, beauty salons, filling stations, diners and motor courts, all endangered species today. For only $39.50 those businesses got a one by two inch full color ad plus 50 maps to hand out to customers.

When dad came in off the road, he would toss a bunch of those checks on the bed for my sister and me to count. Sometimes there was as much as $474. We thought we must surely be rich, and now these many years later I realize that we were.

Busted

Police in Clearwater, Florida arrested a local man early Friday morning on charges of being an artist.

Denis Gaston of 520 S. Keystone Ave. was taken into custody without incident after neighbors reported him acting funny and they didn't know why.

"Well, he worked late at night doing something on the front porch," said next-door neighbor Dillard Pike. "Visitors always had to come in the back door."

"And he sat in his back yard a lot, just sitting there doing nothing," added Pike's wife Martha. "He was nice enough but we just never suspected this!"

Police discovered the 70 year old Gaston's home filled with strange and lurid paintings, some still wet.

"I've been on the force 27 years and I've never seen anything like this!" said Clearwater detective Elvis Murkle. "Paint everywhere, even on the ceiling, like there was some kind of fierce struggle."

Gaston remains in the city jail, awaiting a panel of experts evaluation of his mental state.

Choco Love

Remember when you were a kid and your parents took you to a candy store? Remember when you thought working there must be the best job in the whole world? And then one of the workers said, “No, after a while, you get tired of all that candy.”

Well, it’s just not true. After five years of working at Richard’s Foodporium Dunedin, which has 32 different kinds of chocolate candy, I still get a powerful craving to eat each and every one of them; the dark chocolate almonds, the pistachio chocolate toffee, the goji cacao chunks, the dark chocolate pretzels, the dark chocolate coffee beans, the chocolate peanut butter malt balls.

I could go on and on, but lately have begun a courageous attempt at total chocolate abstinence. To this end I’ve joined the local chapter of CA, Chocoholics Anonymous. Their famous 12 Step Program has saved thousands like myself from the gooey clutches of demon chocolate.

It’s been tough going but I’m almost halfway through. Now let me tell you about the dreaded Step 6. This devious part of the program is more like a stumble than a step. “Step 6: I will never ever give in to temptation. Place a bag of dark chocolate hazelnuts in the kitchen cabinet and leave it there unopened and untouched.”  That was two weeks ago and I must say I’ve been quite strong in my resistance, even though I go in the kitchen a lot.

But the other night something woke me from a sound sleep. I’m sure I heard whispering, but was it in a dream. I lay there silent, straining to hear and just then came faint but unmistakable voices from the kitchen. “Denis, we’re in here. In the kitchen cabinet.” 

Two Reads For A Wet Week

A good friend recently down-sized her Florida home and offered me first pick from a stack of books headed to the library. Passing over exotic travel books and thick novels, I selected two very different paperbacks; Holidays on Ice by David Sedaris and Chris Rose’s 1 dead in attic. Only later when I began reading did I discover a connection between the two books. 

David Sedaris has made a career of making us laugh at the absurdities of life and Holidays on Ice is no exception. This is a collection of six of Sedaris’s most profound stories about Christmas. After reading “Season’s Greetings to Our Friends and Family!!!,” I’ll never be able to read another holiday newsletter with a straight face.

   

There is nothing funny about 1 dead in attic, journalist Chris Rose’s firsthand account of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. Rose’s collection of essays, wonderfully complemented by Charlie Varley's photographs, offers a stark and gut-wrenching look at life in The Big Easy post-Katrina. It’s also a reminder of the failure of governmental bureaucracy that preceded and set the stage for the Hurricane.

The common thread that these two books share is the often irrational and ridiculous nature of life. Whether we laugh at the absurdity or cry, what results is a kind of catharsis. And through this collective release, we are able to go on with our own lives.

photo- 1 dead in attic, Charlie Varley, c. all rights reserved

Cool Time In Hot Town

This weekend marks the 27^th year of the now venerable Cool Art Show. This small indoor event has, over the years, become the gold standard for artist run exhibitions. But those of us who launched the Show in 1987 had little idea it would evolve into a major summer exhibition. All we aimed for was to make a little money in that beastly time of year when no one dared have an outdoor show in Florida.

