We’ll always have Managua.

We (Americans) seem to have a fascination with dangerous times, past, present and future. And it could be that all times have been dangerous. Are, and will be dangerous. All times.

 The Year of Living Dangerously, a 1983 Mel Gibson film about Sukarno’s Indonesia comes immediately to mind. Great atmospherics and Linda Hunt (everyone’s favorite badass shadowy leader of NCIS Los Angeles) who won an Oscar for her portrayal of a streetwise (male) photographer in the Gibson film. Mel, Sigourney, Linda, story, intrigue, technicolor noir. I recommend it. Not that it’s streaming anywhere; you may have to get the DVD.

 VICE (2018) is on Netflix. It’s weird. Of course so were the real people, Cheney, Bush, Rumsfeld et al. Dangerous times again. Portrayed in almost comic book fashion. One rather clumsy (to me) pairing of scenes that tried hard for some kind of visual symbolism took me out of the movie completely; one scene showed Bush’s ankle and foot moving like a sugared-up teen’s, and that scene suddenly changed to a family in Iraq under a dining room table during the “shock and awe” attack, and zoomed into a closeup of the man’s foot and ankle moving the same way, though obviously in terror. See it for Carrell’s hilarious portrayal of Donald Rumsfeld—it’s great. Or to watch Bales’s chin-on-his-chest Cheney. Pretty good.

And, a more recent ‘dangerous times’ movie, The Stars At Noon, deals with the 1980’s Contra/Sandinista/CIA mess in Nicaragua. I’ve not seen this much-lauded movie but have to note a couple of odd synchronisms: Claire Denis is screenwriter/director. Denis Johnson, also with one s, wrote the book in 1986 and the Vintage Contemporary version of it resides in my shelf of VC books, a valued collection of sorts. I pulled it the other day and found I’d not ever read it. Well-written, of course, because Denis Johnson. But I got impatient with it. A prostitute (with bad teeth, she keeps telling the reader) posing as a journalist (or vice-versa) gets involved with a dorky Englishman. Both are stricken soporific with the heat, filth, and bureaucracy of their surroundings and they make a series of dumb moves when they move at all. That’s the book. I imagine the film will be somewhat more Hollywood-palatable. Good teeth, less sweat, less dorkage for the main love-interest guy, and the female will be a beautiful stranded journalist. A leftist periodista. Just a guess, no spoilers.

 But I’d like to share this; one of the loveliest songs to come out of that Reagen-years saga. It’s by Bruce Cockburn who was, as they say, on the ground in Nicaragua. Give it a listen here. The lyrics are below.

 Battered buses jammed up to the roof
Dust and diesel the prevailing themes
Farmer sleeping on the truck in front
Feet trailing over like he's trolling for dreams
Smiling girl directing traffic flow
.45 strapped over cotton print dress
Marimba-brown and graceful limbs
Give me a moment of loneliness

Dust and diesel
Rise like incense from the road
Smoke of offering
For the revolution morning

Headlights pick out a fallen sack of corn
One lone tarantula standing guard
We pull up and stop and she ambles off
Discretion much the better part of cars
Rodrigo the government driver jumps out
He's got chickens who can use the feed
We sweep the asphalt on our hands and knees
Fill up his trunk with dusty yellow seeds

Dust and diesel
Rise like incense from the road
Smoke of offering
For the revolution morning

Guitars and rifles in blue moonlight
Soldiers stretched out on sparkling grass
Engine broke down -- they took us in
now we make music for the time to pass
Tired men and women raise their voice to the night
Hope the fragile bloom they've grown will last
Pride and passion and love and fear
Burning hearts burning boats of the past

Dust and diesel
Rise like incense from the road
Smoke of offering
For the revolution morning

 The album, Stealing Fire, is full of revolutionary songs that are as fascinating as they are musical and poetic. Some are angry. All are well-produced and listenable. I recommend it without reservation, here. Coincidentally, one of songs is “Lovers in a Dangerous Time.”

 And one more book. They say to start peddling your book months before it comes out. Here goes. It’s been in the works for a couple of years—covid and coastal fires did the first publisher in. Then I found another publisher who liked it, and I finished galley edits, first round, yesterday. It’s called Chickens One Day, Feathers The Next, and here’s its new cover, by Jessica Bell. She’s a singer/songwriter, artist, all around marketing person and talent-whirlwind.

“Chickens” is a book of essays and memoir pieces, and, as one of the blurbs says, “a rollicking Harley ride down a vibrant Route 66 of American culture.” It should be available in October, 2022. It’s had a long journey; are we there yet? Almost.

