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...and they lived happily ever after. Smith & Lady: poets, artists, photographers & adventurers.
Our relationship was forged to the soundtrack of Yoko Ono's magic,
frenetic, love-laden song, "Walking On Thin Ice." ( play song )
 
   
 
 

Archive for the ‘Bio’ Category

Down and Outs Club

Monday, May 16th, 2011

Pain proxy (ceiling of Chiplis’ art studio) – foto by Smith

Chiplis, our found-neon sculpture artist friend, gave a Life Celebration Party yesterday to commemorate his full recovery eleven months after being seriously shot twice in an unsuccessful robbery of his cell fone.

Lady and I figured it’d be great to caboose on his train to celebrate my own new life celebration. Unfortunately we stayed 2 hours instead of planned 20 minutes and today is sore gray cool sleepy and wet . . . a take the day off or else kind of day.

Still it is almost magic that four days after major surgery to chop and channel my chassis, we went out and socialized. Some of today’s surgical procedures approach wizardry.


Chiplis in his Tremont art studio – foto by Smith

And a great shout out to my wife Lady K aka Kathy Ireland Smith for the love and care and tenderness and support she’s surrounded me with this past week. It’s been hard hard weary worry week for her, yet she made it easy on me. She’s my dream meme, my partner dream, my life scheme, companion supreme. May my surgery take some of the worry from her load.


Worn and weary high voltage Lady at Chiplis party – foto by Smith

Peter Ball sent me a gentle funny new cool song yesterday titled Down and Outs Club with delightful vocals by Rick Wagar and Peter — and he did me the honor of including small snippets from my old 2005 gravelly cancer-ridden voice box. My raspy words sneak in and out of odd places at odd times. The tune’s infectious and put a smile on my face and a beat in my bounce.

So I added it to reverbnation.com/mutantsmith even though I’m but a blip in the whole of the flow, but what a delightful flow.

Peter included this news flash when he emailed me the song:

Down and Outs Club News Report:

Cleveland poet Steven B. Smith joins cast of new Apartment One release “Down and Outs Club”.

Asked if he was pleased, Smith responded: “Go away, kid.” Major guffaws from the studio audience followed.

Peter Ball quipped, “Scoring Smith for this song is a major coup. He used to jam with Bill Haley and the Comets.”

Peter’s referring to my attempt to interview Bill Haley for a Baltimore newspaper — here’s a snippet from my memoir:

In the early 70s I went backstage to interview Bill Haley of the Comets. The usher took me back and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Haley, this man’s here to interview you for the paper.” Haley looked me in the eye and said, “Go away, kid. I’m counting my money.” And that was it. The sad part is I could have interviewed Little Richard instead.


VerCity (detail of Chiplis Studio) – foto by Smith

 

Water wears away

Saturday, April 23rd, 2011

Water damage – foto by Smith

Sound and Water

water is sneaky. also, patient, and insidious.
it’ll beat against you for thousands of years
in big waves
until it smooths you down
or breaks you apart.

or it’ll lie still in quiet pools,
and insidiously work
on the weakest
point

leaking

and

dripping

and moving.

and then when water does slowly sneak
inside, and lies in wait,
it can FREEZE and EXPAND with

TREMENDOUS FORCE and BREAK

(so water is sneaky,
insidious
and
patient.)

while SOUND is slippery
(and sneaky)

SOUND slip slides off every flat surface

SOUND double or triple slip slides..

skips from here
to there

(so you think what came from there
came from here.)

SOUND plays tag with yr ears
and lies
a lot.

plus, in destructive force, SOUND
(shatters)

whereas
water

wears away

— Smith & Lady, 2008


Laundry tips – foto by Smith

 

Meat Machine Repair Shop

Tuesday, April 19th, 2011

Operators (artist not known) – foto by Smith

from Bone:

“My biggest and best scar though is the six-inch curve below my right knee. When I was nine, I was running and jumped a block wall and crashed leg first into the top edge of a second hidden block wall, ripping my flesh open down to the fibula. I got up and had trouble walking, so sat down and pulled my pants leg up. My flesh had separated into a six-inch open bloodless “V” all the way down to bone. The exposed bone was an incredible pure glowing whiteness in the sun. I was so fascinated I touched it, touched my own living skeleton bone with my finger flesh—it felt cool, hard, slick.

