Unexposed Grand Opening

Jeremy and Brandon Smyth just opened a micro-cinema in Durham NC called Unexposed.

They have used  HEFF (Haverhill Experimental Film Festival) to open people’s eyes to the amazing world of avante Garde independent moving pictures, which are often like moving expressionist art (My paintings that were up at the opening are below).

Now UNX (Unexposed) is a weekly film festival of sorts, and will be followed by THREE UNXs to supplement Bostons HEFF,  in North Carolina each year.  Chapel Hill, Durham and Raleigh will be the sites, and those will augment the Friday showings at 105 Hood Street Slot #5, near Ponysaurus and the Golden Belt art studios, that they will have in Durham each week.

 

Come on out if you’re within phone message of this BLOG.

And now the art.

DSC_0793DSC_0796DSC_0795DSC_0797DSC_0798DSC_0799DSC_0800DSC_0802DSC_0803DSC_0804

Genoicde, Slavery, Greed

Genocide, Slavery, Greed

 

We cry for the slavery that led to such wealth,

This is not just  the land of the free.

We witness genocide all over this earth.

What can we do to end greed?

 

We cry for the land, full of modified crops

We must work to save human life.

What will our grandchildren have to live through

Since our appetite causes such strife?

 

The oil wars that started a decade ago

Have moved toward the Caspian Sea.

We are the dissidents, loud, without fear,

Even if we are cut at the knees.

 

We cry for the news they keep off TV,

The grapevine could snap any day.

Disinformation is the age we live in,

So who’s going to show us the way?

 

The answer is simple, we grow as a team,

A new brotherhood in the light.

We must build the village, invite all your friends,

This is no time to give up the fight!

 

They have all the bombs, the juntas abound,

Monsanto is spraying the poor.

We must dig our hands into arable land

Or genetics will foul every spore.

 

Profit mongers have sucked the earth dry,

We must reclaim all that we can.

Industrial China, the last frontier,

Soon money will own every man.

 

The kids on the streets are locked-down together,

Push a bike, and you could get ten years!

All this is forced because we stopped caring,

Yet some offer blood, sweat and tears.

 

We couldn’t stop bosses from shipping our jobs,

The replacement is for-profit jails.

Our schools are rotting, so teach if you can,

Where it counts, not Harvard or Yale.

 

The time is upon us, united as friends

We can make anything grow.

Come join the party, sing and dance all the day,

Tomorrow we get out the vote.

 

We cry for the genocide, slavery, greed

That persists after thousands of years.

It’s late, but there’s time, if we really work hard

We can stop the torrent of tears.

Barry Chapter One, Parts I – X

I, Barry, took three rides and a long walk to make it from Rochester to Canandaigua.  I was told by my cousin’s husband, a noted child psychologist and researcher who developed the tests needed to diagnose mental disorders in blind, deaf or both adolescents, to just leave his office and go to where I wanted to be.  It’s hard to believe he didn’t realize how distressed I was, but I felt a type of freedom I never would have allowed myself at the time.

So I caught a ride down Elmwood Avenue from John’s office (appropriately 118 steps from Canon’s, John’s favorite watering hole, a place that also served a divine Welsh rarebit and steaks).  The couple who picked me up was young.

“Where you headed young man?” he asked as the car made it through intersections heading east-south-east past the “State Hospital” which is a catch-all for the mentally ill, eternally homeless or basket cases, known as “lifers.”

“If you’re going all the way to Clover Street, that would be super.  I live near the corner of Clover and East Avenue,” I boldly announced at circus barker volume.

“Oh we can swing that way right honey?” she said, with a look that acted like a nudge. Leaned back and imagined I looked relaxed, even if running on 14-year-old testosterone.  Ten minutes later, maybe less, there we were, in the very green and well manicured neighborhood.

“Thank,” I said, closing the door of their white 19to AMC Ambassador. Funny door handles, kind of square, that pulled open like the latch to an old freezer, only sideways.

Thoughts, a mile-a-minute came into my head, as I had been given official license to do whatever I wanted.  I didn’t notice the walk home, past “Catholic row” where children outnumbered parents by an average of five to one.  I didn’t stop by to see Derek, Jim, John or David as I swung down Georgian Court, a road Mom called “The Gaza Strip.” She being resolutely ethnocentric and “World War II conservative.”

