30 January 2013

Ten New Pieces


Today was a nearly perfect Spring day in Atlanta. It was a little cloudy but damn near perfect otherwise, considering especially that it is in fact January and should seem anything other than like Spring!  Tonight is even better, complete with a warm, tentative rain and a strange sticky fog creeping through the street light.  If I could coax a lightning storm out of these clouds, this pristine illusion would be absolute.  The weather is making me anxious (in a good way) for the actual changing of the seasonal guard – pitchers on patios, street festivals and early pollen clouds. As per my usual, that’s not exactly what I sat down to write about.  I want to talk about art.

I’ve been busy.  My studio is overflowing and I don’t see an end in sight honestly.  I feel good about what I’m doing now and the flurry I produced towards the end of last year as well.  Most of these pieces are making their internet debut but I have posted snippets here and there along the way. At the risk of sounding overly thus, I am proud of the work and I am starting to finally feel comfortable calling it “the work”.  For the first time in a long time this weekend, I sat down and looked at the canvas I had just finished and thought, “Damn.  That doesn’t suck.”  Admittedly, there are a couple here and there that I monkeyed with for weeks before I could call them finished and one or two I’m still not sure about.  One in particular is a lot heavier than the others – not in a spiritual sense mind you.  It is physically heavier due to the excessive amount of paint applied again and again and again and yet again until I was convinced.  I’m cool with that. 

Someone asked me once how I title my paintings.  I didn’t have and still don’t have a solid answer to that question.  I typically have an idea in mind when I initiate a new canvas, but I don’t always and don’t think I should completely know what the hell I’m going to do when I sit down or stand up to paint.  If there is any redeeming value to what I do it is that it is 95% instinctual.  I let the paint tell me what it wants to be.  That sounds like a steaming pile I know, but it is in fact accurate.  Ideas are never fully developed if they simply remain ideas – the beauty of making art for me is the making of it.  I’m rarely as satisfied with the finished product as I am with the process of making it.  If I have even a vague idea of what I want to say on the canvas, it will reveal itself eventually.  As such, these are all working titles.  The fact of the matter is that giving them titles at all is the height of arrogance on my part.  In an ideal world, whatever it is that you see in the piece is its name.

As I’ve said before, I’m a complete hack when it comes to photographing art – my apologies.  If you like these pieces check out more mediocre photographs of my art at johncstantzart.com.   (Eventually I will update my website, but posting them here was a lot easier tonight.)  Not that you would feel any different if you were to do so, but I urge you to come see what I do in person.  You can’t appreciate any art (however debatable you might think that description of what I do is) unless you see it face to face.  My door is always open. 



written
11.17.2012
11” x 14”
acrylic on canvas
$75.00


face
11.28.2012
10” x 10”
acrylic on canvas
$50.00


bloodshot
11.21.2012
12” x 12”
acrylic on canvas
$65.00


dialogue
12.05.2012
11” x 14”
acrylic on canvas
Not For Sale


morning
12.16.2012
24” x 12”
acrylic on canvas
$150.00

solar
01.19.2013
16” x 20”
acrylic on canvas
$160.00


overlap
01.20.2013
12” x 36”
acrylic on canvas
$215.00


firefly
01.21.2013
12” x 36”
acrylic on canvas
$215.00


clarity
01.26.2013
36” x 24”
acrylic on canvas
$450.00


bodies
01.27.2013
24” x 36”
acrylic on canvas
$500.00

So this is what I’ve been up to since festival last.  Hopefully, there will be at least ten more before the next one.  Speaking of, the next time I’ll be public is Inman Park in April (though it’s yet to be official).  I hope to do at least eight ATL festivals this year and I hope to see you all at every one.  Meantime, Go.  Make.  Art.  

It is necessary and important.    

27 January 2013

Band of Dead


There is an ongoing conversation in my house and in my mind lately – a distracting, I-have-to-come-to-a-conclusion-at-some-point, constantly-thought-occupying, one-sided conversation: a discussion of sorts; of a sort I haven’t had in a long time (with myself) and of little consequence to anything that actually matters.  It’s a rock ‘n’ roll thing, spawned by an innocent, offhanded disillusionment with XM Hair Nation.  I know, right?  How can that be?  I was blessed (or cursed, depending on your state of mind) to have come of age in the late ‘80s.  As a result, I have an unnatural affection for a lot of bands that most of you have never heard of.  I’m not only okay with that – I prefer it.  Is it weird that Killer Dwarfs occupy space on my iPod?  Most definitely, but that’s what’s what.  I’m pleased beyond belief that you don’t know who Gorky Park is, that you don’t remember Keel, and Krokus, and what it was like to be 15 years old in Mississippi.  I do though, so buckle up.