“About then I discovered the sensual side of flesh.”

— excerpt from chapter three of Stations of the Lost – a true tale of armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry, underground publishing, robbing the cradle, and leaving the country by Smith & Lady (to be self-published in 2011).

I’m entering the Meat Machine — checking myself into a local human repair body shop for a hip replacement May 11. Before that there will be blood drawings, pre-surgical meetings, and watching a film of what to expect. Then the old bone cut and paste shuffle, three days in hospital, and a three month window of pain rehab to a place far better than where I am now.

I hate pain. Hate knowing I’m going in to get worse pain; but at least this worse pain has an expiration date, which will be an incredible improvement over the ever constant constantly worsening current pain which is 24 / 7 / 365 times 6 years so far which I am fluxing tired of because it drains my spirit daily.

I wanna whine but that ain’t fine cuz it’s an ego crime and me-me mime that eats folk’s time so they walk away from my rhyme saying “get a better line cuz this one’s not sublime.”

I’ll be out of the poetry reading scene for awhile, and will even miss an art show opening next month at the Wall Eye Gallery in which I’ll have one piece (see foto below).

They wanted to operate a week earlier but I pushed it back so we could attend Jawbone 2011.

The Jawbone Open Poetry Readings is Major Raigan’s annual 3-day gathering of poets from across the country. Maj, one of the best poets I know, teaches at Kent State University and has been hosting Jawbone for over 25 years. Jawbone is a no sign-up sheet totally open mic affair which runs May 6-8, starting Friday night May 6 at 8pm at the North Water Street Gallery at 257 N. Water Street, Kent, Ohio — it is a grand affair with a greater density of fine poets than you can shake a simile at.


My Back Porch, 1996, 13″ x 13″ – assemblage & foto by Smith

 

After I died

Monday, April 18th, 2011

Dead Center – foto by Smith

Tried & Traveled

After I died
in my dead end drinking
twenty years ago
it took
three days intensive care
six months Nyquil
to beat alcohol,
cocaine to kick Nyquil,
poverty to kill cocaine,
valium to get off grass,
and weed to beat it all.

Tried most anything to get off me.

Now it’s one cup cowboy coffee
Costa Rican strong
each morning
and hope of toke or two
to take me through the month.

But what I really want is
copper brain wire
direct to pleasure center
battery hooked
finger on button
blaze of white light.

— Smith, 4-17-2011


Be Fabulous – foto by Smith

 

daddy plays the voice box

Saturday, April 2nd, 2011

crossroad – foto by Smith

Cancer

In the good old days
I kept cutting myself on
barbed wire, concrete block, tin,
ice and stuff

So I let all the bad shit out

It slipped through
the torn flesh

Now
I cleaned up my life
and I don’t hurt myself no more

All that stuff I used
to let out through the flesh
got angry being
all cooped up

and turned
into cancer

So now I’m
paying people
to cut me open
and take
the bad shit out

— Smith w/ Lady K, 2006

When Lady first came into my life, I was a whispering gravelly-voiced poet who was hard to hear without a microphone. I didn’t know I’d lost my voice to three white cancer nodules growing on my voice box. She had me see a doc who cut them out in 2005 and then tried to irradiate my head off my neck for eight weeks with a Ming the Merciless evil-ray machine.

Five months later they cut more off my voice box to biopsy and pronounced me cancer clean. But being poor and uninsured we had no follow-up until I officially became a socialist this month when I turned 65 and Medicare coverage kicked in.

So I went over and told the doctor my whole story, including the decades of drugs and alcohol abuse and they decided to run me through the health mill to see how bad I was.