I hung a walking left onto Trevor Court, in a neighborhood (The Barnard Tract)n recently made famous in a book showing just how closed off one rich family was from the others, but this was never true for the kids, back in the 70s.  No. There were pick-up sports games in all three academic seasons.  Summer found us at Canandaigua Lake, visited by cousins, and many others.  The Martins next door got a summer spot near us at the lake also, but were not always at my parents big blow-out parties.  Then, in an act of coincidental synchronicity, the McQuaids bought the ranch house my dad had built by himself (minus plumbing and electricity) 25 years earlier.  It was south of us and on the east die of the lake, near Bare Hill, the Iroquois meeting place.

So, while two hockey rinks kept us skating in the winter (both the McQuaid and Baume kids built rinks every winter), hot-box baseball, soccer, lacrosse, touch football, and basketball kept us moving in the non-snowy months.  It was a type of heaven, but how could we guess that playing outside everyday would become a luxury, and often overlooked in favor of PC games, cellular phones and 2500 “friends” on Facebook?  I was in no way a jock like everyone else, but I still had a great time playing every day.

One the corner of Trevor Court and Georgian court Sandy lived, and he lived to play lacrosse, so he had a goal set up in his back yard. Even well into his 30s when he was home visiting he’d take a jog around the neighborhood with stick, ball and trusty golden retriever.  The guy could run forever, cradling, playing catch with his dog, or trying to set new records for the bounciness of a ball…distances measured in kilometers if the throw was straight enough.

Once in a while he’d miss a shot and a lacrosse ball would lodge in a place where he couldn’t find it in our back yard. Who knows how many months or years later a free lacrosse ball would be found.  I’d throw it into his yard, inevitably screwing up his lawn mowing.  He was about 8 years older so I didn’t know him very well.  He was not the champion jock though. One guy, who almost never joined us in the neighborhood sport because he was at the far end of Georgian Court ended up on the Olympic team and had a few great write ups.  But no write up was as famous as the McQuaids, who had six boys, an exact hockey lineup. Back when there were two papers in town, the Times Union, the evening paper, did a full color shot (rare then)and it turned out at least three of the McQuaids ended up great players.

I blew by my own house, and, taking Doc’s instructions a tad to literally, marched next door and found the Martin’s door unlocked.  I was in love with the older daughter, who was exactly my age, but plenty attracted to her younger sister as well. In 1972 unlocked houses were fairly common, as the robust 60s lowered the crime rate considerably.

So, using the “follow your heart” command I took my semi-psychotic self up to the attic, where parties with Mark and his older friends introduced all of us to better music, alcohol, marijuana and kissing.  There were drinking, smoking and kissing games, with variations that inevitably led to the older attendees laughing at the younger ones.

I don’t remember taking my clothes off, or how I ended up lifting a dropping the barbells that mad enough noise for Mr. Martin, who was home form work to pick up his youngest daughter, Cathy, who had come into the house without me hearing it, two stories up.  But he heard it and came up two flights with Cathy close behind.

“I wonder what that was,” she said, and I recognized the voice without realizing I was buck naked.

“Put your clothes on Barry, what’s going on” Mr. Martin asked, somewhere between furious and humored.

So I put my clothes on while Cathy stared right at my groin.

“Do you need a ride to the lake, we’re heading down now,” he said.  Now Mr. Martin was a second Dad.  He knew all about the emotional fights that emitted loud noises toward his kitchen door.  He hadn’t fully gotten over the times I had chased Ann all over the two yards and beyond trying to get a kiss.  “Kiss Tag” in my mind…terror in hers, I’m sure.

I refused the 45-mile ride out of embarrassment.  Canandaigua didn’t seem like a long way to hitch hike that day.  My mind was split between going to Canandaigua and the  idea that I was free to do anything that day, having been sprung from both parental and super-ego barriers, I was, by any measure, out of my mind.

