Street potter

Days ago in the hood I looked through a large glass storefront revealing an old fashioned potter’s studio. Remember that scene from “Ghost”? I was fascinated by the physicality of this potter’s body as he went about his work. The artist was so focused at his spinning, grinding wheel I never even saw his face - in fact even whatever he was creating, but his intense concentration was a thing to behold. 

Tricky

“I'D BEEN CHASING TRICKY FOR a number of weeks, diving down into the low bars of Bristol. "He don't live here no more," I'd be told. "He went to America". I wasn't going to buy that. He'd been spied by the Magpie girl only last Thursday, slipping in and out of the shadows down by the quay, drawing black lines on his own posters drenched in salty-sea splash, grinning synergy and singing swatches of malodorous song. The dark wisps of rumor trailed him like tow-ropes and now I was reeling him in.” - DAVID BOWIE.
Reading the new Tricky autobiography Hell Is Around the The Corner. Adrian Thaws is one of those artists whom I’ve been a loyal fan of for many years. I discovered him in ‘96 - two years after his first album Maxinquaye, which I think is a masterpiece. I have bought every recording he’s dropped since - sight (and sound) unseen. Just found out David Bowie was a huge fan and once wrote a mad article about him for Q magazine.

Nosferatu

Watched Nosferatu the Vampyre, a 1979 adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula directed by Werner Herzog and starring Klaus Kinski. Quirky and strange, didn’t find the film completely successful, but was moved by a scene near the end where The Count attempts to seduce the heroine Lucy Westenra and is ensnared in a sensual trap.

Gustav Klimt

Thinking about the staggeringly popular Gustav Klimt, an artist whose work I recently checked out at the Neue Gallery. The visit was incredibly inspirational, and even though I’ve been very aware of the great Austrian painters’ work since High School, I became newly enamored and read everything I could find and bought a couple of books online - a fascinating, sexy, eccentric persona and exquisite output has currently has had me in his ecstatic, sensuous orbit this week.

Hester Sunshine

Sketchbook: One of the best reasons to watch the last season of Project Runway was the wacky & wonderful young designer Hester Sunshine! Her clothes were full of energy and color with loads of the coolest kitsch. It was super fun to see what this talented artist would come up with each week. Sure we’ll see much more from her in the future.

Skin

"Skin: Ephram" 1999 (unfinished watercolor) 

In the early 90's, I was briefly obsessed with the music of a young singer named Ephram Lewis. Lewis was one of those emotion - soaked soul crooners that seemed to drop out of another era.
But he never emulated the past or tried to repeat it. Sonically his sound was certainly modern - awash in waves of warm synthesizers and gently echoing vocals but his lyrics were sharper and more thoughtful than usual for a pop RB record of the time:

Searching for a way out of so much pain/ 
sometimes to hurt is better than nothing
Let's live again
I'm a public face with a private life
You wanna get close enough to touch
Weave your lies 'cos I can't hide
Never touch my soul, I need that much
Is my skin just a veil I'm wearing
Protect me from the world
So with this armour to cover me
From tortured skies
I'll burn the body - breathe poisoned wine
Only laughter and forgetting

Turns out though, Lewis is a sad case. A young boy brit born into a large religious family, the talented singer/songwriter left home at the age of 16. Soon after, he was picked up by Elektra Records and released a beautiful album, entitled Skin. Blessed with soaring voice and a penchant for transcendent lyrics, the album was critically acclaimed and sold respectfully well, powered by the lovely single, Drowning In Your Eyes. 
Work on his following album brought him to LA where his long - suppressed homosexuality was finally out in the open. For so long he was a victim of his strict parents' beliefs, and now he was free.
However, one fateful night, The LA police received a call of a "naked man going crazy" at 1710 Fuller Ave, where he was living at the time. When the police arrived, investigators said that Lewis had become parnaoid and began climbing outside balconies, leaping from "from balcony to balcony" until he reached the top floors where he smashes an apartment window and began stabbing himself with a piece of broken glass. Lewis was tased or by the LAPD and either fell or jumped from the building and landed onto the courtyard below. Lewis had been taking methamphetamines that night prior to his death and it was ruled by the coroner's office as a suicide. Now a gay icon, musically all that remains of Lewis' career is the single album he completed, Skin, which I think is a minor masterpiece. Despite its creator's tragic end, this small legacy deserves to be revisited.