Today I was told I’m the kind of patient they don’t want their other patients to hear about because in spite of a life of misuse and abuse, I am as healthy as can be, except for the damaged hip that has to be replaced.

When they told me I was still cancer free, I felt a load I didn’t know I was carrying lift. I knew I was healthy, but still sometimes in the deep of the dark one wonders.

The reason my voice still gets low and gravelly when I’m tired or stressed or toke too much is because the first doc cut a good chunk of my right vocal cord away, so my real vocal cords are asymmetrical and I compensate often times by using my thicker less flexible faux vocal cords which lie just above them.

Now I’m wondering if that’s how the Tuvan throat singers sing multiple notes simultaneously using both their faux and real cords. Perhaps I could learn multiple levels of simultaneous sound, maybe read two poems at once.


brighter outlook – foto by Smith

 

art fart report

Friday, March 25th, 2011

Full Circle Art Show at Doubting Thomas Gallery – foto by Smith

Have three pieces in the Full Circle Art Show curated by Chelsie Michelle Barile at the Doubting Thomas Gallery.

I’m slowly reintegrating myself into the art scene. Before Lady and I split the country in 2006 for three years, I was a recognized player — one of Cleveland’s bad boys of art. But it’s amazing how quickly I became marginal in our absence; none of the younger crop of artists knows me. They were probably in art school last time I had a newspaper review; we had 6 newspaper articles in 2006 — seems if you want a lot of good press, all you have to do is leave the country.

Had 6 pieces in a great show last year and one piece in another. Will have a piece in a show this May, and I’m setting up a major show probably titled The Two Dead Smiths Two Live Smiths Show sometime between December and March which should open a few folks eyes. It’ll be dead mom Mother Dwarf (1926-2005), suicided brother Cat (1957-1987), live wife Lady K (1972) and me (1946).

Lady and I’ve decided to self-publish my memoir within the next six months as well, so this could be a good 12 months creatively. The memoir which covers my 1st 60 years of strife is titled

Stations of the Lost
a true tale of
armed robbery, stolen cars, outsider art, mutant poetry,
underground publishing, robbing the cradle, and leaving the country

by Smith & Lady

As the Captain Kirk clone said in Galaxy Quest: “Never give up! Never surrender!”


Caged Dice by Smith – foto by Smith

Buddha’s Beads by Smith – foto by Smith

detail of Buddha’s Beads by Smith – foto by Smith

backside of The Great War by Smith – foto by Smith

frontside of The Great War by Smith – foto by Smith

Full Circle Art Show at Doubting Thomas Gallery – foto by Smith

 

1-day adventure

Tuesday, December 7th, 2010

yesterday’s Lady – foto by Smith

Too jangly and stressed due to two cups of homemade super strong cowboy coffee, I gathered our dirty laundry and lugged it through the snow blow and ice cold to our little red car, got in, pushed down the clutch pedal to start, and it went softly to the floor. No clutch pedal, no shift; no shift, no drive; no drive, no clean laundry.

Came back in with the news. My first thought was how we were going to get to Lady’s reading Wednesnite at Mac’s Backs with poet Steve Goldberg; my second was that I’d best cancel my own reading Dec 19th in Elyria.

We started to go gloomy over the stress and expense of yet another emergency in our limited income life, when wham, we turn it around, change direction, say this is just reality playing with us, testing to see if we’re worthy, and you know what — we are worthy.

So we talked it over, decided if more than $500 to repair, we’ll can the car and walk.

And we tested our walk. Lady decided she really wanted a burger, so we bundled up and trundled down to Grumpy’s through the cold and blow and snow, ate, trundled back. Then Trinity Repair called – the slave cylinder had died and leaked all our juice.

Three hours after diagnosis, the car was fixed and ready. We decided it was only 2 miles to the repair shop so we’d make it an adventure and walk through the wind and falling snow a second time that day. Bad move. The cold and blow and my bum leg which had already walked a mile and a half for food began hurting enough to make me think of cabs and buses and forced marches.

