The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I was chatting it up with a couple of fellow artists down at the South End Galleria this week, comparing notes on aesthetic strategies, bizness practices, encounters with philistines and other assorted moral hazards of the art trade. The sculptor among us avowed how he chose to eschew my public art avenue and regaled us with tales of clients and looky loos, folks who might suggest that rather than pay full price they could check Ebay or Etsy for fabulous deals, as if that original stone carving might be had from WalMart for hefty discounts.

We artists love displaying our wounds and scars from the Culture Wars. I mentioned how I lacked bizness acumen and so public art took me out of those sorts of encounters … to which our gallery owner mentioned being a finalist three times for public art commissions only to lose. ‘No prizes for runner-up,’ I said. ‘No Miss Congeniality either.’ Afterwards I started adding up my own losses over the years, something around a dozen. You get a small stipend for a design, maquettes, plane fare, motel, car rental, etc., usually less than what you spend and zero for your work. It’s a tough racket and after a couple of second place finishes, plenty of artists quit throwing their hats in the ring. Me, I got plenty of hats.

My first loss, a fire station entry against a famous Seattle glass artist with a buddy on the jury who gave him helpful hints at our site visit, left me feeling like the game was rigged. But instead of quitting I took my 4 foot by 3 foot glass model, cut a hole in my shop wall and installed it in front of my work table, a wound I could salt every damn day, a reminder that I needed to up my game.

What I’ve learned over a few decades of competition is that it isn’t always fair, it is sometimes rigged, the juries are occasionally a sham, an opponent may actually be better than you and lose … or vice versa. Art in the public arena is a bloodsport. I try to accept the losses and thank my lucky stars for the commissions I win. Mostly I’m glad I stuck it out. And best of all, nobody’s going on Ebay and finding a cheap substitute. Yet.

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I was in the South End Trader Jimbo’s the other day looking for those hard-to-get-down-here items in their Land O’Yuppie aisles. Somehow I got waylaid by the organic pine nuts. Organic? Are we growing pine trees in nitrate infused woods now? Further down the aisle I found gluten free kettle corn trumpeting stuff that never had gluten in the first place. Not only that, they were guaranteed nut-free. The products, not Trader Jimbo. When I turned the corner, drove past the chutneys and the soft cheeses, I discovered Aisle 6, the no preservative, no additive, no GMO, no growth hormone, no antibiotic, no gluten, no soy, no MSG, no transfat, no caged animal row. About middle of the aisle there were three cans in a pyramid. Cave water. 12 ounces for $10.95. I took all three. Just so the row would be immaculate for a moment.

A friend of mine has a futon mattress that contains organic cotton. Softer maybe, like his head. Course I grew up with virgin wool — as if I care what the sheep do at night. These are dangerous times. Who knows what’s in those nettles I’ve been brewing beer with? They don’t come with an organic certification and what with acid rain precipitating out from Chinese pollution, I may be toxifying myself inadvertently. My entire garden may well be a seeping cesspool of multi-syllabic compounds from the prevailing winds of Seattle and Gomorrah or contaminated from the tailings and runoffs of the South End industrial era. Natural? That’s no longer a designation to give anyone peace of mind. No government certification for natural, pal.

They tell me our water has elevated levels of natural arsenic. The neighbors on water systems filtrate for that and other minerals. We’re on our own well. Which means just that, we’re on our own. Forget worrying about contaminated nettles in my homebrew. The water’s got poison in it.

So where do you go to find the purity we so desperately seek? Where do you retreat to escape the toxic leaching of modern society? And where can a yahoo go to avoid the steady drip drip drip of new warnings, new labels, new GMO salmon species, new BMO milk products, new irradiated foods, new afflictions? The South End??? Sorry, we got the bio-hazard tape across the road now. No wonder people are signing up for the Mars mission. Even if it is one way only.

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Little Walter, Big Walter’s oldest boy, was sucking on a Marlboro, one boot up on the chrome bumper of Harry’s newly restored ’64 Nova, waving his can of Pabst in the ketone-laced atmosphere of the Tyee Paint and Body Shop. He was addressing the assembled masses on this particular Friday afternoon, the boyz’ favorite day. Not because it signified the end of a work week; after all, most of us layabouts are unemployed, self-employed or just employment challenged. Naw, we just like to remember when Friday was PayDay and Friday night was a night of freedom. Now everyday is a day of freedom and it seems like a form of subtle slavery.

“This country,” Little Walt was saying, “went down the crapper when we started giving people all this free stuff. Socialism, that’s what it’s called, and it killed folks’ incentive to work.” Little Walter has been unemployed for most of his adult life. He’s currently laid off from the hardwood mill over in Arlington and for the past year he’s been living off the unemployment comp he gets plus some loans from his old man. Big Walter isn’t happy about this, but he places the blame squarely on the ‘ruined’ economy. He let the boy live in the spare bedroom of his double-wide and now he has to feed the kid too and fight over what programs they watch on his 50 inch flat screen entertainment center. They both have beefs.

