A Woman of Many Talents

Came across a nice article about Leslie Barton, one of the artists I knew in Phoenix.  Leslie was part of my Long Story About a Grand Adventure in Phoenix, Arizona.   As a  performance artist she was always noticeable, active and daring. 


Twenty years later Leslie is still out there. And getting some well-deserved attention. 

Unholy Vigil

Friday's vigil at Percival Landing was unusual in that four people gave me the finger and two yelled, "fuck you!"  Something must have been in the air; we don't usually get much, if any hostility.  The occasional hostility is more than balanced by honks, V-signs, thumbs-up, waves and smiles--all manner of friendly gestures.  Still, I've always wondered what generates the hostility to people advocating for peace and nonviolence.  Here's a post I wrote while I in 2007.
  
To the Guy in the White Truck

You made a left turn from 16th Street on to Missouri in Phoenix yesterday morning between 7:15 and 8:15 in your big white pickup truck. I was standing on the southeast corner outside Senator John McCain’s office with about 10 others in a weekly vigil to remind Phoenix that our senator supports torture. I held the Veterans for Peace flag. A couple others were dressed in orange jumpsuits with hoods on their heads. The rest of our small group held signs calling for an end to torture and war in our name.

We must have posed quite a threat to you since you visibly and aggressively gave us the bird as you passed by. We returned your salute with smiles and peace signs. In the scheme of things our gestures as well as yours don’t amount to a hill of beans. But I wonder what provoked your hostile gesture, not the first I’ve seen in almost four years of standing on Phoenix streets as a witness against what I consider a terribly mistaken war that has cost this country so much.

Sure, you may disagree with me. That’s your right. You even have the right to argue against me. And, to a point, you can even demonstrate your opposition with words and gestures (I think legally the limit is where those words and gestures imply physical threat and intimidation but I’m relying on memory of a Constitutional law class I took in the mid-60's so I’m a bit fuzzy on the specifics). What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to display such hostility to a group of peaceful fellow citizens exercising their rights of free speech and petitioning a member of Congress.

Perhaps you are a veteran of the Iraq war or a relative of an Iraq veteran or service member currently at risk in Iraq and believe that our actions denigrate that service. You may still be suffering from losing a loved one in the war and think we dishonor that sacrifice. If so, you are terribly wrong. Serving in Iraq is not the issue. The issue is the order that sent you or your loved one into harm’s way. I believe that the commander-in-chief has dishonored that service by squandering it on a lie. And, believe me, I know what it feels like to serve in a dubious cause. It leaves a wound that doesn’t heal. That’s why I am standing on that corner.

Maybe you have no direct connection to the war and those who fight it. Instead you are a patriotic American who believes that we should all stand behind the commander-in-chief when the nation is at war. I respectfully disagree. In fact, for me that is exactly the time that we should ask “why” and use the critical thinking that characterizes our species to ensure that when the nation goes to war, that action is taken as a last resort in response to a dire threat to our national interests. War under any other circumstances is a profound disservice to those we send to kill in our name. I come to that way of thinking through experience. You may think otherwise for whatever reason. You have that right under the Constitution.

Even if we disagree, I am distressed that you consider me such a threat that you must respond to my actions with such hostility. Your one finger salute certainly displays a lack of tolerance of differing opinions. Many others who think like you simply give me a “thumbs down” as they pass. In doing so, they display their disagreement but don’t imply the same threat that I see in your upraised digit. With them I see at least a modicum of respect for a differing opinion. Not so in your case.

Please don’t think I’m singling you out. You certainly have company, including the well-coifed Republican woman in the sporty yellow mustang who flipped me off last summer as I and other protesters greeted people entering The Biltmore to hear Dick Cheney campaign for our US senator (not St. John McCain, the other one). I don’t think I’ve been on the street without catching a few birds from passersby. What I don’t understand is the hostility. I know I wouldn’t flip off Republicans or war supporters if I saw them. I believe in treating people as I would have them treat me so if I make any gesture I would turn my thumb down or hold my nose. More likely, I would just drive by.

It could be that I am being too intellectual about the whole thing. Maybe you’re just an asshole. But then I’d be thinking just like you.

Funeral Pyre

The central Phoenix building that became The House burned early Tuesday morning. It closed as an art space a couple of years ago and spent its remaining days abandoned except for the various transients who broke through the fencing to make it their home.

I have a very sentimental attachment to the place so it's final demise saddened me a bit. On the other hand, what better way to go than a literal blaze of glory.

Here are a couple photos. The first is copied from a newspaper article published just after we set up studios there 1995. The second was taken the in April 2007 when the last artists vacated the premises.




Good-bye, old friend.