Karen Carpenter

Recently saw a BBC documentary about the infamous Carpenters, a group reviled by some in their day. Yes, they were sometimes irredeemably schmaltzy, and got even schmatlzier as they went on, but they had a secret weapon that cut through even the worst their candy-coated sentimentality, The potent, emotional sound of Karen Carpenter’s voice. Cutting and direct, the melancholy tone of her singing stood out, even in the circus-like schizophrenia of 70’ pop music. With her brother Richard, a good arranger, (and who recorded and highlighted his sister’s voice brilliantly) the occasionally good song or two, (Burt Bacharach, Paul Williams, and Richard himself), The Carpenters’ music, most particularly Karen’s voice, could be soothingly affecting. Listening to her now, knowing the tragedy of a long, slow death from anorexia nervosa that led to finally succumbing the singer at age 36, the music now has a more powerful resonance.

Mary Halvorson

The Leopard was waiting for the C train and who do I see waiting on the platform near me with a huge guitar strapped to her back but the extraordinary young musician Mary Halvorson on her way to a gig. I don’t know Ms Halvorson personally, but I’m aware of some her beautiful, challenging, emotional music. I approached her and her colleague Rafiq Bhatia and she was incredibly friendly and genial. The meeting inspired me to go home & make a drawing as I listened to her latest record, Code Girl.

Vampire Girl

One of the few big conflicts I ever had with my mom as a kid had to do with a 6-foot tall Vampiress. 

When I was around 13 or 14 in the 70’s, I went through that big change I guess most adolescent boys go through. It manifested itself in small, weird ways. For one, I became obsessed with this comic magazine called Vampirella. For the uninitiated, Vampirella was an alien who came from a planet where blood ran in rivers like water.
Somehow she made her way to earth and was portrayed as a sort bloodsucker/superhero. I’d like to say that I bought it for the awesome art and magnificent storylines (which is what I probably told myself the time) but I’m pretty sure it had more to do with the skimpy costume.

In the back of the magazine there was an ad for a six foot poster of Vampirella holding a screeching vampire bat on her finger (I’ve recreated it here). It was so beautiful. Painted by the brilliant José Gonzalez, it was so lifelike, so perfectly rendered. I had to have it. I sent my money, received it, and proudly taped it to my wall.

When my mom walked into my room one day and saw it, she almost gasped. “Take that down this instant,” she quietly said to me. In a rare as act of defiance, refused. I said, “Why?” “She said, “You know why.”
“Why?”
I knew she wouldn’t say. Mom was a deeply religious woman and we simply didn’t discuss certain things in our house.
I had a Spider-man poster on the wall, a Bruce Lee and Star Trek. But she couldn’t bring herself say why this was any different. Finally:
“Just be sure to take that down when family comes over, Keith.”
“Why?”
“You know why. And if you say “why” one more time, you’re going to get smacked.”
I started to say some thing clever, but instead let out a soft sigh.

I held on to that poster for years.

Pervy Cos.

Current Wiki description :“William Henry Cosby Jr. (/ˈkɒzbi/; born July 12, 1937) is an American stand-up comedian, actor, musician, author, and convicted sex offender.”

Listening to an interview with Bill Cosby from 2011 where the comedian/sex offender discussed his long career of achievement brought to mind a thought: should the work of an innately bad person be completely dismissed, no matter how important? Cosby, throughout his career, from his early breakthrough years as one of the first hugely successful African American comics, his chart-topping comedy albums, groundbreaking television shows (including Little Bill, which my kids loved) - should all these works be boycotted and never watched or appreciated again? Same as the films of Roman Polanski or Woody Allen or Harvey Weinstein (which, at the very least, would include all the works of Quentin Tarantino), the paintings of Pablo Picasso, The music of Michael Jackson, the works of Lewis Carroll, - it goes on and on. I’m asking, not telling. How do we approach the heritage of a deeply flawed genius?