Thus I didn’t remember how I walked a mile down east avenue to get to the I-490 Linden road on ramp.  And still don’t remember much about the man who got me as far as Victor, the philosophical, if not geographic halfway point to Canandaigua.  From there, another universally-sent ride got me to the northwest corner of the city of Canandaigua, located at the north end of the westernmost of the picaresque Finger lakes.  It was probably anything but a beautiful drive for the 50s couple who picked me up in Victor.  They would have left me by the cornfield on the far side of Boughton Hill if it was up to the driver.  But, the second happy-to-help lady in a row  saved the day.  She managed to get me calmed down enough so I could tell her I lived on West Lake Road, and it was at the beginning of this 20-mile road that I was dropped off.  I got out and started walking, but my outstretched thumb wasn’t working anymore.

A four mile walk is not bad for a 14-year-old, though I had been over 200 pounds since I was 10.  Between 19 and 29 I never felt fat, though hit 330 at one point.  At 29 a member of the International Peace Walk (we were trekking through Russia for peace) told me it was nice to “have a person of size” on the walk, and right then (15 years later) I felt fat; but no one noticed my size again for another 20 years (girlfriends and wives included) until I moved to Korea, where lookism and the horrible looks one gets if chubby are augmented by comments like this one:  I was sitting with a retired opera singer and her photographer husband in his restaurant “museum” in Damyang.  She was about 70 years old.  The very first thing she said to me was not “hello” or “Anyon Haseo, but, “when are you going to lose your weight?” I informed her that I had lost over 23 kilos (that’s over 50 pounds) in the last five years (taking me down to near 240 pounds) and at that point I thought she was going to faint.

But I progress.

I was distracted by a variety of colorful yet confusing items as diverse as a potato bug and an F-150 pick up whose driver missed me by inches while honking his horn.  Where was I the middle of the road?  His truck was white but appeared to change colors over and over after the near-hit.

So in a flat between rises, just before the Canandaigua Yacht Club, I switched to the left side of the road.  It was close to my beloved lake, and maybe I could see cars coming better.  The sun was also different in 1972, and the heat not so pervasive.  You could easily sail, and I did, all day bare-chested with numbered SPF sun goop on (since it hadn’t been invented).  In fact we put on baby oil or Coppertone to ATTRACT more sun.

The yacht club had the largest fleet of wooden-keeled catamarans in existence, as they made fantastic racing boats on a lake where the wind changed directions all the time due to the surrounding hills.

Barry Chapter One, Part XII

On the walk down the gravel driveway that served four “cottages” on Tichner’s Point I slipped and fell due to a small patch of moss, and that woke me up enough to be a little more presentable, emotionally, for the inevitable inquisitive “where is your father?” “How did you get here?” “Your hand is bleeding, let’s get some iodine on that, and a band-aid,” etc.  Mom, God bless her, had wigged-out multiple times by then, having suffered severe stress due to my younger brother being hospitalized at Strong Memorial Hospital for his first five years.  Oh Adam is a story in himself, and in Mom it caused “hyperactive micromanagement” fueled by regular alcohol ingestion a 50+ cigarettes a day nicotine fix, both habits her shrink called “self medication.” For what, back then, was called manic depression.  As if the Nembutal, Secanol, valium, etc. weren’t enough.  Turns out Mom’s brother became addicted to a variety of pills (handful at a time) due to bizarre misdiagnoses by one, two five, ten VA hospitals in the southeast.  Addiction. It runs in human dynamics as well.

Artists I know.

The featured art above is by ADAM NARCROSS, AND IS AMONG THE FIRST 20 OR SO PAINTINGS HE EXECUTED AS A SELF TAUGHT ARTIST.

Next let me plug an opening I have on Wednesday in Durham.  Go to:

https://50x50durham.splashthat.com/

Susan and Ben pown this one too. Hello in beantown

Susan and Ben own this one. Hello in beantown

This one was done about 1995.  It has been with them since they moved from Brooklyn to Boston about 8 years ago.

And here’s some art by other artists I’ve come to love.

The ducks fighting

Three ducks fighting

This piece is by Sergei Andreevski.  He’s one of the living masters, and hails from Macedonia.  I got it by sponsoring the No Boundaries Artist Colony back in 1998.

Lucky lucky lucky, as Andreevski put it on the cover of a number of catalogues since then.