Re-Write

The Jakarta Post re-wrote the story about Rose Johnson's death. The story now says Rose died after drinking adulterated alcohol. That's a good turn but all the news sources picked up the "alcohol poisoning" line and I doubt if they will carry a follow up.

The TimesOnline did a much better job of reporting the facts. And a wonderful photo of Rose in her element.

My Friend, Rose

...until I heard the sudden word
that a friend of mine was dead.
--Jackson Browne
"Song for Adam"

Sudden doesn't begin to describe my shock at the news of Rose Johnson's death but it's the word that comes most readily to mind. This weekend I pulled one of her paintings out of a shipping carton and still haven't figured out where it will hang. Last night Maggie calls to tell me that something happened to Rose and she's probably dead or will be when they disconnect life support. Today I learned that she probably drank alcohol mixed with methanol in Bali and became the 23rd victim of overdone mixture. Someone concocted a lethal batch and Rose happened be in its trajectory.

Rose was one of the premier artists in Phoenix during the 90's, just as I was becoming active in Phoenix arts. She was so well established--certainly compared to my largely ignored work--that I thought of her as living in a whole other dimension. As events turned out, I came to know Rose well enough to know that she was not only an exceptional painter but also a fine person and definitely living in the same dimension as the rest of us. Within a few years, I was showing in some juried shows with Rose and she had become a part of the House Studios, where I had a space. Rose never had a studio in the House but her studio was not far away and she certainly spent her share of time there. She was part of the Grand Adventure in Phoenix, Arizona that I posted here a couple years ago.

As a photographer, Rose's work didn't influence me directly, except that she was one of several painters I knew who were very good and whose work expanded my horizons. That quality drew me into her work and I marveled at both the imagination and skill that she brought to it. In 1999 she moved to Bisbee, Arizona, a mining town reborn as a quirky,not-exactly-counterculture-but-close, collection of people and places. She painted four large scale murals in town and continued to show and sell her work. When I saw her there in 2004, she was painting the Jonquil Motel mural. She looked happy and in her element. I saw her one more time at the House, maybe at the final party or not long before. Our paths had diverged but I consider myself much the richer for having known Rose.

Like many of Phoenix artists, Rose lived in an un-air conditioned studio--hers was on East Taylor Street in central Phoenix. She had a swamp cooler, which anyone who has lived through Phoenix "monsoon" season will tell you, isn't much but it's better than nothing at all. Maggie and I were at her place on a sweltering evening just talking. When it got to the subject of the summer heat, Rose observed that the Phoenix summer was the perfect excuse for doing absolutely nothing at all. I guess she decided she needed to something, though, she moved to Bisbee.

I didn't know Rose very well; we were not confidantes. I saw her art which told me a lot. And I enjoyed her company and friendship. Even though I hadn't seen Rose much in the past decade, I find myself feeling a great sense of loss. She was more a part of me than I had imagined.

Godspeed, Rose.

One Good Thing About Phoenix, Arizona

Bush and McCain can't fill a large venue to raise money and war hero John McCain is afraid of his own constituents. Instead they will attend to what Bush called "his base". He made the reference as a joke but the only joke is the rape of the American people. John McCain is a bit old but he will feed the military-corporate beast with our taxes and our sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers.

If these guys can't sell their Kool Aid in Phoenix, is it possible the nightmare will end?

[Addendum 05.26.08]

The big Phoenix media website, azcentral.com, gives prominent play to the protests during the Bush-McCain fundraiser. The story link is on the front page and maybe a third of the 62 photos are of protests, all headlined "Bush in the Valley to campaign for McCain". Local activists managed to gather and protest the visit in two places, including what became a "McCain Free Zone" (the activists, not the media, called it that) after the convention center fundraiser was canceled.

Instead, the two Amigos went to a private fundraiser at a home in the Biltmore (a secure community with guards if not gates and four entrances, only one of which offers pedestrian access. I'm pretty sure some old friends were at the 24th Street entrance. But the best action was where neither of the two principals of the day's events was present. Street theater and silliness at the convention center with Code Pink, Billionaires for Bush, the Free Street Band and a dedicated band of activists whom I am proud to call friends. Way to go!

To see azcentral's photos of the protests, you must scroll through far too many pictures of the entire retinue. Many are quite unflattering of Bush who looks odious and pugnacious. Nice shot of Cindy McCain, dress plastered to her backside by wind as Bush leers into her for a faux kiss. If Obama needs pictures of Bush 1.0 and Bush 2.0, he can find some right here.

Spanning the Waters

[This started out as a comment at Mockingbird's Medley that grew as I wrote. Most of what follows is there but I expanded it here to add a few more favorite bridges.]

