Art and the Homeless

My solo show of paintings at the Enterprise Library branch of the Clark County Public Library ended the week before last. The exhibit was un-hung the following Monday, and I retrieved my art pieces at that time. Upon vacating the gallery, the visitor log book for my show was presented to me for my use as documentation. I will have many more comments on the experience, as a whole, in the future. But, for now, I feel the need to preserve these handwritten comments as digital text for study.  It does not look to be an easy assignment which I have taken-on. As I read the comments aloud, and dictate them to digital text by speech recognition app, I am gratified by the candor of the comment writers. While many of the written comments are illegible, those that are legible have a unique, visual character—not conveyed by verbal sense, alone—and, therefore, I must disclose here-and-now that I am making arbitrary interpretations on the fly (set-off by parentheses) for readability.   Othe...

My best friend in High School had a crush on Joni Mitchell. He bought a copy of her record album "The Hissing of Summer Lawns," when it was released, in 1975. I listened politely. It was (to me), pretty much as expected -except for one track, The Jungle Line. I had to admit I liked it. I asked to hear it again. And again... I didn't just like it. It gave me an uncanny sense of deja-vu and, at the same time, a premonition of things to come. I snatched the album cover jacket to read the liner notes for a clue as to what the background drumming was. Listed as "the warriors of the drum," or some such nonsense (which turned out to be ethnologically incorrect), it refers to the African nation of Burundi. Next chance I had, I rushed down to the record store for a copy of the "warriors of the drum," (or whatever its title). The salesman knew exactly what I was looking for. I snapped-up the last record (on display). This was (for me) a new listening experience...

Let's be perfectly clear about one thing: It's not artists splashing red paint on doorsteps. Therefore, it's not art. It's vandalism—a crime—committed by vandals. And let nobody so much as think of raising the self-expression defense of Graffiti. Graffiti—now known as “tagging”— is a signature claimed by a particular individual, one who may claim copyright to the “tag's” distinctive “style.” Graffiti itself is also vandalism, but with one, peculiar, difference. Vandals hide from the fact. They deny committing the act of vandalism. Unlike random acts of vandalism, Taggers take credit for tagging. I am not defending taggers. I am defending artists. If the splashing of red paint aimed at personal property by vandals is legitimate expression, then why cannot an artist's expression by casual splashing of red paint be interpreted as aggression? Any sensible artist would hesitate to take such an approach—after this—for fear of being associated with the anarchist moveme...

As an example of urbanity in speaking, I offer the June 1st, 2024 column by Jonathan Turley, published by The New York Post, and on his blog. It is urbane because it alludes to a matter of grave concern, while disdaining to exploit, or otherwise sensationalize the issue, by  ad hominem  innuendo. Turley leaves it to the astute reader to get his drift. By this tack he keeps me, and his other readers, returning for more. The report by Jonathan Turley follows the conviction, by a Manhattan jury, of former President Donald Trump on Friday, May 31st (the day before Turley's report). That the conviction is the story of the day goes without saying. In his report (the next day), Turley expressed his profound misgivings about the propriety of the trial. It calls into question the integrity of the court. In his Sunday, June 2nd, column, Turley notes another event of last Friday (the 31st of May), which might, otherwise, have gone unnoticed. Late last Friday, the Justice Department filed...