Joey Howard, rose window

Joey Howard, rose window

Joey was the proprietor of Trace Gallery in Raleigh, back when freewheeling outrageous art was still seen in public in Raleigh.  His own incorporated found marterial, interesting concepts, and a lot of silicone to bring it all together.  Everyone I know misses Trace Gallery now, as that type of bohemian art scene has dried up around here.  Holy conformity batman.

Anna Podris

Anna Podris

Anna stil has a studio with her husband Keith Norval at Artspace in Raleigh.  Wow her stuff continues to soar from this point, which was over a decade ago.  She araely does watercolors anymore.  Shame that.

OK that’s enough for today.

peace

Doug

Art Music Poetry #94

Cartoon face from fourth grade reviited

Cartoon face from fourth grade revisited

To Be Human

 

is to fall in love over and over,

to never give up on any of them,

to cry for the inhumanity, and try to

overcome all that surrounds us by creating

a closeness with those in proximity, both

geographical and philosophical.  It is to

carry those loves in our heart, flooding our

minds no matter how gone they are.  And

to put others’ needs first, understand their

flaws, work on our own so we can be

better helpers.  It is to take it all in and

follow our dreams no matter how preposterous;

to pull apart another brown paper bag and

to write it all out, no matter how choppy.

So take my hand and make it all better

before I repeat the painful parts until

I can no longer act.  To struggle past

obstructions and obligations, self imposed and

expected; to wallow in joy, build strength and

change what we can for the better. To live, to give.

Art Music Poetry 87

Opus 1463 40 x 30  300 dpi - Copy

Opus 1463, 2004

Still Available!

And this is a very good one folks, a mere $600

Paradise Lost

Four sea lions scream on top of a
spire rock jutting off La Jolla Beach.
Square footage on top is less than that
of the yelpers, but physics gets weirder
as you realize that the rock is over twenty
feet above sea level. Even if this is a
record low, high tide would leave a solid
fifteen feet to ascend. So humans gather
and marvel, seaweed swaying, as breakers push.
Surfers ride four footers left or right. Hang
gliders, golfers and Eucalyptus mingle in
weather so perfect, even in winter, the only
hard question is “shorts or no shorts?” Compare
to Haiti, or Africa, or Nicaragua. As we lurch
toward uninhabitability, should we pray or play?
If banning red meat, automobiles and coal means
saving life on earth, what are we waiting for?
These solutions are easier to determine than
how the Sea Lions learned rock climbing, yet,
since money rules, none will be forthcoming.

Art Music Poetry #85, featuring a brand new poem

Opus 1494, 2006

Opus 1494, 2006

To Be Human

 

is to fall in love over and over,

to never give up on any of them,

to cry for the inhumanity, and try to

overcome all that surrounds us by creating

a closeness with those in proximity, both

geographical and philosophical.  It is to

carry those loves in our heart, flooding our

minds no matter how gone they are.  And

to put others’ needs first, understand their

flaws, work on our own so we can be

better helpers.  It is to take it all in and

follow our dreams no matter how preposterous;

to pull apart another brown paper bag and

to write it all out, no matter how choppy.

So take my hand and make it all better

before I repeat the painful parts until

I can no longer act.  To struggle past

obstructions and obligations, self imposed and

expected; to wallow in joy, build strength and

change what we can for the better. To live, to give.

Written August 28, 2015

Art Music Poetry 62

Kicevo OPus 1682 or so IMG_3889

One made at the 2009 Kicevo, Macedonia Art colony

 

Great Expectations

 

Great expectations – great?

But what when the obvious happens?

A predictable animal grasps you

And throws you to the ground.

 

Thoughts of how nice it would be if . . .

Then they vanish like a dream when you wake up.

 

A floating reality teases your mind,

It is there but it may never reach you.

 

Written at age 12.

Poetry Anthology Call For Submissions, tight deadline

Please send 5 poems or less via email to dougstuber@gmail.com

We will consider translations, previously published work, with proper and full acknowledgments.

If accepted 5 books is your pay.

IMG_4786

Heron Clan I sold 1000 copies, #2 sold 700 so far.

You the poets will be selling these books at your readings.

The cover price is usually four times the cost.  Hence, you

will have a chance to order more AFTER the original batch you

give away or  sell online.  There will be an online ordering site,

keep 10 or so on  hand for future readings

Again first five are on me,and there is no need

to order more.