My last project in Virginia 25 years ago evaluated highway maintenance needs. I spent a lot of time looking at bridges with engineers and learning how they are stuctured, built and maintained. Even then many were structurally deficient but politicians weren't willing to pay for maintenance. They much prefer shiny new things like new highways, bridges or even ball parks. But it's the maintenance that keeps the value and safety of public infrastructure. Effective maintenance will ensure that a structure achieves its design life and can even extend that life, thereby saving the expense of a new facility. Which, of course, denies politicians their shiny new projects.

The Minnesota failure may not be so much incompetence as a catastrophically bad decision to defer maintenance in favor of "more inspections" since maintenance money is always scarce. In the meantime, the sports palaces rise and we pour money into war and destruction.

Evaluating bridges was fun just because they are amazing structures, especially older ones that required engineers to span distances that exceeded their longest materials. Arches, trusses and suspension spans to accomplish that feat were not only engineering marvels but also works of art. These days, crews can fabricate long beams on site so designers just need to revert to the simplest form: a beam from bank to bank or pier to pier, functional but boring. I noticed that the bridge adjacent to the collapsed bridge was an arch span, probably built in the 30's or 40's. It looks like the deck was widened to carry more lanes but the main structure is much older than the one that failed.

Richmond, Virginia, where I lived before Arizona, has some beautiful bridges. The railroad bridge over the James west of Boulevard Bridge is one of the finest I've ever seen. Its broad main arches and gracefully curved deck arches are poetry in stone. The view from the Powhite Parkway crossing is spectacular. The old Lee Bridge was also an arched structure but only had the three or four main arches; the deck supports were just columns. It was far less graceful than the railroad brige upstream. I've seen the new Lee Bridge but not enough to recall it. I know the arches are purely decorative, much to the frustration The Boulevard Bridge is pretty neat too, with its complex truss under the deck, similar in concept to the collapsed Minneapolis bridge but much longer lasting, at least in part because it is weight and size restricted. Boulevard Bridge was always my favorite crossing even with the toll. The approaches in either direction were pretty steep and led to two very narrow traffic lanes. kind of like driving on to a ferry ramp. The deck was much lower to the James than other crossings. Boulevard Bridge also offered a good view of the railroad bridge upstream but, if I was driving, I had to concentrate on staying on course; there wasn't much clearance between lanes. Crossing on foot was much more fun.

Phoenix bridges are mostly pier and beam. And new. For the longest time only one bridge crossed the Salt River (which contrary to popular myth is not "normally dry", it's dammed to hell). That was at Hayden's Ferry in Tempe built in the 30's, I think. A very nice three arch span. The area had three major floods between 1978 and 81. Only the Hayden's Ferry bridge and the adjacent railroad bridge held. The rest were gone. When I came in 1982, some major thoroughfares crossing the Salt River were still unbridged. No more.

I encountered several memorable bridges on the Appalachian Trail. The many AT clubs that maintain the trail have built some wonderful bridges. The Laurel Creek crossing south of Bland Virginia is an impressive stone and wood structure. Just north is a wooden suspension bridge over Kimberling Creek. Same too at Jones Creek just south of the Salt Sulphur Turnpike. I crossed the latter in 2002 during a crashing thunderstorm. Three years later, it was washed out. The footbridge across the James River is very impressive. It's easily 100 meters long, maybe more, built on the piers or a previous railroad bridge and is the product of lots of work by the Natural Bridge AT Club. I crossed the James just after dawn on a June morning. My steps echoed on the wooden deck and the river lay under a cover of light mist here and there. The Swatara Creek crossing in central Pennsylvania is also notable. It's an old truss bridge relocated as a foot crossing. The morning I crossed was bright, sunny and the silver truss sparkled like a delicate filigree.

So now you know I like bridges.

Rite of Passage

[This is a follow-up to a previous post about The House, where I shared studio space with other artists in Phoenix. If you see names or references that you don't understand, you'll probably find an explanation in the earlier post.]

The House closed with as much enthusiasm as might be expected from a large crowd of artists, poets, musicians and friends. I saw the full range of The House’s history and tenants during the farewell party on 14 April. Some I did not recognize but along with the many I did know, they made for a high energy night. Much alcohol flowed from copious contributions by guests and Shelly’s keg of Fat Tire. The sweet smell of pot was in the air. The mood was festive. Many of us reminisced about our experiences and events and noted the closing of a chapter in our lives but the atmosphere was anything but funereal.

Everybody’s stuff was mostly out of The House itself and the back building known as The Barn, already loaded into the shipping container whose doors opened into the yard through the fence. (Not entirely unlike those 40 yard dumpsters that were so integral to our first weeks there in 1994.) Even so, The House was far from empty, filled with abandoned materials, battered kitchen appliances and debris. The bulldozers will soon come; there’s no sense trying to clean up. Somehow, people managed to wander through, around and over any impediments. No injuries were reported, which is pretty amazing, given the impaired state of many persons in attendance.

