However, my most recent trip proved much more enjoyable as I was able to spend my time admiring the doodlings of another impatient customer who took advantage of his wait augmenting the mugshots of the FBI’s criminal posters. It’s juvenile and pedestrian but hey, all the best things in life usually are. Enjoy!

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For more great artwork got to: http://highschoolart.blogspot.com/

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In addition to the flair of the deliberate and highly stylized lettering that incorporates arrows, inverted crosses and underlined letters to draw attention to certain words and phrases, there are also compositional elements that beg further notice. While the author uses individual boxes for each separate idea, the intentional placement of each geometrical shape and it’s spatial relationship to the others creates a somewhat disjointed flow that reinforces scattered feelings and message of his manifesto.

My favorite passage, however, recounts his early childhood years with the Harlem Globe Trotters and Harry Truman’s prophetic words that the Japanese “started the war, ” ultimately sending him to San Francisco for “Chinese eyes.”

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Apparently Will’s custom canine orthopedics have evolved into something less favorable of the geriatric canine community his early posters sought to champion. And who can blame the man? Picture it: you’re in the park walking the dog after work, and all of a sudden you’re surrounded by a gaggle or ruffians in sandals insisting that you help them look for a lost Aerobie.

Given the situation, who wouldn’t want a half-rabid battle-beast in spiked body armor at the end of a short leash to help hammer home the point that you’re not out to take gruff from folks playing games, but to chase gophers and bag up a pile or two of steaming shit?

Thanks again Will!

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While we’ve been able to put together the remote and isolated kernels of information gathered in the dusty archives of census records and long forgotten microfiche to extrapolate an adjunct profile of the artist’s historical and cultural context, he himself has remained an enigma. Without any records of marriage or traceable offspring we’ve been left with wild speculation as a surrogate for facts in painting a picture of the child he was and the man he might have become.

To my elation and surprise, the flea market vendor who more than a decade ago acquired the bulk of this man’s collected worldly possessions informed me that an identification card from Beauparlant’s service in the Merchant Marines had surfaced in his basement. While this weathered and noticeably warped memento allows us to assign a face to, and perhaps offer additional clues into his life, it leaves more questions than answers. But for now, let us relish in this small moment of victory as we gaze into the eyes (and perhaps the soul) of our protagonist, Albert J. Beauparlant.

To follow this story from the beginning:
Albert J. Beauparlant
On the Shores of Wonder Lake
Mother, Father, Sister, Brother
Maps and Legends
The Lingering Question Mark of Beauparlant
The Weight Room
Gold Dust

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Besides musing about the fascination the artist (male or female) must have had with young, prepubescent girls, there’s just something about the tone of the work that gives me the willies. The strange, featureless girl in the center reminds me of what it must be like to see one of the Olsen twins wandering around the kitchen at 6am in a post-apocalyptic, cocaine-fueled, zombie-like haze unable to coax a smile, let alone open the refrigerator door. Makes me want to call in an amber alert just as a precautionary measure!

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Unfortunately, cars and their drivers see things a different way. As luck would have it, I recently had the unfortunate experience of having that debate face to face with the side of a Prius. Fortunately, with the exception of a bum shoulder, I walked away from the encounter fairly unscathed. Moments after impact, neighborhood friends who heard the thud of my shoulder slamming into the side of the car came over to make sure I was OK. Anthony was one of those who checked in on me.

A couple days later he told me he had something for me. To my pleasant surprise, he made me a get well card. It was quite thoughtful and actually made me feel a little better.

A couple weeks before, I commissioned Anthony to create a portrait of me. Evidently, I look like the 5th Beatle from the Yellow Submarine. Again, witness the amazingly detailed strokes used to color. This is definitely one for the wall.

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Except for Nick, who’s got things on his mind, things that would sour anyone’s warm weather plans. In no particular order, these things include: terrorist cells, ceaseless threats from the Russian Consulate and micro radio transmitters implanted in his prostrate. And then there’s the guys behind his woes: Michael, Oleg, Alexander, Alexey, Sergey O. and Sergey G., “Russian commie-criminals” intent on torturing Nick “16 hours a day, non-stop” with a brutal assault of “great stress on [his] nervous system, heart, brain and reproductive abilities,” all in retaliation against Nick’s self-professed anti-Soviet dissidence in the “1990th.”

Nick’s flybills have been spotted for the past two months up and down Geary Boulevard, often accompanied by a smaller explanatory flyer (not pictured due to the multiple phone numbers it lists) in which he offers the full names and ages of his tormentors, as well as his own contact information and a plea to the FCC to help him remove any and all radio transplants.

As excruciating as Nick’s paranoiac plight may be, I’m fascinated by the implicit contradictions his tactics raise. Here’s the Underground Man literally broadcasting his palpable fear and angst in block lettering on a 17” x 11” poster resembling any number of media promotions. It’s raw, loud and taunting in a way that inspires fear for Nick’s safety on the part of the viewer. Inadvertent as this effect may be, the work offers serious commentary on the inherent passivity of the observer and an embedded psychological content that’s a rare achievement within a constructed visual experience.

So enjoy your summer looky-loos, and as the burgers and brats spit over the coals, know that Nick is counting on you. . .

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When I first saw his collection of Anthony’s work I was awe struck. The first piece I was presented depicted a hovering zeppelin of some kind, emblazoned with the insignia of an eagle. But most impressive were the tightly contained waves of tiny hatchwork strokes painstakingly textured in a radiating web of colors that stretched across the page.

Each successive piece seemed increasingly steeped in pop culture references and fantasy worlds, ranging from a portrait of Paul McCartney, to an homage to Ronald Reagan’s victory in the Cold War and mythical man-eating scorpions.

I’m no art critic. My response is driven by emotional cues rather than intellectual associations. I often struggle to find comparable artistic references or even explain what excites me, other than apparent artistic expression in it’s pure and unfiltered form. With these types of simple but elegant renderings the message isn’t clouded by the messenger.

A few days later when I ran into Anthony I complimented his work and asked if he had any more pieces at home. In his timid and humble manor he told me the majority of them had been misplaced. Let’s hope they turn up at some point.

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