Nat KIng Cole

I think my mom’s favorite singer was Nat King Cole. Even though music was constant in our house - all  kinds of magical sounds flowed - Jazz, country, blues, show tunes, pop - We had so many of his records. When his smooth silky voice permeated our home, my mom, who also possessed a lovely croon, would sing along. But it wasn’t just the melancholy verses of "Mona Lisa". I think there was a sort of teenage girl crush lurking somewhere under the appreciation of the music.

When I was little, she used to dress me similarly to the way he looked on his album covers and even straighten my hair with a hot comb which made it resemble Mr. Cole’s coif (It was the 1970's, so you can imagine how well THAT worked ay my local junior high, especially since Afros were the rage).

Of course now I can appreciate the man's talent - Particularly his innovative piano records before he was pigeonholed as a pop singer. But hearing his music always gives me a nostalgic jolt.

Old and deep.

Deep under the icy depths live the Greenland sharks, the world’s longest living vertebrates. Until recently, it was impossible to determine just how ancient these animals are but modern technology which involves the use of a lens crystalline in the eye of a fish, have helped determine its age. Some, over 16 feet long, have existed possibly up to over 500 years. How do they live so long? It may be its slow metabolism in the bitter cold. Its said there may be Greenland sharks alive today born before Christopher Columbus.

Frances McDormand

"If you're not going to kill me,... I've got things to do." - FrancesMcDormand, "Dark Man"
My favorite Oscar-nominated performance of 2017 hands-down is Francis McDormand for her wrenching work in Three Billboards Out Of Ebbing Missouri. McDormand has created an incredible body of work with great performances after another. Her role as Mildred Hayes is right up there with Marge Gunderson in Fargo and her brilliant turn as Olive Kitteridge in the HBO mini-series of the same name.

Black Panther

 

There have been endless memes, magazine articles, cover stories, tweets, blog posts, and fan commentaries about the upcoming new Black Panther film opening this Friday. 
I‘ve been reluctant to add to these voices because it seems like all that can be said has been said. I can only offer my own personal story and why for me this film is almost as important as an Obama presidency. 

As my family and friends know, I’ve been obsessed with the Marvel comics character The Black Panther since the late 60’s. I’m a Marvel geek from way back, and used to buy almost everything they put out, since I was 13 years old, maxing out my paper route money. I recall a defining moment when I saw a particular issue of The Fantastic Four (#119, 1971) where the FF rush to the aid of their friend, T’Challa, Prince of the fictional African nation of Wakanda, who is battling his old foe Klaw. At the conclusion of the story, the heroes are passing through an airport and the Panther, in costume having just fought an epic battle is accosted by an white Afrikaner cop. It seems he cannot go through the same doorway as his comrades because of the color of his skin. Ben Grimm, The Thing, comes to his aid, and with his great strength collapses entrances of the “European Only” and “Coloreds Only” sign into one. 
This is how I found out about apartheid.

After that issue, I bought every single comic I could find that featured this character. Even the comic book writers and artists who worked on various series featuring the character over the years became my heroes – some of whom I knew were black creators themselves. He was a character that I felt proud of. I used to draw my own comics and made up a character called The Leopard – a kind of moniker I still use – even the name of this blog -- and he was more or less a rip-off of The Panther. 
The idea that this character could become as popular as Spider-man or Batman – characters I adore – fills me with joy. As a father, whose sons dig superheroes almost as much as their dad, just knowing that this movie exists, -for me - is a revelation. And brings to my mind just a little more optimism for the future.

Lucian Freud

One of the Leopard's favorite painters who lived in my lifetime is the polarizing British painter Lucian Freud. For me, he is the quintessential artist, whose work developed over time passing through many periods of development until he found his most famous and recognizable style and subjugation - pulpy, thickly painted large oils of nudes in provocative poses, both and male and female.  What makes these works so striking is their startling honesty. The pallid fleshiness of his models denies idealism. This is what a human body of a certain age looks like, and there is much beauty in his depictions but no interest in what passes for conventional beauty, at least of the commercial sense.
Evidence of the inner working of Freud's mind are his landscapes which are just as sensuous but also depicts nature not in idealized light or perfect conditions but also in all its ugly beauty.

By all accounts, the painter, who was the nephew of Sigmund Freud, was a scoundrel, often sexually dominating his models and was,  by some reports, cruel and arrogant. Yet, the the indelicate master's masculine forcefulness,  seen in his blunt but wonderfully precise paint strokes may, in the end,  be exactly what captivates the viewer: his work captures you in its grip and dares you to look away.