I barely made it, limping into the repair shop to be told “Oh, Trinity moved a month ago.” I laughed realizing the gods were having a little extra fun with me and we walked five more blocks to the shop where I collapsed in a chair while Lady paid the bill that was $19 less than their original quote.

Not a bad day in its way. The car repair shop’s owner’ was worried because his 80 year old mother got scratched by a cat, got a blood infection and was in the hospital, so he’d been running back and forth between his shop and the hospital all day, aware it could go either way.

His story touched me because my mom got a blood infection, ended up bouncing between emergency rooms and repair homes for nine months before coming back home and dying seven days later.

After we got back from our one-day adventure, Lady made herself a tall water glass rum and coke, drank it, turns to me and says “I need more wine, er, rum,” and comes back with a second full glass.

Earlier walking through the snow she had mentioned she wanted to get drunk tonight. I look at her full glass; “You were serious. You *are* going to get drunk, aren’t you.”

She turns to me, smiles, “That’s the plan, Stan.”

“You know you’re going to hurt tomorrow, don’t you?”

“I Don’t Care! ! ! I’m tired of this; I need to break out of the mold.”

Break away, Lady.

We had a good day.


karma cleansing – foto by Smith

 

eye wash station

Monday, December 6th, 2010

eye wash station – foto by Smith

FaceBook folk were discussing whether artists could function creatively while on hallucinogens, so I left the poem below as a comment saying this is the first poem I wrote on LSD back in 1968.

It was written while I was staying overnight in a Hershey motel room during my weekly two day Pennsylvania loop trying unsuccessfully to sell Mudge Paper to area printers and advertising agencies — a job for which I received the grand sum of $100 a week. Considering my daily failure as salesman, I was being way overpaid.

I was hiding my drug use from my wife so once a week in a motel room out of town I’d smoke and drop whatever space pills I’d scored. Believe me, tripping in a cheap Motel 6 motel room is not the most conducive atmosphere for a good time. I’d spent the evening at the Hershey Amusement park riding the Ferris Wheel and playing with the distorted mirrors in the Fun House, and these words came to me while walking back across a dark deserted golf course. The poem came out real fast in one continuous flow as is, with no revisions. I forgot about it and discovered it in my private journal a couple months later.

Night Fragment

As has been said
The night weighs upon the city
In tired, fat insolence. Rat scurry.
Old papers flap down empty streets.
It is an ugly season. Full.
Day slouches in, in shameless anonymity
Devoid of great chained excuses of being
A voided has been of god, notion and country.
Unfocused without, we hunt worms within
To bait further cold excretion of reason, rationale.
Refuse refusing our naked nothing.
Cautious.
Strip steal by night.

- Steven B. Smith


strawberry fields forever – foto by Smith

 

there are no monsters

Wednesday, November 10th, 2010

Mother Dwarf, 1994 – Plain Dealer newspaper foto

Editing this section on my mother made me smile, so I’m sharing it.

Starting point – my brother Cat blew his brains out in 1987 when he was 30, my dad died 18 months later from missing him, and I moved mom in with me for hard financial reasons; she lived with me from 1990 until she died in 2005.