The party began in mid-afternoon on a bright, sunny spring day. Probably no more than six to eight people were there when I arrived around four o’clock. Robert and Dan Frenette were noodling around with guitars. Not long after, more people arrived. Some, like Luis Gutierrez, I’d not seen in years. Others I’d never seen. Musicians and poets alternated on the stage as afternoon became evening. Jules Dinehdeal told stories of her time with us at Central Studios before we moved to The House and read from Cleopache, her 1995 collection of poems. When Jules invited others to share their House stories, no one responded immediately, and not one to pass up an open mike, I told some of my experiences, including the installation of the massive swamp cooler hanging off the second story of The Barn behind the audience. I also remembered my time at The House as a time of no war, which sent me on to a riff about the current time of war until Maggie called me back to the subject at hand. I could look around these run-down, chaotic premises and see many, many friends and recall great experiences. It was a clear reminder that life has been good to me.

The sequence of events for the remainder of the night is a bit vague. Leslie Barton performed a song about “You and Your Fucking Dog” and another song I didn’t catch too much of. Leslie has a long association with The House and the artists there. Many of us met her at Central Studios the year before we moved into The House. She’s been reading poetry and performing ever since. Leslie’s Bad Xmas Pageant performances are legendary. Brian Flagard read, with Jules holding a lamp for light on the now dark stage. His story told of the Night of Revolution and Anarchy at Central Studios, an event that led, six months later, to The House. Virtually all of the principals from that night were in the audience as he recounted the details: the vodka, Shostakovitch building to a cresando, Alexi sentimental for lost Russian kin, the paint, the roof top, the police, the aftermath. All there on this final night at the The House.

Other poets read while I wandered among the crowd enjoying the company of old friends and new acquaintances, amazed at the mass of bodies circulating through the building. Jeff Cochran, one of the original House artists, pulled in around 9:00 pm after driving down from New Mexico. Delaney Dickerson, who was at Central Studios with us showed up. So did Dave Salcido who shared space with Shelly at Faux Café before Central. The night was one to celebrate my good fortune with those who gave me so much.

The kitchen was as functional as ever, the sink cabinet listing backwards as it had since we installed it in the first months. Jules'daughter, Lauren, made a most excellent pot of vegan chilli that went down well with beer and with baguettes. Chooga’s studio was still intact, work in progress on the wall. The House computer and phone remained on the table from The Great Hall of Integrity. The entire back end of The House sloped, as it always had, at an angle on this sinking addition. Robert’s studio was stripped of all his art and materials, a large mound of trash in the middle of the room. The ceiling was long gone, open to the rafters above. The walls splattered with paint. The old Great Hall and front rooms were the wood shop, a more level application than in a previous configuration. Scrap lumber and frame materials littered the floor and storage racks, sawdust covered the floor. Robert’s large paint covered work table remained, filling much of this space. The front sunporch was filled with bike parts, old frames, a dead table saw and other clutter. Shelly and Julie still occupied my old studio, its ceiling also open to the rafters but the space partially filled with red cloth looped down between rafters. Pretty nice effect. The outside door now worked and the space had an open, light, airy feel. The room and sunporch were among the most Spartan, Shelly’s and Julie’s stuff was minimal and compact. The space seems to have weathered well the last 13 years of occupants. I was first. Shelly was last. In between were Steve Yazzie, Jack Evans, others and Paul Michuta, Chooga’s son who made the last film shot at The House. The room had good vibes for me.

A DJ kept music going throughout the evening. At one point I went out to my truck and lay down the camper shell, which is tricked out for that very purpose (camping, actually but always good for horizontal time). Just getting off my feet and closing my eyes for a while renewed me a bit. When I returned, The House was filled with people, the only one of whom I recognized was Jules, deep in conversation with others. I found Robert and April upstairs, listening to Mike Little sing and play guitar and harmonica. He’s very good, polished and the songs I heard were well done.

The upstairs is an intimate space, with ceilings that crowd in as the roof reaches to its peak. The center is probably seven feet, the walls half that. Mike played in the center front where the roof opens under a dormer window. Tea lights laid out in front of him gave the room a warm feel. The north roof slope has a large window that offers access to the roof. That was our access when Robert and I installed the cooler there. I dug a bullet out of the roof during that installation.

By now it’s almost midnight, way late for this normally early riser with the incontinent dog. I’m doing the radio show in the morning, too. I thank Robert and April for everything, say my farewells and head home on Phoenix’ wonderfully uncongested late night freeways. The party’s over but a few more acts remain. Robert told me during the evening that they would not be pulling out at noon Sunday. More likely Monday morning.

