The Search for Roswellian Art - an Encounter of the Art Kind
Every Fourth of July is the anniversary of not just our country's independence but the hypothetical crash of a flying disc near a desert town in New Mexico. This event did not just put this small American town on the map but gave it a special global identity. For decades what happened outside of town in the desert was "classified" - top secret - by the military. Books document how the townspeople were forced to take oaths of silence - for the patriotic sake of insuring the nation's security against its Cold War enemies - OR ELSE! The X-files TV series popularized the incident as one cloaked in secrecy and mired with conspiracy. Over fifty years later the lips of surviving old timers are still sealed. Like other WWII veterans, they are rapidly dying off. So there is now an urgent global appetite for the truth, a swelling curiosity as to just what actually happened on that faithful night in 1947. The answers could lead to an expanded understanding as to who WE are. Aging Baby Boomers want to know as life gets shorter.
Pygoya on 08.31.06 @ 10:49 AM EST [more..]
Most, if not all, the paintings of the white series I mentioned in the last blog have stories that bind me to the people who bought them and help keep both the painting and the person present in the continuum I call My Life. One such story concerns a lady who showed up at the gallery towards the end of the first week and lingered on until I took the paintings down. She was particularly struck by a piece titled ‘The Labyrinths of Happiness’ and the little hand-made booklet that hung alongside it with the equivalent chapter from the larger text ‘The Bridges of Utopia’ that I had written for the exhibition. 
This afternoon, I sat in the shade under my pergola, and nearly wept as my wife approached with lunch on a tray. The two wrought iron chairs and the little table, covered with thick layers of green paint, made me think of Natalie Edgar and Philip Pavia. In the fall, I’d been over to where they were living, and they’d given me this set they had used for many years, for breakfast on their balcony. They also gave me two Venetian glass chandeliers, and, now as I sit thinking about it, the most troubling gift of all – Philip’s tool box, with all his palette knives, his pencils, his chalks, measuring sticks, and coils of aluminum armature wire.