~ ~ ~

My drinking lasted Mom’s and my first year together, until I drank myself into intensive care. The sober fifteen years that followed, we became best friends, partners, artists in residence, collaborators, and each other’s mutual audience and lab rat. I helped get her art shows, named half her pieces, hung her shows and taught her my art tricks. She created fairy tale versions of my darker assemblages. According to one fan, she was a “Mother Goose for the intentionally lost and half-enlightened.”
      Obsessively buying movies on VHS became my replacement for my alcohol addiction, and I eventually ended up with 4,552 titles of class and trash in all genres from 1894 through 2006. Mother Dwarf and I watched at least ten movies a week at home. After I showed Mom the Dutch surrealist movie The Fourth Man, she said, “I never even knew they made movies like that.” She never saw so many movies, or laughed as much, as in her final fifteen years. Mom was my best audience. It was a one comedian one audience member situation. I made her life better, and taking care of her saved my life.
      Once when I was a teenager, Mom loaned me her car. When I returned, she asked for the keys back. I told her I didn’t have them, I’d already given them to her. She kept insisting I had her keys and I kept reassuring her with a serious face I did not. She finally asked me swear on a Bible, so I put my hand on the Bible, looked her in the eye and swore I did not have her keys. Her face immediately fell and she said worriedly, “Well, what did I do with them then?” So I reached in my pocket and gave them back to her.
      I would give her the finger a lot. I would point at something with my middle finger and say, “See that.” I’d hold up my first three fingers together and ask if she could read between the lines, or hold my middle finger down and ask if she could read upside down, or hold all but the middle finger up and ask if she could supply the missing word.
      Mom lived downstairs on the second floor. My space, the kitchen and the bathroom were on the third. She’d come up and say, “Do you need to use the bathroom?” I’d start in on a long explanation about how I was thinking of turning it into a darkroom for photography until she’d make a disgusted noise and just go use it.
      Frequently when she’d come upstairs, I’d ask, “You got a ticket?” She never did. Never understood that because we had all these tickets lying around for collage. She could have kept one in her pocket. This went on for years.
      In an ongoing joke, I kept trying to lure her up to the roof so I could collect her accidental death insurance money. Many times, as she came up from downstairs, I looked at her in a confused way, and said, “How’d you get in?”
      â€œI’m your mother, I live here.”
      â€œThat’s what they all say.”
      Since I could only collect her insurance money if she died an accidental death, I told her, “If you die in your sleep, you’re still going to fall down the stairs, as often as necessary.”
      One time she was coming up the stairs as I was taking a big black bag of garbage down. At the top of the stairs, I said, “Ah, bowling for dollars.”
      The best time, she was coming up the stairs and I said from the top in a low, gravelly, drawn-out voice, “Prey.”
      â€œNo. No prey,” she pleaded. “I’m your mother.”
      And in the same slow low voice I said, “Prey has no name.” She laughed so hard she almost fell down the stairs.
      Every time a particular ethnicity appeared in a movie, such as Chinese, I’d say, “I have Chinese blood in me.” Even claimed animal, insect, snake flowed in my veins.
      She’d say, “No you don’t. I’m your mother. I know what you are.”
      I’d tell her, “They put six pints of blood in me in at the hospital, and you have no idea where it came from.”
      I’d tell her I had a big penis one day and a small the next and it got so she’d ask, “What kind of a day is it? Big or small?”
      We’d be watching a Western movie and see the Indians call a train the Great Iron Horse and I’d tell her, “The Indians used to call me Great Iron Penis. I was so big I had trouble getting through the tunnels.”
      She’d snap, “You don’t say things like that to your mother.”
      People who came over thought Mom really nice, wished they had one like her, so I kept trying to sell her to them. Told them, “You could take her for a trial run. You could rent her, or lease her with an option to buy.” They just laughed.
      Once I asked her who she was.
      â€œI’m your mother.”
      â€œI doubt this, but you can stay anyway, because I need somebody slower than I when the monsters come.”
      â€œThere are no monsters,” she said.
      ”There will be,” I said in my menacing low voice


Mother Dwarf, 2003 – foto by Smith

Mom, 2005 – foto by Smith

 

poetry, painting, people

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

American Ego, 1984 – collage & foto by Smith

Tonight, Friday October 22 at 7 pm, Lady K and I will be the opening featured poets at the Lix & Kix monthly reading at the Bela Dubby coffee shop art gallery & beer bar at 13321 Madison Ave, Lakewood, Oh, 44107, 216-221-4479. We’ll be followed by Elyria poet Alex Nielsen and NYC poet Puma Perl, winner of the 2009 Erbacce Prize for Poetry. Lix & Kix is celebrating its second anniversary of monthly readings and is co-hosted by Dianne Borsenik and John Burroughs (aka Jesus Crisis).