 And I wish for us all, less dangerous times, more laughs, joy and fine fettle. (That’s either a skateboard or Croatian soup)  xo  G.

 

Above the Fray?

This wonderful vintage drawing is available at Swann Auction Galleries, Illustration department. The wingsitters and pilot are boyhood pals of mine. It’s a bit vertiginous for those of us affected by height, but that’s part of its unsettling magic.

Above the fray? Not really. It would be strange not to mention the dark turns our world has taken but so much has been said about the criminal war, the horrors of Buffalo and Uvalde, the resurgent pandemic, runaway inflation and all the other revulsions that I won’t add to it here. But I’m certainly not above the fray; I, like you, am affected and saddened. I, like you, do what I can.

That’s “Mr. XL’s Excellent Test Pattern” on an old Sylvania that may actually work…

 The ”Hell Yeah” Wise Work show opened June 3rd at The Hilliard Gallery, and the new work was well-received. Much of it is a departure for me; hopefully it’s progress and even maturation. Some of the work addresses current events and it’s raw. Some digs up matter from the 60’s. Some of it told me exactly what to do with materials that spoke to me and has nothing to do with anything but the piece itself. It’ll be at the gallery for a month, then pieces of it will be on display in the upper and back rooms for a time. So far, the most important art critics (you) have been kind, even enthusiastic.

Hot Cold Heavy Light, and Crews’s memoir—talk about diverse…

 I’d like to recommend a book on the subject of art criticism; it’s thoroughly enjoyable reading and nicely educational along the way. It’s by Peter Schjeldahl, the delightful and authoritative art critic of The New Yorker for the past couple of decades, and I call it “learning without pain.” The title, Hot, Cold, Heavy, Light, 100 Art Writings 1988-2018 refers to its divisions, ie: Andy Warhol, Pollack, Basquiat, De Kooning and a bunch of others are in the “Hot” section, while “Cold” includes such variants as Shepard Fairey and Francisco Goya. I’m glad I bought this fine book. Here’s a link.

 Books. Harry Crews, A Childhood. If you’re a Crews fan, I’d say it’s a must. If you don’t know HC, well, it’s…gritty. There are a couple of mind-pictures in there I’d rather not have, but probably no more so than an overly graphic crime story. And Crews can write, so that’s the draw here. (Link)

 And here’s a mug with my mug on it. Soon some will go out to those who have won them. Be patient; I have to box, schlep to the post office and mail ‘em. They’re at the gallery, too. First person to leave a comment below wins one. Just think, you can look at my mug on this substantial coffee vessel—that’ll wake you up in the a.m. It does me. Sing it with me: The best part of wakin’ up, is Gman on your cup.

 Last, and least: The oil barons are getting rich(er) but this check (below) I got from the dregs of an inheritance that was pillaged and sacked by some (sort of) relatives will emphasize what’s left for…the rest of us, when all is said and fracked. The frackers. One fracking cent. Talk about trickle down. Anyway that’s all for now. Just remember, it ain’t me making money on your high gas bills. Cheers to all of you—may the second half of 2022 be much much better! G

A penny for my thoughts? Nah, you really don’t want to know…

Welp, it’s April and I been workin’

June show, books coming, coffee cups, walking around the world, voodoo on Putin, other good stuff. (And congrats, Kansas!)

Been working on the June show (First Friday opening at The Hilliard Gallery), doing new work this winter and spring. Here’s a little preview, to the right. (What the heck is that? You’ll see, starting June 3rd) There’s no theme to the show other than NEW! 50% STRONGER WELDS! Or, as it says in the gloves above, HELL YEAH. Which is maybe a comment on having a show just when everything is going to hell. Like the brave Russian warriors shelling kids, pets, the elderly, apartment buildings and art. Oops, some of these people are firing back. With anti-tank stuff.

 Oscars (no, not that).

I have something to say about the Oscars, and no, it’s not that tacky thing. It’s this; they turned down the President of Ukraine who had a message, because they wanted the ceremony to be...upbeat. I’ll never watch them again. Yawn, so I’m joining millions of other nonwatchers. The Grammys did air a message from Zelensky, but his script had to do with music. Kind of hard to shoehorn a music message into a bloody life and death battle for sovereignty. But, at least they aired it and millions saw it. A world in need of heroes saw this man take center stage.

 Pride walketh.