JANUARY 30 DEADLINE, nearly tomorrow.

The Heron Clan is now made up of Ed Lyons Richard Smyth and Doug Stuber.

Once you’ve been accepted into two anthologies you’re an automatic lifetime

member that allows you to haggle with us about what to put into the upcoming

anthologies.  (or not, your participation level is completely up to you).

Be appraised,number one came out in 1999,and number two was in 2006.

However,now that I am back in the USA, and with an ever-growing clan,

One per year remains a distinct target.

We run 132 pages, maybe more, and poets get from one to 10 poems published.

(But I am only sending in 5? you might ask) and that’s because some of these poets

have been waiting 7 years for the book to come out,and I can’t really cut what they already

earned.  So this public offering is limiting the top number of poems that get in to 5.

Hurry.

Doug

Paradelle for James

James at a Kia Game

James at a Kia Game

Paradelle for James

Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
Routine runs to laugh behind the flake-barked tree.
Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
Whitey, my son’s dog, darts to freedom, breaks his heart.
Whitey barked “freedom,” breaks routine, the darts flake.
My son’s laugh, his heart behind, runs to the dog tree.
Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
Thick lips expect extra attention when cold weather arrives.
He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
He is so pure he gets awards that proclaim “angelic.”
Angelic lips proclaim extra weather. He arrives, gets attention.
That cold, so thick: expect awards when he is pure.
He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
He always asks questions that stimulate even this old mind.
When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
When spring arrives we throw balls, talk sports, eat strawberries.
Always stimulate balls that mind strawberries. This spring, when
He asks, throw old questions, mind sports, talk, even eat.
He runs, asks routine questions, gets extra freedom, balls behind
Strawberries’ pure lips. Expect to laugh, Whitey to stimulate
Spring to sports. The flake always arrives. This old dog barked.
Cold weather breaks his heart, thick mind darts, my
Son’s always angelic. Proclaim when tree awards attention.
When we throw, talk, eat, he is so that, he even that.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

The Man Who Solved All Problems

The Man Who Solved All Problems

He didn’t have a driver’s license; he rode his bike each day.
Someone ran him down last week and Minh is here to say:
“I lost a friend just this last Tuesday, Baek, Jeong Seon by name.
He was a genius, visited by men from Seoul who came to learn.”
Baek knew that earth was running out of its ability to nourish,
So he caused no carbon exhaust, an example, but who followed?
They knew his math, they new his face, his children can only
Remember. His wife waits with tea and drinks but fresh flowers
Do not prevail. This man was quite unknown to me, as you can
Tell by now. The drivers in this “me first” town did not slow
For him. One ran him down in what was described as a type
Of trance. Imagine how the children felt when they heard the
Thud. What will their emotions feel when all grown up and
Some yellow bus goes by? When they are parents they will
Not tell this awful story. Still, their hearts will have a special
Place reserved for that day in March. Professor M. somehow
Sits at a resort to brighten up “M.T.” Surely his friend would
Wish it so. He hides anger, sadness, grief, stays strong and full
Of fun. Maybe now he will take the time to write a line or two;
Or sit and stare because he cares, which is what he’s meant to do.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Eveline Braak

Eveline Braak

Her face is Bergmanesque, she paints like Calder might,
Had he grown around Utrecht. She doesn’t blame
When men trip and fall around her. She smiles, asks
Questions, searches for their souls and then decides.

As a traveler, unlikely to walk the route again, I
Had a chance. As a guide for 30 days the chance
Evaporated due to possible entanglements. How’s that
For Dutch? One hundred percent tolerant, but private.

Those “other fish” we hear about often swim away.
My heart swells and drops like tides every day.
But this is just November, Christmas sets in soon: the day
Those blood-drenched barons try not to act like goons.

When paint flows like a waterfall, love gushes off the edge.
No one knows when life will end, but I make this pledge:
That no matter what you need, no matter where you are
I will find a way to nudge you toward your highest dream.

She poses for the camera, she smiles at football games,
She has the magic that I seek. Eveline comes from royalty.
The type that work the land. Anyone who finds her
Will fall in love. A creative fish may one day hook her yet.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2002. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.