Next Friday, October 29th, Lady and I each have a piece in the 19th annual Peoples Art Show at CSU — Cleveland State University, Art Building, 2307 Chester Avenue, Cleveland, OH 44115-2214, 216.687.2103. I was in the first two People’s Art Shows back in 1984-85. The first year I won Most Outrageous Piece in Show, and the second year I won Most Original Use of Materials.

The first year I also was the subject of this Plain Dealer column by James Neff due to the titillating nature of my piece. When Neff first called me, he was hostile and sarcastic; but by the time we finished, he was warm and friendly.

Must Be Profound
James Neff
The Plain Dealer
December 3, 1984

Gracing our city are many profound examples of modern art. I know they must be profound because I do not understand them.

Take, for example, Isamu Noguchi’s sculpture “Portal” at the Justice Center. “Portal” still befuddles some citizens. It looks like a piece of a giant pretzel. The modern sculpture weighs 15 tons, stands 36 feet high and cost $100,000.

Art experts such as Sherman Lee called it “one of the best monumental sculptures produced in the world since World War II.”

To the untrained eyes of those who pass “Portal” each workday, it seems useless, just a giant pretzel. They might feel differently if they could snack on it.

Most of the modern art around here, however, is displayed indoors. That way, it won’t scare the horses.

At the Cleveland State University Art Gallery at E. 23rd ST. and Chester Ave., 172 area artists are displaying 335 creations, probably the largest such exhibit outside of the May show.

One such work certainly must be the most unusual work of so-called art to be put on display in our town.

The CSU gallery is full of paintings and sculptures you might enjoy. Abstract paintings full of interesting colors and shapes. A beautiful clear glass bowl. An oil portrait of a pretty woman in a pastel dress.

One sculpture is a chessboard; instead of the usual black and white pieces, the artist made them into Browns and Steelers football players.

Right when you come in, about 15 feet down on the left wall, is a work called “American Ego.” It is a collage of 12 snapshots, some of them splattered with tiny drops of paint.

The day I visited the gallery and witnessed “American Ego,” a group of CSU students in a beginning design class were checking the local artworks as a class exercise.

The class was mostly made up of women in their late teens, along with several young men.

When the students happened upon “American Ego,” many of them made comments. They did not remark about its composition, balance, vibrancy or classical execution. No, here is what they said.

“Gross,” said a young woman.

“That is embarrassing,” said another.

“Oh my God, it’s disgusting,” said a student named Janel Leurienzo. Then she added with sarcasm and a smile, “But, hey, it’s art.”

The 12 snapshots were arranged in a four-by-three grid. They were taken by Steven Smith. They were nude photos of himself.

This being an art gallery and all, you probably expect the photos to be the sort of classical pieces we associate with Greek art.

Oh no, this artist doesn’t mess around. The snapshots were of the real thing: close-ups of the guy’s, uh, groin area.

There were some different poses, to be sure. One was the guy’s private zone draped with a plastic fish.

Another was of a view of his bare buttocks. In this snapshot, rising up and proudly flying from between his upper thighs was one of those little American flags on a stick that you get at political rallies.

One photo treated us to a view of the artist’s personal part wrapped in Old Glory. The 12 photos were sewn onto what looked like those small, thin, square pillows you toss on your couch.

So there it was, an expression of modern art, hanging on a wall at a university for our appreciation.

The male student looked at “American Ego” from about three feet away and moved on. Many of the females looked much closer, maybe a foot away. Then moved on. Later, some of them drifted back alone for another, more private peek.

In their design class, the students discussed what they had just viewed. They liked most of it. Not surprisingly, they had a lot to say about “American Ego.”

A student named Tracy said, “It was different. They usually just show women.”

A young man named James said, “I thought it was funny.”

“I don’t think it was art at all,” Christie Gungl said.

Their teacher, Mary Stokrocki, an associate professor said after class, “I took it as pornographic. I think the university shouldn’t hang something pornographic. If I was curator for this show, I wouldn’t let people get away with that. There are certain things that are not art.”