I don’t do humble-bragging, I just brag. Here’s one: Since F gave me a Fitbit Charge 2 for a birthday three years ago, I have walked no less than 10,000 steps a day and usually 12,000 plus. I am approaching 20 million steps, which is once around this tattered old globe, avoiding Russia and other crazy places, making it not so scenic but longer. My stats say 15,749,338 steps. 20 mil is about world circumference. I wore out that Fitbit and busted the crystal doing chores, so I upgraded to a Charge 4 and it does everything but make me coffee. I recommend it. My resting heartbeat since walking is 61 to 65; not bad for an octogenarian who pushes cinnamon rolls into his face.

  Two books.

Books: Holy & Intoxicated Press (great name!) is doing a GW art/poetry chapbook, as soon as I get them the art and poetry. So that’s coming in 2022. And a book of essays and memoiristic pieces titled “Chickens One Day, Feathers The Next” is coming from Vine Leaves Press. So, I’m grateful about that. But humbled? I don’t feel that so much; I worked really hard on it. (The original publisher took a dive due to Covid and west coast fires. If you think it's tough to find one publisher, try finding a second after the first one goes belly up.)

 

Ya big mug.

Coffee mugs with an art message and no cuss words will soon be available. More about that when they are. But they’re really red, big, porcelainized and arty. First reader to comment below gets one. They’ll be at the Hell Yeah sculpture show in June.

 Urgent matters.

Ever heard of St. Expedite? Me neither, until I ran across this voodoo site while doing research for a book. Expeditus is a martyred Roman centurion and the saint of urgent matters. The site is the point of departure for a rabbit warren for all things mojo, milagroid and occult. You can buy a spell to get Putin purged (worth a shot) or a charm for a good soybean crop. Looking for love? It’s for sale, and that’s a way to end this on a super note with Ella! Go, Ella!

 

 

 

A Moment of Silence...

Losing a big one in overtime requires a certain amount of time for grieving; there, that’ll suffice. Onward. Damn, though, ya know?

And Now, The Opposite Of Silence…

Not so quiet, please…

The night before: I was tired, on my way to bed when I heard this sound. Austin City Limits was on and they always have a great show, so I sat down again. The guy singing and playing the keyboard was surrounded by unusual stuff; a wired fiddle, a big bongo, a full set of drums, a midsize accordion, a Dobro, a bass guitar and an attractive young lady whose only instrument was vocal, a bell-like soprano offset to the male voices who came in on the refrain. I wasn’t tired anymore. This was energizing, high on the power curve. Were I to dance I’d be up and whirling, knocking over lamps and alarming the dogs, making the wife laugh uncontrollably. She’s a dancer. I was not issued that sim card. But in my head I have rhythm, and when I hear danger/roadhouse music like this I am alert. Also this: some of the band looked like they had tunneled out of John Knox Village. (For you distant readers, that’s an elder home in KC) But their white hair belied their kickass. I was being treated to Terry Allen and The Panhandle Mystery Band.

 The Bandleader Makes Stuff…

I’ll let the video make the point. But Allen’s creativity is without bounds; he’s not only a storied and prolific singer/songwriter, a revered outlaw musician up there with Kris Kristofferson, he’s an artist and sculptor to boot, and a very accomplished one. Here’s a link to some of his bronzes. These are not the work of a wanna-be. This is modern art museum quality work. What an impressive guy he is. And his band is full of achievers too. The more you find out about this handpicked outfit the more awe it inspires. When you’re cruising his sculpture, look for “Corporate Head.” That and this Chevy are my favorites right now.

A couple of books...

The cover designer made Stay upside down. I get it on some level…

 I read Nick Flynn’s “Another BS Night in Suck City” some time after it had been published; I guess the title put me off and I figured it was just one more weirdly titled book to bring in the young’ns. But that would be dismissive. It’s an odd book but an impressive one. The book chronicles Nick Flynn’s father, Jonathan Flynn, bank robber, bon vivant and self-described ‘world’s greatest author,’ and Nick’s mother, her boyfriends, and Nick. And all their swirling, buzzing demons.

 The words. Sometimes he puts words together like a syntax magician. At other times he inserts a play that could have been left out. Mostly, the word combinations etch, so be careful; your brain could be a litho stone and his words will transfer to it. You may hear and see afterimages. Still, I recommend this book.

 The movie, Being Flynn, was made due to this book—I haven’t seen it, and I don’t encourage anyone to spend money or time on what a Rotten Tomatoes moviegoer described as Robert DeNiro screaming for a couple hours. I prefer to see Nick’s father as a Jason Robards Jr. type with delusions. In a torn Brooks Brothers seersucker suit. He was homeless for years. Had DeNiro asked “What’s my motivation?” perhaps someone would have said, “Staying alive after sub-zero nights sleeping in a garbage bag and having your toes amputated, Bob.”