“You talking about that tax break we gave Boeing?” Terry asked. Terry is the kind of guy who, if he knows someone is a hypochondriac, asks them how their health is, what we on the South End call a Pot Stirrer. He doesn’t really take a side, he just wants to light a fire.

“Hell no, I’m not talking about a tax break!! I’m talking about giving these people who don’t work for a living everything they need to keep on not working for a living, that’s what I’m talking about.” He crushed his Pabst can in his right hand and beer foamed out the top and onto Harry’s new paint job. Harry said Hey Man and Walter grabbed his dirty handkerchief and quickly wiped off the suds.

Terry said, “You must be talking about those people on unemployment compensation then. Folks sitting around drinking and not looking for honest work. You mean people like that?”

Well, you can maybe guess where that conversation went. It’s just another day loitering on the South End, debating the issues of our time, nothing much better to do than drink beer and chit chat with the neighbors. Somewhere else they got wars and refugees, they got terrorists and beheadings. People starve, people are killed, people live hand to mouth. I don’t know much, but I know this. Things here aren’t too bad, they aren’t really bad at all. You ask me, and I know you’d hate to, it seems like complaining is damn close to a sin.

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Nobody seems to like growing old. Can’t blame em, I guess when you factor in the aches and pains, the wrinkles and hair loss, the diminished mobility. Well, almost nobody, cause I don’t mind. Sure, I got the same ailments, but hellfire, you ought to pay SOME price for all this accumulated wisdom, for some peace of mind, for a more stable financial grip on this hard world.

My brother’s father-in-law, a dairy farmer in Northern Wisconsin who knew a few things about Hard Living, told him at a ripe young age to quit worrying about money. Money, he said, takes care of itself. You’d be better off to tackle the rest. Love, marriage, family, career, happiness. My brother, being young, didn’t believe him until he too was older and wiser.

We used to value maturity. We used to respect the accumulated wisdom of all those years of living. We used to pay homage to our elders. Now that I’m an elder, I sure wish we still did. But we don’t. We value youth, energy, good looks, clean skin, svelte bodies, shimmering hair. We’re a bit superficial. Okay, we’re TOTALLY skin deep. We’d sell our souls to be beautiful, to be athletic, to be rich. If I was the devil, boy oh boy, I’d be banking more souls than I’d have rooms to rent in Hell. I’d be building infrared suburbs, you bet. Plenty of beauty parlors, fitness centers, spas, sports injury treatment facilities, so many mirrors a 60 watt bulb would heat the place up to full sizzle.

You reach my advanced age, you ought to pat yourself on the back. You probably figured most things out. You must’ve learned plenty from all those mistakes. You should’ve learned to live in your own skin. When kids ask who your heroes are, tell them YOU are. It’s not egotistical. It should be the truth.

The truth is, we got this far. Meaning, we had a hearty dose of living, our fair share…. We learned a thing or three. We witnessed the world. We even changed it a bit, don’t underestimate yourself. Pass some of it on to the young’uns. They might listen. More than you think. Just don’t wish you were them, young and starting out fresh. Why go through that twice?

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I was in a courthouse recently, one built one hundred years ago. Marble stairs, oak banisters, historical murals, mosaics, paintings, stained glass windows, monumental columns… a temple, really, to the abstract notion of justice and laws. We used to erect our public edifices with more than concrete and mortar —- we built them with the idea that they represented our values, our hopes and our optimism for a grandiose future. Great societies do this. Their architecture and their art reflect this confidence in what they believe, in what they accomplished, in what they still hope to achieve and pass down to the next generations.

Nowadays I see libraries in dead storefronts, I see city halls in re-imagined office buildings, I see schools that are half trailers. Maybe this is fiscal frugality writ large. But I worry this is nothing more than a shrinking vision of the future, a hardening of societal pessimism or worse, a loss of hope that the path ahead leads to better times.

I put art in public buildings, a latter day Leonardo in an era where grand statements are looked at with suspicion or outright disdain. At a recent public discussion on our plans for a new fire station headquarters, the fire commissioners were concerned the building might look to the the taxpayers a bit, oh, too opulent. Better to cut out any amenities, any architectural flourishes and certainly any art. Wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of an overburdened citizenry.

God forbid! Better to play it safe, shrink down the vision, quash the aesthetic, go bare bones. Forget any archaic notion of the inspirational, abandon all pretense of grandeur, huddle in the 60 watt darkness of a wasting vision. The empty Wal-Marts can be our schools, abandoned Safeways can be outfitted as City Halls and the rest, well, like our sheriff’s station, drag in a pre-fab box. The taxpayer is supreme and they need the savings for Lotto and the flag they fly out in the lawn rain or shine, puerile patriots to the outdated fiction of a now plasticized Rome.

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