New Art Offering

I continue to offer for purchase certain art works under glass, and pictured is the current piece. The title is Pele Rekindled, an oil on paper, 38"h. x 29"w. framed, 31"h. x 23"w. image. The price is $800.00 plus tax and shipping. PayPal is available. Contact me at mrcoolink@ij.net All are also welcome to visit my studio in Dunedin, FL. 727 733-1688 727 560-3766

Brillante Weblog

My blog has received this cool award thanks to fellow blogger and primo writer Augusta Scattergood.

So now I get to choose some of my favorite blogs and spread the word.

Here are the rules:

1) Put the logo on your blog.

2) Add a link to the person who awarded you.

3) Nominate at least 7 other blogs.

4) Add links to those blogs on yours.

5) Leave a message for your nominees on their blogs.

Here are some very good visual art blogs:

Boxfotos

Toy Camera Play

Nancy Cervenka

Art Squeeze

Picture at an Exhibition

A couple of hours ago, art buddy Matt Larson whipped out his cool i-phone at the Cool Art Show in St. Petersburg and clicked this pic. Actually, I don't think it clicked at all, just made an odd pixellating sound. He captured the artist as a relaxed chap. Art sales have a way of doing that.

Way Cool

In May, 1987 a friend and I sat commiserating in some dim Chinese restaurant. We had just completed our last outdoor art show of the season, and now faced a hot bleak summer of no shows and few opportunities to sell art.

Somewhere between the egg-drop soup and the Buddha's Delight, I casually suggested there should be an indoor show for artists who did not travel during the summer. Indoors and air-conditioned, we could call it, oh I don't know, maybe call it Cool Art.

At that, my friend looked up from his plate of Egg-Fu-Yung, and allowed that was the best idea I'd had in a long time. "Why don't you do it," he challenged.

Thus was born The Cool Art Show, now in its 20th year and one of Tampa Bay's oldest artist-run exhibitions. Early on, the idea for a show was taken up by PAVA, a fledgling local art group, and the first Cool exhibition of twenty artists took place only because of some gentle arm twisting and hopes for a few art sales.

For a completely volunteer, mostly unsponsered, artist run art exhibition to succeed for twenty years is extraordinary. This could only come about through the efforts of a group of dedicated people and the continued participation of exceptional artists.

The 20th Anniversary Exhibition of the Cool Art Show will take place July 19, 20 at the historic Coliseum in St. Petersburg. For more information go to http://www.pava-artists.org/ and click on Exhibitions.

Life In The Urbs

Natural selection has not been kind to the city squirrel. Or perhaps mom nature decided to have a bit of fun at the little rodent’s expense. There are 250 world-wide squirrel species, from a 4" African pygmy to a 35" Asian whopper, and I suspect they all share the same odd characteristics as the Eastern Grays that scamper about my neighborhood.

The inherited traits which could be said to have a most profound effect on urban squirrels are their curiosity, short attention spans, and hesitation. I’ve observed these same traits in the two that noisily stake out my yard. They race from tree to tree with carefree abandon, only to stop dead on a branch, and stare off into space for several minutes. One of them finally descends to the ground to dig for buried treasures, but just as quickly becomes bored with that task.

Eventually something across the street catches its eye, and the ever curious animal dashes onto the asphalt. And it is here where internal combustion trouble lurks. Halfway across, the squirrel comes to a halt, sits back on its haunches and looks all around. What was that strange noise from far off? What is that ominous vibration coming from below?

The squirrel sits perplexed, not knowing what it’s supposed to do. Should it continue across the street or beat a hasty retreat back to its leafy home? The sound gets louder and the asphalt moves under its feet, but the squirrel doesn’t budge. Suddenly it sees the approaching predator, a metallic beast bearing down on it.

Strangely, the squirrel remains in the middle of the street, hesitating, still weighing its choices. Then, as if a dim bulb goes on over its head, the squirrel turns and races for home. Too late, a shiny SUV flattens the hapless creature before it reaches the curb.

I’ve seen it happen too many times to be considered an isolated incident. There seems to be a common pattern in the various squirrel squashings, and I believe the answer lies in a squirrel's native instincts.

Nature, boiled down to its rude essentials, can be stated simply, “Eat and don’t get eaten.” For little critters way down on the food chain, that means don’t be seen, smelled or heard. And if a pine marten should get a whiff and come calling, squirrels know their best bet is to hide and freeze. This hard-wired reaction served the animal well for millions of years in primeval forests, but comes up short on America’s city streets.

You cannot hide from a soulless half-ton pickup barreling down the road at 50 mph. Play invisible and some unlucky city worker gets to scrape you off the black-top. But the squirrel’s real undoing may be that it just wants to get one more look at that fast approaching contraption. In the end, curiosity killed the squirrel.

Works on Paper

"Bird of Heaven," pastel on paper, 40"h. x 30"w. framed size, 33"h. x 24"w. image size, $700.00 plus tax, shipping. SOLD

This mixed media work-on-paper is part of a group that I rescued from the horrific Imago Studio fire last December. After conserving and, in some cases, elaborating on the pieces, the art was archivally framed and placed under uv glass. These are the last works of their kind from the years 1988-2007, and will be offered for purchase at a considerable saving. PayPal is also available. Please contact me at mrcoolink@ij.net

More art available for purchase can be seen at my web gallery, Denis Gaston Art

The Starving Artist Special

The other day I got a craving for a bowl of ancho flavored chicken posole washed down with a cinnamon dusted horchata. In all of my “you can do this but not that” mental games, eating great spicy food trumps everything.