 Oh well. The next book, same author, is Stay. It’s full of fragments. Many of them took my breath away. In a word, it’s a sonofabitch. I’d read and re-read some passages and said whew. But I would recommend reading Another BS Night first. Stay is not a book you just sit down and read; you pick it up like a sullen cat that might scratch, and read some pages, some thoughts, look at some collages. (Flynn makes collages on first days in new towns from things found on the street. They are sometimes powerful.)

 Then there’s this book, which explains, in part, how Flynn writes. About how writers you enjoy or who transfix you write. This is another book you read for the fragments, the sentences about sentences. Tom McGuane, a big favorite of mine, endorses it. So I sent Amazon some money.

And that’s all I got.

Have a great February. It’s the first part of a year in which the Chiefs come out on that field of dreams again and make everybody, especially the opposition, nervous.

XO, ol’ G.

Last View From Wise Acres blog of 2021.

Monetization, Midwest Art and More…

I subscribe to some blogs, most of which promise me more if I cough up some dough. More of what? The descriptions are vague but tantalizing. Garrison Keillor just says the best stuff is reserved for paying subscribers but his free blog has enough chuckles and outright laughs to last me awhile. Austin Kleon gives me a list of 100 quotes, but stops at fifty, saying I can get the rest of them if I pay up. Shoot, fifty quotes are quite enough for me, thanks. Both bloggers are bestselling authors and I’ve read them, so I’ve tossed a few coins into their open guitar cases as they perform on the busy sidewalks of life. Pay for their blogs? I think not.

Roxane Gay’s blog is The Audacity and the gloves are always off when you open it. She’s a bestseller too, and well worth reading. My favorite book of hers is “Aiyiti” which, I think, is Haiti said correctly. She is savage and blunt, a wonderful writer and, yep, pay up and get the good stuff, although her free blog is plenty for me.

 And this blog you’re reading, The View from Wise Acres, is free. I’ve been told it’s worth every cent you pay for it. Should I become a bestseller, watch out. And if you’re reading this (free) blog a glance to your upper left and a click will connect you to my books and my sculpture which (gulp) are for sale.

 Onward.

Two books I’m reading alternately couldn’t be more dissimilar: Jeff Tweedy’s Let's Go (So We Can Get Back): A Memoir of Recording and Discording with Wilco, Etc. and Mr. Dickens and His Carol, by Samantha Silva. The first, I stumbled upon cruising Amazon and chose it without hesitation; I find his humor and irony engaging. Fans of Wilco’s singer, songwriter and leader will enjoy this disarming book. So will those who discover his music through these well-written pages. Double-win.

Freddie suggested the Dickens book, and I’m finding it not only readable and fun, but Ms. Silva’s atmospherics and descriptions are magical and re-create the old streets of London, so I’m walking (striding) right along with “old Boz,” experiencing the sting of his latest book flop and his scorn for what his publishers want: the book that will change the face of Christmas forever. (And they want it in a matter of days! No pressure there.) And on top of it all, a possible love rectangle with the emphasis on tangle.

Ben Bauer, artist. Click HERE for a bunch of great winter rural art.

Midwest winter coming. The mild and deceptive KC December weather ended today and I bundled against stiff north winds on my walks. Here’s some nice Midwest Winter Art offered by a NYC gallery, Ben Bauer artist. (link) Then there’s Keith Jacobshagen who I recall from KC Art Institute days. Beautiful work then, beautiful work now. (link) I also remember our painting instructor, who reminded me of Boris Karloff, intoning “Yellow Ochre. More yellow ochre,” sepulchrally, as he drifted from easel to easel, hands clasped behind his back. He was a fine artist and a good guy—he just had this very imitable way saying that phrase. We’d say it under our breath as we entered class. Yeello Ooochre.

Communication Art Magazine’s Typography issue, January-February, 2022

And speaking of quotes, as I did in the first paragraph, here’s a doozy; Georgia O’Keeffe and being terrified. (Georgia O’Keeffe? Really?) I saw this one in the pages of CA Magazine’s Typography Annual 12. Great issue, and some pretty good quotes to show off the newest typefaces. This one got my attention. I resemble that remark.

Here are 100 New Year’s Quotes, beginning with Oprah’s “Cheers to a New Year and another chance to get it right.” The first fifty are free, and, hey, so are the second fifty. (Some really good ones in this bunch). And let’s hope it’s not the Same Old Lang Syne healthwise. xo GW