Sunday morning I thank my previous night’s moderate intoxicant consumption for the lack of a hangover but I am tired. I do the radio program and stop at The House afterward. Robert, April, Chooga and, I think, Dan Frenette are there. Even with all the added party debris, nothing looks particularly different. We talk about what they’re leaving behind and what they might want. April wants the table from the Great Hall of Integrity for a future studio but they don’t have room. Maggie and I offer to take it–we can always use another table for our myriad sorting and packing tasks and don’t want to see that piece of The House disappear quite yet. Robert asks for my help in the morning loading their bed and a few other large items so I agree to return with Maggie then. I go home, meet the man who gave us Prince, The Dalmatian, 14 years ago. Maggie had tracked him down with the original paperwork he’d given us and we invited him to see how his companion given for adoption fared. He was pleased to see Prince and hear of his life and adventures. Sunday evening is also the first birthday party for the radio station. It’s not far away, in Scottsdale at some fancy club. I get a VIP wrist band but it’s still a cash bar. I stick around long enough to be introduced as one of the weekend program hosts. The free food isn’t out yet so Maggie and I head to find food and finally, sleep.

Monday is cooler, even a bit overcast. Robert and April are still doing laundry and packing when I arrive. We can’t load the bed and other items until after the dryer. In the meantime I help as I can, moving items from the bedroom in “the barn”and the main building. Maggie is in full salvage mode and is particularly incensed because she knows the new owners will not bother to save the 1910 wood floor with its-impossible-to-find old-growth tight grain. I’m sure this deal is so big the money from the floor would be peanuts. It will be sad to loose something that rare, though. She identifies the old dryer, the washer and 75 gallon water heater for salvage. And still the bamboo, or pampas grass or whatever this fast growing vegetation is, remains. There appears to be some uncertainty. Plants and other living things are pulled from everywhere. The internet and phone connections go down. Shelly and Julie take their leave; they will spend another day or so at friends before heading to meet Robert and April at their place in Santa Fe. Fifty Dollar Bill, a neighboring artist/DJ pries the security door from the barn with a wrecking bar. He’s taking the old washing machine and leftover organic and vegan food, also. We load the dryer and then the queen mattress, box springs and futon sofa frame. Almost done now. Boxes of final things are crammed into a few convenient open spaces on the container or vehicles.

The dogs wait, sometimes confined, sometimes free. Willie, the black, white and tan basset hound, the older but smaller of the two, and Nancy, a bull mastiff and basset mix. I did not mention any dogs in my previous story, a serious omission that I will correct right now. The House was home to at least six dogs that I know of. Willie and Nancy are the most recent. First was Sarah, Robert and April’s basset-Labrador mix who came to Arizona with them in 1992. She’s even listed on the first Art Detour advertisement along with all the artists. Yazzie’s dog, Josh, was also there at the beginning; he’s in the photo that appeared in the paper in March 1995. Then he was gone. Max was another canine resident. There’s a story behind his arrival but I don’t know it. He came after I moved to Window Rock but I recall seeing him, a large, old, gangly black dog who somehow fit into a chair that he adopted. I believe he ran across Fourth Street and was killed by a car. David Lewis did a wonderful painting of Max in dog heaven, his long legs curled into that impossibly small chair. During that same time, Charlie, the peacock also lived at The House. He had the run of the yard and his own pen by the barn. There may be other dogs but I only know Hazel, a mixed breed hound whom Robert and April adopted in Portland after Sarah died. Hazel was an escape artist and also met her fate on Fourth Street. Two dogs, one peacock, all buried here at The House. Willie and Nancy have a long ancestry here.

Mid afternoon now, a little rain falls, sending us scrambling to get the last items under cover. Robert closes and locks the doors on the shipping container. Final items go into the cars. The Great Hall Table is in my truck. Maggie’s got other salvage. The storage company will pick up the shipping container tomorrow. We take a short break. Robert says it will be strange not to have The House to return to. They won’t need The House, though, not with almost three acres south and east not far from Santa Fe. Robert has already said he won’t miss the dirt at The House. We offer farewells, hugs, good wishes and promises to stay in touch. We know we will, so the parting is just a change to another place and time in the progress of life. Robert leads out in his Tundra, its camper-covered bed packed full, towing a small U-Haul trailer. April follows in her Forester, also full including Willie and Nancy. They head toward the freeway, into a 500 mile trip just as Phoenix rush hours begin at three o’clock.

Maggie runs another errand in the area. I head home to wrangle dogs and food. Maggie and I unload the Great Hall Table and she heads back to The House to help Chooga clear out his studio in the now unpowered, unlighted building. Over the next few days, Maggie makes a couple more salvage trips and finds the dryer gone from the front porch and the scrap aluminum from Robert’s travel trailer rehab project also gone. The combination stove, reefer and sink from the old travel trailer and the water heater from the bathroom are gone when I stopped in a few days later. The fence has been tagged with graffiti, the back gates are falling off. Some of the old chimney bricks that paved the patio are gone.