So I hurried over to my favorite Dunedin restaurant, Casa Tina on Main Street. Grabbing a vacant window seat, I mentally prepared myself for the feast to come. A waitress I hadn’t seen in a while came by, and, after the customary chit-chat, asked if I wanted my usual, “The Starving Artist Special.” Hearing those words again caught me off guard. Staring in silence, I finally shook my head no and looked down at the menu I knew by heart.

In my many years of eating there, I became known as the artist who likes “The Starving Artist Special.” OK, what’s not to like about a delicious plate of frijoles negras, salsa, and rice with a side of chunky guacamole. Right there you have your three basic food groups, plus complete proteins, carbs, and fats. And I could get all that great food for six bucks.

It was the clever title that annoyed me and no amount of friendly cajoling would get the owners to change it. My stories of eating three meals a day and sometimes not even cleaning my plate could not dissuade them. The Starving Artist Special remained on the menu.

If truth be known, it was most likely artists who began using the term “starving artist,” probably in an effort to drum up more sales at the world’s first outdoor art show. We are often our own worst enemies. It did not take long for an amused public to add “starving artist” to their lexicon of marginalizing expressions. “You bohemian, self-indulgent, unconventional hippie! You starving artist!”

In a culture that considers art a luxury or does not take its creative class seriously, making a decent living will always be difficult. That does not mean artists are starving. Like many people, artists have learned to live within their means and use their creativity to fashion a rich and satisfying life.

Artists, who live life out of their own center, and have a vision they are able to create every day, could be said to be the most well fed of people.

Rain

In 1886 Italian circus performer Paulo Duccio, like millions of other Europeans, immigrated to America. Unable to find work back East, he finally wound up in St. Louis, broke and desperate. That city had become the official gateway to the new West, and the train station was the point of departure for everyone bound for California. Duccio figured it would be the perfect place to hustle spare change.

As he had done many times before, the veteran carny reached into his bag of tricks, and this time pulled out a clown. Dressed as a bumbling aristocrat, he was an instant hit on the station waiting platform. Weary travelers loved his disappearing tricks and slap-stick comedy; loved him enough to throw a few coins into the stove pipe hat he passed around.

The railroad company hired Duccio to perform at shareholder meetings and employee functions. Performing in halls all across the Midwest, the clown gradually took on the role of court jester. Dancing and cavorting in total silence, he became Punchinello, the fool.

After every performance, with great fanfare, he produced a gilded hand mirror from his baggy trousers. Staring intently at himself for a few seconds, the clown suddenly burst out laughing. Then, slowly shuffling through the auditorium, he showed people their image in the mirror. The clown clearly enjoyed this burlesque, and his infectious giggle soon had the shareholders chuckling too. Many saw in the mirror that they also looked foolish, yet all chose to join in the charade.

The clown’s performances injected levity into the serious business of making money, and he found himself in demand for other corporate meetings. Famous at last, he started wearing his Punchinello costume everywhere. At restaurants he sat at special tables, and ate in silence, as patrons laughed and applauded. People recognized him on the street, men tipped their hats.

Over time, he forgot his other self and could often be seen at home in the evening reading his paper, dressed as the clown he had become.

One hot Fourth of July, the clown was hired to provide laughs at an outdoor rally for railroad employees. This time, however, he had a different task to perform. A tiny platform had been constructed high above a great wooden barrel filled with water.

For his part, the clown must somehow climb a flimsy rope ladder to the platform and, after much melodramatic hand-wringing, jump into the water forty feet below. His practice leap had ended badly when he injured his shoulder on the barrel’s edge.

The afternoon performance arrived, and the clown was understandably anxious. Clinging to the swaying ladder and unsure of himself, he sweated profusely in the blazing sun. After much effort, he pulled himself onto the platform and stood, eyes closed, shivering in the Midwest heat.

With a crowd cheering wildly, the clown inched his oversize shoes to the platform’s edge. Sweat stung his eyes, and he felt like puking. But there was no going back. Duccio was the performer. So he jumped.

Down and down he plunged and every mother and every child gasped in astonishment. In a blur of color, the clown hit the water, a warm spray splashing the circle of excited onlookers. He surfaced, waterlogged but alive, and checked to see that all parts were accounted for.

Under a darkening sky, the clown treaded water and marveled at his good fortune. Everyone moved forward for a better look, not minding when the skies finally opened, and it rained hard like on a Kansas corn field summer’s day. Not one person walked away.

And then a peculiar thing happened. All the rain, and water, and sweat began to have an effect on the clown. His gaudy grease paint make-up puddled and ran. His bulbous rubber nose slid off into the water, followed by fuchsias and yellows and blues.

The crowd stared in disbelief, as the clown slowly washed away and someone else emerged, someone altogether different; a pink incredulous old man. From somewhere deep under water, a shiny mirror found its way to the surface. The man held the mirror up and gazed, unbelieving, at his reflection.

Lifting his eyes, he looked out past the people and railroad tracks, out beyond the rows of tasseled corn to a spot on the horizon. A fierce rain pelted his face, but he continued gazing into the distance. Now, as the mirror fell from his gloved hand, the man gave a barely audible sigh and slipped beneath the rainbow waters.