Sonny the Samurai

Once saw a great photo of Sonny Rollins accompanying an interview that was shot (I think) in his old Tribeca apartment. Remember seeing a really cool poster behind him that depicted the musician in a traditional Japanese wood block style. Never could find a print of that poster, but always loved the idea of Mr. Rollins as a jazz samurai, wreaking havoc with his trusty sax. So did this for fun from memory (sure the original was much better).

Bitter.

The Leopard just had one of those long nights where you suddenly feel a little hopeless. You know - those evenings that morph into the darkest hours, where you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling and you think about all those bad decisions you’ve made in life, loves that you lost and those heart crushing regrets, regrets, regrets.

I think this was all spurred on by listening to MeShell N’degeocello’s album, Bitter. It’s one of those records where one lover is pleading to the another in that starkly naked, almost unbearably vulnerable way. On songs like “Fool Of Me” and the title song, It’s almost like we’re listening in on a very intimate, private conversation between two lovers - literally sung in whispers. What makes Bitter especially penetrating is that N'degeocello takes on both sides, and looks at relationships without judgment from all angles.

In the way, it’s what keeps the music from feeling completely tragic. It’s saying that things are rarely what they seem. You begin to realize that yes, you made mistakes and sometimes you royally screwed up, but hopefully, your basic intentions were honest, if not thoughtful.

But still you still have wake up and go to work.

Talk To Me

On a cold winter’s day a couple of weeks ago, The Leopard and his two cubs were strolling on the streets of Harlem when, stopping at traffic light, I spotted an elderly homeless woman, dressed in mounds of rags shouting directly into one of those 9 1/2 foot futuristic kiosks you see on many street corners in NYC these days. They were made to replace payphones and provide wi fi service, and are charging stations for cell phones. 

These metal totems bring to mind the obelisks seen in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey,  - only equipped with large, brightly lit touch screens featuring colorful graphics – maps and neighborhood info. Also there’s a red panic button installed with an intercom so that pedestrians can call in emergencies via 911 from the street.

As we waited for the long stoplight, I couldn’t help but listen to this lady loudly exclaiming into the kiosk all manner of grievances: first, New York and how filthy it is; how she hated all manner of people who live here and such; and how much in particular she hates her son-in law, her ex-husband, and how much her family in general never appreciated her; also, how she was in the FBI and the CIA and she will soon be revealing to the world secret missions she was sent on by George Bush in the early 2000’s.

As far as I could tell, the person on the other end of the conversation (if there was one) did not respond to her complaints.

I glanced back at a traffic cop who was about to wave us across the street. She smiled. “She does that every day.  Just shouts into that thing for hours about all kinds of stuff.”
“I kind of look forward to it a little, now. Helps break up the monotony.”

  
  

"D'ere he is!" 

Inspired this week to re-watch the seminal PBS documentary 14-episode series from 1987, Eyes On The Prize about the civil rights movement from 1954 to 1965. An early episode focuses in part on the story of Emmet Till. This time, I was particularly moved by a prominent figure in this story, Mr. Mose Wright, an elderly former sharecropper and great uncle of Till, who stood up in front of an angry racist crowd and pointed out Till’s killers. There was something about his courage and decency I found deeply beautiful. 

Edgar Allan Poe

Recently enjoyed the recent American Masters from PBS

episode which featured Edgar Allan Poe. Reminded me of a childhood obsession with Poe, his life as well as his poems and stories. Poe was a vital creative force whose own demons kept him from success. Hammered by debt all his life, whenever he achieved even a taste of fame and fortune, unwise decisions, sometimes based on his own arrogance, often caused his downfall. His talent cannot be denied - he was an absurdly brilliant wordsmith and even developed the modern detective mystery story as we know it  - he was often jealous of competitors and his background as a literary critic allowed him to lash out at colleagues of his time, even the great Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and others because he coveted their success and the public's respect of their literary achievements. But his work endures. though primarily known for his horror and fantasy themed work  - of which he only produced 12 out of hundreds of other writings - the masters' darker art sticks in the mind like a viscous spider's web.