The weekend after the final party, Maggie helped members of the Phoenix Permaculture Group remove bamboo and plants. An artist in the group pulled out old window frames and glass for found material. The barn has been open since Monday. Now the main building is too. Soon a fence will surround the property and demolition will commence. During the last days we wondered what kind of karma the new structure will have. We hear condos but no one knows for certain. We do know for certain that The House will always be part of that space and our time in Phoenix.

A Long Story About a Grand Adventure in Phoenix, Arizona

A few blocks north of Phoenix’ sparkling glass and steel downtown, the remains of a quieter, residential neighborhood punctuate vacant blocks. Long ago blighted, frequented by the homeless and drug users, most locals, if they see the area at all, see it through tinted windows as they drive to the safety of the suburbs.

The neighborhood is among Phoenix’ oldest. Most of the houses were constructed between 1900 and 1920 as the city started expanding north from McDowell Road. Large homes once inhabited by the wealthy are now boarding houses for the down and outers who are not completely homeless. Smaller houses are still home for a few families. Many others are empty and boarded up, waiting for the wrecking crews. On nearby Roosevelt, new condos and shops face the many art spaces that have opened in abandoned buildings in the past five years. Just south of Roosevelt on Fourth Street, a new restaurant occupies two restored homes.

One house, 810 North 4th Street is the only original structure on its block. It’s a squat building, run down, decrepit, soon to be vacated by the artists who have lived and worked there during the past 12 years. Known simply as The House or sometimes The House Studios, this building has been a creative venue that has produced some of Phoenix’ best painters. It has also been home to poets, photographers and musicians. I was on of the two photographers among the first artists to begin working in The House in January 1995. The experience was one of my best ever.

Actually, I began working ON The House in November 1994 when Robert Anderson and his partner, April Deming, offered me studio space there. I’d known Robert and April for about a year and a half. We shared nearby studios at Faux Café and Central Studios beginning in Spring 1993. Our odyssey through downtown art spaces was forced by redevelopment, behavior and economics. And probably the search for light, since neither Faux nor Central had windows. Robert and fellow Fort Wayne, Indiana refugee, Jeff Cochran, were kicked out of Faux after painting guerilla murals on the two large bay doors that opened into the main gallery. The rest of us were bounced a few months later when the developer of the nearby basketball arena completed his five year obligation to provide space for the artists displaced by the arena. Faux Café closed. Artists were the last occupants of a building that had been one of Phoenix’ premier auto dealerships in its early years.

Many Faux Café refugees, Robert and Jeff, Shelly Johnson, David Lewis, Mike Michuta and I, moved to Central Studios late in 1993. The change also introduced us to new artists, including poets Brian Flatgard and Jules Dinehdeal. Along with our gallery shows, Central had poetry slams, book premiers and bookbinding that included ritual head shaving followed by drunken head shaving. Robert lasted until the party after Art Detour when there was much wildness, music and painting on the walls. His reputation as a bad boy led management (who weren’t always sure what to do with a basement full of artists) to blame him for vandalism. Robert just said “Fuck it!” and left. That very same warm March weekend, when our basement studios were filled with people we also discovered that we lacked effective cooling.

Robert had difficulty working in a group setting with any kind of authority structure or rules that interfered with his work. He had no problem working. He painted well and prolifically. He worked hard and supported himself with income from gallery sales. It’s just that he worked LOUD and could be an obnoxious and overbearing drunk. But he knew his art and had a good sense of creative imagery and was always honest about art. The imagery alone made me envious of painters’ ability to create what doesn’t exist. As a photographer, my stock imagery was something I found. While the finding, recording and presenting were creative challenges in photography, I liked the possibilities of painting. Robert and I did the first show at the Central Studios Gallery. My photographs looked very good alongside Robert’s paintings. That pleased me.


After painting at home, working out of a steel storage unit through a Phoenix summer (“Your paint dries fast.”), Robert asked me if I wanted to join him in a new location, a house on Fourth Street just south of Roosevelt. I was still working at Central Studios, publishing my photo collection, Reality and Other Images, but once the basic build out was complete (with donated artists’ labor), the building managers were unable or unwilling to finish the project. Faux Café had been cheap. Central was pricey.