So we forged ahead with equal parts naiveté and hope and a tremendous amount of work. The results of that effort will be on display at St. Petersburg Coliseum where 80 top notch artists gather to share and sell their art. Thinking on Cool Art has dislodged a gaggle of memories that now deserve to be shared.

For a number of years, Jack Breit brought his miniature golf clubs to the Show. He lay out a course on the exhibition floor and during slow times artists and patrons tried their hand at putting. Amazingly, no artwork got destroyed or ankles turned on errant golf balls.

One year my van blew a tire on the Bayside Bridge and I nearly crashed into the side. As I cursed and sweated changing the tire, Steve Littlefield came driving by. He slowed down, honked and waved and kept right on driving.

In 1990, with July fast approaching, we still had no venue for the Show. At the last moment, the Dunedin Fine Art Center agreed to put up with us for the weekend, and 30 artists jammed their displays into the two unfinished main galleries. It was probably the only time an art center hosted an outdoor art show indoors.

Artists can be quite testy at times, but even worse are their spouses. One late night I got a phone call from an artist’s irate wife. She demanded to know why her husband had been juried out of the Show. For thirty minutes I listened to her rant and tried to remain calm and reason with her. But when she hinted at the possibility that something might happen to me, I hung up.

Down Under Blues

In 1980 my father, newly retired and with time on his hands, decided to become an urban farmer. After time researching at the library and going through seed catalogs, he decided to go the exotic route. Over the next few years, with varying results, he planted jicama, carambola, chayote, and sapodilla. He also planted a carrotwood and a silver oak tree.

Thirty years later I inherited the old homestead and a large yard in dire need of tender and not so tender loving care. The carrotwood and silver oak trees, in particular, needed my immediate attention. They had grown into green monsters that threatened to devour the back yard.

My inquiries about them at the county horticultural office brought instant reprimand. “Those are opportunistic invasive trees from Australia. You should cut them down.”

Their candid remarks were surprising and a bit irritating. After all my father’s and later my work, cutting down trees was not an option. I would revisit that decision many times in the following months.

The carrotwood tree has proved to be a royal pain where I sit. A tropical evergreen, the tree was introduced to Florida in the 1950s as a decorative ornamental variety. Bad move indeed. The fast growing exotic produces tons of flowers and then tons of seeds. The seeds and seed casings end up on the lawn and are soon followed by a two week shower of dead leaves, a dry land deluge of epic proportions.

Turns out the seasons down under are the opposite of Florida’s. Australia’s fall is our early summer, which means I must rake up all that @%^&%$*!! leaf litter in 90 degree heat and humidity.

My father left me a lot for which I am grateful. An endless summer of windblown rained-on dun colored leaves is not one of them. Aussie go home!

Hot Type In Hot 'Lanta

From 1969 until 1983 I lived in Atlanta and made somewhat of a living as a graphic designer. My loner temperament would not condone the 9-5 workaday world, so most of my time was spent doing free-lance work.

The city was awash with hot-shot designers during the '70's and us free-lance folk could not afford to be choosy with jobs. During my years there I designed display windows, television props, newspaper and magazine illustrations, gift catalogs and logo designs,

One of the more interesting jobs turned out to be doing the paste-up for a monthly magazine called "Army Aviation Digest." A paste-up involved taking the various elements of a magazine; type, photos, illustrations, and ads, and making them camera ready before being printed.

Everything was straightforward except the magazine's body copy which came from the last of Atlanta's hot type shops. This old school method produced metal type from molten lead on a Linotype machine. I was able to see the machine in action several times and the sights and sounds of the hulking beast reminded me of some Rube Goldberg contraption.

I knew I was looking at a machine that had somehow escaped the hot type mass extinction. Quick and clean photo type had finished off the others years ago. And photo type would be eclipsed in turn a few years later by super fast computers. In mass communication change is the only constant and I felt fortunate to get a glimpse of the last of a gone-by era.