Today I leave for the Kentuck show in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
I imagine my van bedecked with retablos and glued-on bultos, traveling from the realm of the actual into the realm of the spiritual and supernatural. This is in the act of traveling, more than in my destination. Although the event I'll be attending takes on a certain spiritual glow, this has diminished through the years-or maybe I've just grown jaded to it all.
The vision of old black men spreading their creative wares on the ground under the pines while onlookers grab and buy all that they can was one of my first impressions of this show. There is a lot less enthusiasm as the elders have passed and have been replaced by a younger generation well versed in art history and marketing. I am among these replacements. here is a certain sadness as I think of the brand of authenticity that probably can never be again.
I put a lot of hope in Danny the Bucketman, aka Hoss, aka Hoskinson. He was the real deal-I never saw him in shoes. His art consisted of melting plastic 5 gallon buckets into heads and fantastic figures, all the while pouring pigment into the melt and working the substance in his own way. He fascinated me as a living remainder of an untrained primitive or folk artist. Much like the life stories of many before him, he was almost unknown and little appreciated (a least in my eyes) out of his circle of friends and admirers. Danny passed in July of this year, seemingly a victim of his own process and materials.
I leave soon for Kentuck and hope to see some new faces carrying on where Danny left off, but realistically braced for the fact that I may be looking for something or someone that has become history. I'll find only ghosts where Danny used to be.
I dreamt last night that I was short of money.
I imagine my van bedecked with retablos and glued-on bultos, traveling from the realm of the actual into the realm of the spiritual and supernatural. This is in the act of traveling, more than in my destination. Although the event I'll be attending takes on a certain spiritual glow, this has diminished through the years-or maybe I've just grown jaded to it all.
The vision of old black men spreading their creative wares on the ground under the pines while onlookers grab and buy all that they can was one of my first impressions of this show. There is a lot less enthusiasm as the elders have passed and have been replaced by a younger generation well versed in art history and marketing. I am among these replacements. here is a certain sadness as I think of the brand of authenticity that probably can never be again.
I put a lot of hope in Danny the Bucketman, aka Hoss, aka Hoskinson. He was the real deal-I never saw him in shoes. His art consisted of melting plastic 5 gallon buckets into heads and fantastic figures, all the while pouring pigment into the melt and working the substance in his own way. He fascinated me as a living remainder of an untrained primitive or folk artist. Much like the life stories of many before him, he was almost unknown and little appreciated (a least in my eyes) out of his circle of friends and admirers. Danny passed in July of this year, seemingly a victim of his own process and materials.
I leave soon for Kentuck and hope to see some new faces carrying on where Danny left off, but realistically braced for the fact that I may be looking for something or someone that has become history. I'll find only ghosts where Danny used to be.
I dreamt last night that I was short of money.
The photo is from a triptych called "The Witches."
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