Whilst I am sad to admit that I never met Jen Trute in person, I knew her art.
In the past, whenever I've been too swift to dismiss the superfluous excesses of San Diego's art scene, it's always been a welcome reminder to myself that Jen Trute more than eclipsed the chasm of vacuousness and artifice, with the astonishing yardstick of her mastery.
Technically of course, she was flawless,tossing off the kind of flourishes that would leave the best of us slack jawed on the periphery, but her work also had that rare thing of conceptual clarity-never suffering the obliqueness that so often subdues the viewer, and is a perfect get out card for so many surrealist poseurs.
Despite the darker themes, her work was also as disarmingly bright and airy as the long hot summer days that she spent in her Carlsbad studio, where I paid my respects yesterday.
Like I said, I didn't know Jen,but from the meticulous way that she organized her brushes to the hundreds of carefully mixed swatches she compiled, I can tell you that she was the "real deal". So many of us are just charlatans in the incredible, remarkable wake of her work.
We are all richer for her astonishing legacy and she shall be sorely missed.
Don't really know where to begin telling you about Saturdays show. I could tell you it was like PT Barnum on LSD.
Or that it was like the entire San Diego underground had converged on a house on a hill and held an end of the world party.
Or that I'd wandered down a weird rabbit hole, dream,vortex, but no...NO!!...none of that really cuts it.
Maybe it was that holographic Dali clock, warping time, but as trite as it sounds, at times if felt like being submerged in a bizarro dream.
One where I talked at length with legend Selwyn Lissack, the designer of Dali's clock,who had me on the floor with anecdotes about meetings with the surreal grandmaster.
Or one where I bumped into my wife's beautiful cousin Juju Namjai, and discovered that she was in fact this incredible, talented, sensual lead singer of a band called Orchestra Mustachio.
In fact, it was a night of old friends...
Except I wasn't dreaming, because I captured some choice shots before my camera died. I only wish I had more.
Me with two Legends Patty Rangel, Selwyn Lissack
Lovely Alisha, one of my buyers.
My gorgeous wife sitting on what we called the 70's porn couch, wearing a top she designed as a homage to the surreal expressionist masterpiece-Bride of Frankenstein.
The incomparable Juju with her band, wearing make up inspired by Dali's Mae West painting.
Some thank you's in order-Ian Ashley and her husband for hosting the extravaganza, Dennis Batt and everyone from San Diego Visual Arts Guild who organised the event, as always my extended friends and family who came out in support of my work and everyone who had such great things to say about my art.
Let the surrealism shindig commence, San Diego's menagerie of collective dreamers, in the house, and one Salvador Dali.
Actually it's one of his holographic clocks, not the man himself-how awesome would that be...a zombified Dali?
Although I'd spend the entire evening cowering in a corner, so not to melt beneath that withering mustachioed gaze.
I dare say the grand master's spirit shall be there.
So to recap:
8:00 until late at The House of the Future,
5481 Toyon Road, San Diego, CA 92115
If we could live anywhere, it would be in a place like Idyllwild. That's where we spent Memorial weekend, in a little wood cabin-just the sound of rustled leaves and woodpeckers to break the tranquility, or hiking through nature trails beneath the brow of Mount Tahquitz.
Naturally, I love towns that are like a frozen pocket of time- little mom 'n pop shops cluttered with old books and antiquity, dirt roads lined with rusty old trucks.
So I was surprised then, that it also has a good deal of gallery's, betraying the usual hobbyist fare with some really strong contemporary work *
The food was naturally wonderful because I had the best chef in the world-Lani, concocting the most mouth watering deliciousness-hearty fuel for those long steep walks, food for the very soul.
In an ideal world, a world shrunk to the size of small town, a world small enough to make sense of, I would enliven days spent in seclusion of an airy studio there, in an enclave overlooking the mist covered peaks.
It would be perfect.
It would be enough.
*paintings Carol Mills
A reminder that the New Brow IV show is occurring at the Alternative Cafe this evening. Unfortunately, the costly logistics of getting up there, mean I shalln't be in attendance , but in my absence, I've sent three of my pieces to keep you company.
And finally, my daughter-Emma- just got her first write up for a recent showcase in a local Liverpool inkie called Object of Dreams on page 6 of the Like it / Love it section.
This is wonderful news and I am so proud of her for all her hard work paying off.
Well done Emma.x
You can see the full magazine through the link here:
http://issuu.com/objectofdreams/docs/issue5
Yes, I know I said I wouldn't be painting any more skulls, but with the end of the world looming on May 21st, it seems as good a time as any to trot out some good old fashioned Gothic fire and brimstone.
Actually, I wish I could take complete credit for realizing this piece, except I must come clean and tell you that it was painted verbatim from a photo of a marble sculpture I've been storing on my hard drive for a while. I'm presuming the sculpture is medieval, possibly by some unknown artist since a general search has garnered little, but if somebody out there has the knowledge, I'd be only too happy to revise the piece with the obligatory post 'after...'
Whoever the artist was, I think the original work is beautiful and is typical of the kind of artifact that you see in European churches and mausoleums everywhere, conveying how adept even the most anonymous taskmaster was at one time.
As an exercise in aesthetics there is none better.
Like doomsday, the Alternative Cafe show is pending, and it was lovely to see this photo on Facebook this morning, of preparations for the show. That's Osmosis sharing wall space with a Chris Mars I believe.
Talk about a party like its 1999.
I really like this small study I produced today-it could be the ethereal fragment from a half recalled dream, a didactic comment on Bin Laden's final resting place, a reconciliation of memories of my hometown or the illustrated cover from a proposed 1970's sci-fi novel, as yet unwritten-possibly by Heinlein.
It's ambiguous enough to say that it has no meaning other than the potential for every meaning, which is entirely what art should be I suppose- open to endless interpretation.
For shits and giggles I comped another cover, this time in the style of those pulp stalwarts-Pan books. Oh how I'd have loved to have been an artist in that lost Golden age before Photoshop and Getty images. Perhaps some budding Heinlein or Asimov out there feels thus inspired to write prose for the imagined jacket?