The question posed to me was quite simple.  She had no idea how confounding it would be.  “I don’t like all of the bands, but I like something about all of them.”  That’s a positive but I wasn’t prepared for the next.  “I wish I could take what I like about all of them and put them in one band.”  Really?  Why have I never thought of this?  “If you had to assemble the perfect metal band, who would be in it?”   Again, really?  Do you understand the pressure that puts on me?  Living or dead?  There are way too many undefined parameters for me to answer that question.  (Yes, I’m aware of the false gravity I placed on this situation.) For the record, that is a helluva thing for YOU to say to ME…but allow me to retort.

Since there were no boundaries placed, I will place at least one – they have to be dead.  My reasoning being, that if we are going down this fantastic path then we should go all the way.  We should explore all historical possibilities and not reside in the commonplace.  If we are asking this question, then let’s ask it in a manner befitting its relevance, right?

Where to start?

The obvious is the rhythm section.  Quick, name the best dead metal drummer ever!  Eric Carr?  He does get props for his involvement with KISS but that’s not the band I’m putting together.  John Bonham?  Again, wrong genre.  Keith Moon?  Yeah, he was a freak. And if he would have lived long enough to see it, he would have been the perfect drummer for my fictitious metal band.  If anyone, outside of the usual suspects, would have understood it, Moon would have.  Also, I feel it imperative to reiterate that this list isn’t the “best” musicians – it’s the best dead Heavy Metal musicians list.  For me, if I’m starting a band of dead metal guys, and I’ve determined that I start with a drummer then I go with RazzleNicholas "Razzle" Dingley.  If you are near or around my age, then you surely remember that Razzle was the anonymous (at the time) dude that Vince Neil killed in his Ferrari on his way to the liquor store that night way back when.  Hanoi Rocks remains in constant rotation for me.  When Razzle died on Sunset, HR was a world more important to me than Motley was or ever has been, really.  That’s my dead drummer – Razzle.

You have to die like a rock star to be on this list too, by the way.  So who’s next?  Bass?  If I were starting a band of any sort right this second, I would try to contact Les Claypool.  Unfortunately, that dude’s not dead.  (Fortunately, actually – Primus makes me happy)  John Entwistle of the Who is dead though and he is a solid candidate.  I feel that that their involvement in popular music eliminates ‘Twis from the conversation.  Favorite dead bass player? Phil Lynott of Thin Lizzy.  A black, Irish rock star?  Yep.    

But, there really is only one option for me to hold down the low end of my mania and it is none other than the saint of all (4) strings – Clifford Lee "Cliff" Burton, Metallica’s original bassist.  Cliff not only gave us the epic joy that is Anesthesia (Pulling Teeth) he gave me a belief in all things metal.  His death precipitated mandatory Metallica for me out of tribute.  His style wasn’t even conducive to the band he was in much less the band that I’m trying to recreate but I can’t discount him.  Cliff was a rock star and he died like one before he ever knew that he was.  If a prerequisite for being in this band is rock star death, he wins.  On the evening of September 26, 1986, Burton won the hand of poker, thereby winning the first choice of bunk and pointed at Kirk Hammett and screamed "I want your bunk!" Hammett apparently replied "Fine, take my bunk, I'll sleep up front, it's probably better up there anyway". Burton was sleeping shortly before 7:00 AM when, according to the driver, the bus skidded off the road and flipped onto the grass in rural southern Sweden.  Cliff was thrown through the window of the bus, which fell on top of him snuffing the life of this brilliant musician.  You want to be in my imaginary metal band?  Yep.  I stop just short of saying the world would have been a better place if Kirk had won that hand.

We are halfway there, if you believe as I do that a rock ‘n’ roll band of any consequence is a (4) piece.  Sure, there have been significant (3)’s and I might even be going for a fiver so…

I’ve always whispered subliminally to anyone who was aware that I would give my soul to play guitar like Mark Knopfler.  I can’t.  As much as I pretend to practice his skill set, I know I will never get there.  His is a different conversation.  Warren DiMartini in my opinion was the most underrated of the ‘80s metal guitar players and one of my faves.  He’s not dead either though so who is it going to be?  Dimebag Darrell?  Viable, yes but not what I’m looking for.  Stevie Ray Vaughn fits the bill in some respects but he’s not it.  There can only be one dead guitarist in my metal band and that’s Randall William "Randy" Rhoads.  I can’t be (25) again but Randy will always be just that and he will always be that strange little hetero nymph to Ozzy’s bizarre counterpoint.  Randy was still in Quiet Riot when Ozzy left Black Sabbath and was auditioning guitarists for his solo project.    Osbourne was drunk and actually passed out during the audition, but later described Rhoads' playing as "God entering my life".  Randy was classically trained and the classical scales and arrangements he employed translated through a rock ‘n’ roll filter were indeed mind-blowing.  I didn’t understand at the time that Rhoads was a genius – I’m still discovering that actually.  In the spring of 1982 before a show in Orlando, the tour bus driver took Randy and his hairstylist up in a (3) seat, single prop for a “joy ride”.  During the flight, attempts were made to "buzz" the tour bus where the other band members were sleeping.  They succeeded twice, but the third attempt failed. The left wing clipped the back side of the tour bus, tore the fiberglass roof then sent the plane spiraling. The plane severed the top of a pine tree and crashed into the garage of a nearby mansion, bursting into flames. Rhoads was killed instantly. How very rock ‘n’ roll, eh?