When I stopped to look at 810 North 4th Street, my first thought was “Robert is fucking crazy. This place is a dump!” From the outside, I could not imagine a photography studio here. Robert and April had just agreed to rent it for $350 a month with six months free, the owner would put up $3,000 for supplies and a couple 40 yard dumpsters to haul out debris. The city was pressing for neighborhood clean up. This house had been the residence of a chronically mentally ill rat packer extraordinaire, not to mention a shooting gallery (we found needles and feces), a palm reader-massage parlor and, now a “church” complete with a 12 foot (or so) cross set into the front walkway. The landlord had given the rat packer a 30 day notice, during which time he disabled much of the remaining electric service (he’d been stealing electricity during his last months). He called himself a preacher and left an extended, rambling account of his unjust eviction on the walls upstairs. Robert and April had toppled the cross by the time I saw the building. The writing remained.

Inside was even worse. Filled with trash and debris. Dark. Large. Water perpetually leaking from a faucet in the bathroom addition with the non-functioning toilet; over the years water had rotted out several floor joists. The interior toilet worked. It was in a bathroom with doors on three sides. Strange. The back addition listed at about 15 degree angle where poor drainage had undermined the supporting piers. No hot water, no heat. The place was filled with defunct appliances. Plaster was falling from walls and ceilings. It would take a lot of work. But it was cheap. Robert figured five to seven artists could work here for about 50 to 70 bucks per month plus utilities. It was above ground. It had possibilities. It was cheap.

So I signed on. So did Mike Michuta. We three plus April Deming and Maggie Reardon, my partner, were the initial clean up crew. Maggie arranged for an electrician to restore the disabled electric service (he also salvaged two full pickup loads of appliances from the premises). I took over from April as Minister of Finance (which I prefer to the more prosaic, treasurer). Robert and I did a lot of the basic clean up and minimal restoration in December. It was six weeks before we entered the building without respirators. The house had a number of gas fired space heaters but the service was so unreliable the only one we hooked up was the big one in what ultimately became the Great Hall of Integrity. Rather than crawl under the house to connect the gas line, Maggie just sawed through the floor. It was that kind of space. Robert was the first to paint there on New Year’s Day 1995. It was cold. It was cheap.

810 North 4th Street became The House sometime during the first few months. We debated various names for the place, including Twin Palms for the two 40 foot palms in the front yard. Robert didn’t think much of any name. “Fuck it. It’s just the house.” It was. The name took instantly.

My studio was the northeast corner, in the front. I had a 14x16 (or so) room that opened onto an enclosed sun porch. It had an outside door on the north and doorways into each adjacent room. Plenty of space but incredibly dirty. The building was drafty as hell and dust was everywhere. Incredibly, I was able to maintain a clean enough environment even for matting and framing. Two walls were brick (we had stupidly removed plaster to give the place “character”–stupid not only because it was a lot of work but, as Maggie pointed out, the plaster may well have been part of what little integrity the building still had). I installed hardware wire to create a hanging system and was able to show work. Robert painted in the room to my south, in what was the entry and living area. April began painting with him there. The sun porch on off Robert’s space was Pauline Munsey’s studio. Through my west doorway was Mike Michuta’s studio. Another photographer, Ray Carns was on the second floor, accessible via a rerouted stairway that was more like a ladder. By Art Detour in March, Jeff Cochran, Steve Yazzie, Mike Faro (another Faux Café refugee) and Brian Flatgard, the poet and book maker from Central, were also working there. A few lived there as well. We covered our costs at a reasonable share. The House was always a cooperative, non-profit venture. It housed artists at cost.

Working in a painters’ environment was one of the best things that happened to me. Robert’s kaleidoscopic, in your face paintings opened me to a new way of thinking. He was very good and willing to share ideas and offer help. Every artist who worked for any time at The House came in with talent and all improved. April, who had never painted seriously, discovered her considerable ability. Mike Michuta, the 6'4" Lithuanian truck driver, became Chooga and invented Choogism, a complex personal style far removed from the simple colors and lines he painted at Faux Cafe. Ideas and imagery traveled from studio to studio, not copied so much as borrowed, interpreted and refashioned. I could not directly incorporate the painters’ ideas but I did begin to consider what my images showed of the world and began using alternate techniques. Within a year, I tried my hand at painting. Not particularly successful but also not for the last time

One of the drawbacks of our location was that The House was not part of the monthly First Friday art walks in downtown Phoenix. Both Faux Café and Central were on that circuit, which started as a very sparsely attended Second Wednesday when pedestrians walking to the new downtown Phoenix attraction basketball arena from nearby parking decks would go out of their way to cross the street, avoiding not only Faux’ open gallery bay doors but also two single room occupancy hotels and the bar/store that served them and us. The art walk morphed into a very modest First Friday in the central core of the downtown area and was my only real venue for regular public display. Robert liked that The House wasn’t part of the Phoenix art scene; he thought it had too many shallow, unprofessional poseurs and opportunists. He sold his work, on his own and in a Scottsdale gallery where his paintings were dramatically different and sold consistently. But he accommodated me and the others for Art Detour in the three years I was at The House. Having even a modest crowd made The House seem more precarious as Art Detourists picked their way among our warren of studios. Many of them looked scared, not at all certain what they had walked into.