The creator of the controversial piece, Steven Smith, was given a call. By day, he is a computer programmer out in the suburbs. By night, he lives in a warehouse downtown and makes things that hang in galleries.

“How did you get the idea for “American Ego,” he was asked.

“I was taking Polaroids of myself to get something going.”

“How often do you do this?”

“There’s very little nudity in what I do,” Smith said. “I think I’ve only had four pieces.”

“But what is ‘American Ego‘ supposed to mean?”

“It suggests the impotence of American foreign policy,” Smith said. “The false manhood, the macho thing, like in Grenada. Since we are all impotent in one sense, we try to overcome it. I don’t think we are living up to the American spirit when we tell people how to live.”

“Do people think you’re strange?” he was asked.

“Yes they do. I don’t fit in anywhere. Some artists in Cleveland are some of the nicest people I’ve met yet.”

Profound too. I know they must be profound because I do not understand them.

~ ~ ~

As I wrote in Criminal:

The pieces that got me my initial notoriety began late at night when I was drunk and wrapped my penis in small American flags, draped dead dried fish around, and snapped Polaroids. I felt the penis went with the flag because of our American Military might-makes-right philosophy, while the dried fish was a sly reference to the fish vagina smell of lore. I arranged 12 of the photos in a three by four grid, collaged the white areas around the Polaroids with torn strips of the American flag, splattered fluorescent paint on, glued down a large dried fish and some art glass scraps and titled it American Ego.
Then I took Polaroids of Masumi nude in an open shirt mom had made me out of old 48-star American flags. I arranged six of the photos into a cross, collaged the white area around the Polaroids with cut up bible pages, attached fringe to the bottom edges of the cross, pounded rusty nails into the photos, and titled it Cross Breeding.
Masumi was teaching art at CSU at the time, and John, a fellow instructor who had just begun, had brought the Peoples’ Art Show concept with him from Detroit. The idea, at least for the first few years, was no piece of art would be censored—the people could show whatever they wanted; everything submitted would be displayed. I contributed a couple interesting pieces I was proud of, but they weren’t shocking. John knew about my more controversial stuff from Masumi and mentioned to her he was hoping for something edgier to help jump start the show, so Masumi passed the word on to me and I gave him the two genitalia / American flag / dead fish pieces instead. They worked quite well, definitely jump started things.
Cleveland Plain Dealer columnist James Neff called me up during the show’s run and was quite hostile; he asked me “Why would you do such a thing?”
I told him it was a metaphor protesting America’s foreign policy–we’d just invaded Grenada illegally–and I explained my “American Ego” – “American Eagle” pun. By the end of the conversation, Neff was quite friendly and wrote a wry, fairly nice half page column.
My shock art is actually a pretty small percentage of what I do, especially anymore—usually I create stuff that’s odd, eccentric, weird, funny, beautiful, tender, political, social, serious or surreal, sometimes all at the same time. The scoundrel-sage Gurdjieff said people are asleep and often must be shocked awake to jumpstart their souls. Sometimes laughter’s enough; sometimes you can lure folk to new mindsets through intelligence, reason or beauty; and sometimes you just have to poke them with crude cattle prods to get their attention.
When Neff asked why I used nude male genitalia, and my own at that, I joked I was cheap and easy and available at the time; but mainly it was out of a sense of fairness. Respectable art and unrespectable advertising have always used naked women liberally. I dearly love naked women, often use them in collage. But I’ve also this large fairness complex, so to balance society’s and my nude female use, I used naked male me, myself and I.
There’s nothing wrong with shock. As Mae West said, “Those who are easily shocked should be shocked more often.” There are an endless number of paths to the same place. Everybody thinks it has to be A or B, but in reality, it’s A and Z and everything in between. It comes back to Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle: it’s all true all at the same time–it’s only lack of vision that reduces life or art to dichotomies.


Cross Breeding, 1984 – collage & foto by Smith

 

 
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