I’m going to break my own rule here because if I’m honest, there is only one guitar player in my band, only one living guitar player in my Band of Dead and that is Saul “Slash” HudsonHe made being out of tune cool.  He made Axl less of a prick.  He is the reason I started smoking.  (Yes that’s embarrassing)  I’ll submit this little factoid – if Slash (or someone with a similar spirit mirror) isn’t in your band, you’re not making it.  I could wax on and on about it…if you don’t know, you should.  If you do, then you do.  The fact of the matter is that I would rather be in a band with Slash than with any other on this list (unless of course that other is Joe Strummer)  I'm tentative at best when it comes to guitar players.

This is where I get especially troubled – who would my perfect lead singer be?  There are way too many contenders for that spot.  Ronnie James Dio is the obvious leader of the pack in this musical context but a little dark for this endeavor.  Layne Staley.  Bon Scott.  Joey Ramone.  Kurt Cobain. Bradley Nowell. All are great in their own right but not a match for this band.   There are only (2) choices in my estimation and my internal battle is cage-match epic - Richard Shannon Hoon or Bobby Durango?

Durango was the lead singer of Rock City Angels, a band that I stumbled upon in high school.  They were from south Florida, but had been exiled to Memphis from L.A. when their label scrapped their original debut and made them write all new material.  When they were recording Young Man’s Blues in the winter of ’88, my buddies and I would see them hanging around behind Rum Boogie or the Daisy and once we helped load their gear into the van.  It was an awesome thing for a kid to actually meet members of a band, any band.  I heard all of those songs through the back doors of random clubs that I wasn’t old enough to get into through the front.  So when that album came out later that year, I already knew all of the words and I still listen to it at least once a week.  A lot of the music I grew up on doesn’t hold up over time – most of it wasn’t that good to begin with, but RCA’s music does.  It’s still relevant and doesn’t sound dated.  It was an aggressive mix of punk and glam.  Durango sang of rebellion, failed relationships, the underground culture in which he existed and represented.  He died last summer and the details of his death have still not been made public.  This fact alone precludes him from membership in this band and that’s a damn shame.  

Blind Melon wasn’t exactly metal but they were an incredible rock band.  Shannon Hoon’s vocal over those intricate, layered arrangements is a thing of exceptional musical beauty.  In ’92 when their first record was released they were not on my radar – I was more into Soundgarden and Alice in Chains.   Once I got over the fact that I thought Blind Melon was a hippy band, I finally bought the record in the spring of ’93.  I was instantly blown away.  I hadn’t heard anything like it before but I knew right away that I had my summer soundtrack.   As a bonus some of the band was from Mississippi and Hoon was from Indiana.  In October of 1995, I had tickets to see them at Tipitina’s in New Orleans but never got the chance.  On my way to work that morning on the day of the show, I noticed a tour bus parked in a parking lot off of St. Charles.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, Shannon Hoon lay inside said bus.  Dead from a cocaine overdose.   That sucked.  I would have loved to have heard what he might have said next.      

It’s a funny thing how deeply music affects people, myself in particular.  It’s borderline obsessive that I’ve written this blog but I feel a heck of a lot better having evacuated these thoughts from my head.  These (4) musicians had very little in common in life other than the fact that they all died before they got old.  Their musical styles were all different.  Their personalities probably wouldn’t have blended and I’m pretty sure that Cliff would’ve kicked everybody’s ass just on general principle but it would have been interesting to see the music they would have made together.  So there you have it, my Band of Dead.  Maybe some day I will tackle the mountainous task of forming a super-group of living rock stars.  Maybe.









    


   





























Razzle 2 December 1960 – 8 December 1984 

Cliff 10 February 1962 – 27 September 1986

Randy 6 December 1956 – 19 March 1982

Shannon 26 September 1967 – 21 October 1995


"I know we can't all stay here forever, so I want to write my words on the face of today. And they'll paint it." 

            -- Shannon Hoon

06 January 2013

Yet Another Brand New Year


I trend towards the overly optimistic this time of year.  It’s another new beginning, right?  I love the springtime for that same reason but I’ve always considered the start of a new year as more of a rebirth scenario than even spring.  What I don’t think I ever understood was why I felt the need to have a rebirth scenario at all.  There is no reason to wish for a do-over if you do it right the first time.  But that is exactly what I thought every New Year celebration was supposed to be – an opportunity to correct that which I had screwed up in year prior.  I wrote about this idea extensively about a year ago in a similar blog.  Reading that post today, I couldn’t help but be struck by the obvious lack of support or justification for my ambitious optimism.  Not that blind faith in oneself or in of itself is a bad thing but blind faith of any variety has never been a concept that I could or at least would allow myself to embrace.  But I think that I had allowed the events preceding the writing of the aforementioned blog to force me into an existential corner – a fight or flight situation of an intellectual and emotional sort.  As a result, 2012 soon became for me ‘the year of me’. 

I had made a possibly unconscious decision at the end of my last relationship that I was going to do what I wanted to only – exactly anything and everything that I wanted to do.  Yes, it started as a selfish reaction to a negative experience but I soon realized that I had unwittingly resolved to just be me for maybe the first time in my life if I’m completely honest with myself.  I questioned everything, took nothing off the table.  About me, my choices in life, past loves, my career, whatever – all of it.  Everything that I thought the world thought I was and everything I thought I was supposed to be and everything else in between.  I had an intense desire to discover about myself that which had made my path less than straight. 

It was a good year.  My career accelerated at a pace that I never thought possible.  I finally got licensed.  I finally got officially promoted to the position I had embraced long before it was mine.  I’m more financially stable now than I’ve been maybe ever.  I finally went public with my art again and it’s been a success in every possible way.  My writing has improved.  I’m able to say things I never thought I had the voice to say.  I command respect from the room when I’m in a room full of more important, more successful douche bags.  I’m able to own my past and be at peace with it and more importantly to not second guess it.  To not second guess me, period.  To be open and honest and caring and genuinely concerned about not just the people in my life that I love but anyone that I meet.  I’ve learned to not only listen but to hear what other people are saying.  I’ve allowed myself to admit that I’m not perfect and that I should have never tried to be.  I’m okay now.  I’m me.  I’ve come full circle from where I started just to know that annoyingly uncomplicated fact. 

At this beginning of yet another brand new year, I’ve discovered what should be, must be the most obvious underpinning ruling construct of the human condition.  I’ve determined that all the goals and hopes and dreams and expectancies about my life that I hold dear to my heart like a badge are predicated by and dependant upon this one simple, pure suggestion:  Be a person who doesn’t suck.  Ultimately, everything else will fall into place if you can look at your reflection in the mirror and honestly say, “You don’t suck.”  You know what?  I don’t suck. 

At the end of this year of self-discovery, on the last leg of my existential quest to be the last one standing or whatever I met someone.  She will come to understand in time that I am in fact a crazy person and I’m okay with that.  I’m passionate about art and music and football and politics and people and love – and when I am, I’m ridiculous.  When I’m in the zone creatively, I pace and curse and chain-smoke and drink.  I laugh too loud at the wrong things all too often.  I talk to my dogs like they’re human.  I’m emotional.  I’m inappropriate.  I’m in a hurry.  I love curves and straight lines and Tuesdays and jars of paint and denim and clean sheets and baseball hats and street sweepers and bus fumes and the homeless.  I love being surprised and scared and nervous and overwhelmed and Lynyrd Skynrd and Black Sabbath and Georgia Satellites and creek banks.   I’m a dreamer and a skeptic and a fool and a believer.  I love early ‘90s gangster rap and making art and listening to old women talk and Adolf Hitler documentaries and puppies and sunsets and the color green and silence and mud and serial killers and Billie Holiday and whispering and screaming and holding hands and crunching leaves and nonsense and fire and chainsaws and naps.  I love the darkness and the light and the shadows between.  I love knowing the difference and being out of town and the call and the response.  I love the pause before something important.  I believe that pre-gaming NWA can get me through any client meeting unscathed.  I believe in mercy and judgment and Pringles and coming home and leaving and what my parents say.  I love distortion and clarity and daydreams and yesterday and tomorrow and forward and rumors and truth and condescension and facts and legends and being young and memory.   I can be an obnoxious, self-centered asshole and I’m not afraid that any of that will scare her away.  I’m 40 years old.  I could lose a few pounds and I should probably have a haircut and a shave, but I am finally the best case scenario me.  If ever there was a perfect time for us to meet, it is now. 

I wrote at the beginning of last year that the fruit is ripe with hope and promise.  I had no reason to believe that statement to be true at that point in my life, but I knew that I believed it for whatever reason; maybe it was in fact the blind faith I’d always rejected.  At this new beginning, my eyes are wide open and I believe that the fruit is truly ripe with hope and promise – for all the right reasons.