The House was the one of the first full time art spaces in the what is now the Third Street and Roosevelt locus of the Phoenix downtown art scene, which now draws thousands of people there and to Grand Avenue from Seventh to 15th Avenues and beyond. But in 1995 art spaces in the area were few. Planet Earth Theater was just north of Garfield on Third Street. Metropophobobia, a combination bookstore and performance/art space was a few blocks south on Third Street. Rose Johnson was farther south on Polk Street between First and Second Streets, next door to the Phoenix Forge Blacksmith Shop. One or two other spaces were in the vicinity but nothing that was open for the monthly art walk. The only neighborhood walkers were the homeless, druggies and artists from The House walking to the Newsroom Bar around the corner from Rose’s. Despite downtown Phoenix’ dangerous reputation, I never felt at risk walking there, even alone.

The House was open for Art Detour 1995–97. It was a guaranteed show for me and required me to produce a body of work. Which I did each year. Setting up and showing was hard work but the weekend was also a good party and it was always nice to see my photos as a body. I sold a few pieces but mainly I got much positive feedback. I was hiking the Grand Canyon during Art Detour 1997 but my studio was set up and open. A high school girl left me a note that my work inspired her. I couldn’t ask for more as an artist. I was also featured in juried and invitational shows, La Phoeniquera, Pictures of Dave and In Other Words during those years. My piece in the latter show also took a first place in the annual show at the Phoenix Center where I did much of my darkroom work and took classes.

Working at The House was a very productive and creative time for me. Robert and the other painters were changing my perspective. I was learning from Carol Panaro Smith whose photography was far and away the most creative I had encountered; she taught me a variety of alternative photographic techniques that opened new possibilities. I served as a volunteer artist in residence at the Phoenix public school’s magnet school for the arts in south Phoenix. I had a lot of stimulus from a lot of sources. The House was one of many influences and came at a good time.

I tried my hand at painting in mid to late 96, working in oil on masonite, just like Robert. Like Robert my work surface was particle board nailed to the wall. Like Chooga and Robert I moved back and forth to my painting. Unlike these two skilled painters, I was working with only a vague sense of color and limited representational skills. But it was different and I liked it. Had I stayed in Phoenix, I’m pretty sure I would have continued. As it was I started again three years later and actually learned something.

I moved to Window Rock, Arizona in April 1997 to work for the Navajo Nation in a job that was too much of an opportunity to pass up. I kept my studio for a few months but that much space was too attractive to stay vacant for too long; Steve Yazzie soon moved in and my gear was stored. Which was okay. I still had access to work space and a place among the artists, which was the most important link. I showed with House artists the following two years at Art Detour when they organized galleries in vacant downtown spaces. The group now included painters Melanie Corradi and David Lewis (also previously at Faux Café and Central Studios) who had studios at The House, painter Rose Johnson from nearby and sculptor Kris Manzanares who worked from home. During this time, Jeff Cochran filmed virtually all of his first feature length work, Punk James, at The House, which also served as a location for a few scenes his second film, Where in the Galaxy is Baron Dixon? Poet Jack Evans worked in my old studio for a while after Yazzie left. Painter Mike Hanson worked in the upstairs studio. As my photography began exploring Window Rock, Gallup, New Mexico and beyond, I still felt and appreciated the talent and creativity of these artists. Stopping by The House was always part of any trip to Phoenix.

The original core broke up in 1999 when Robert and Jeff began selling work in Santa Fe and moved to New Mexico. Chooga joined them a year later. Rose moved to Bisbee, Arizona and David went to Namibia. The House morphed again. Mike Little, Yazzie’s half brother, brought musicians to play and perform there. The House became a musicians’ venue. Little even rented it for a movie location. It was flexible like that. We original occupants all thought we were through with Phoenix even if we still came back occasionally.

But here we are in 2007. Robert, April, Chooga and Shelly Johnson (also from Faux Café and Central Studios) are back in the House for its final days. Robert and April returned in 2004 after being fed up with living in Taos and not liking the gloom of Portland, Oregon. The House still offered cheap, if rustic, living. Chooga had returned to Phoenix earlier and took space at The House when Robert and April came back. Maggie and I ended up in Phoenix after two years on the road when I hiked the Appalachian Trail and we drove to and from Alaska. Amazingly, The House still stands. Far less remains of it than when we occupied in 1995. The center toilet sewer line collapsed years ago. Fortunately we had “restored” the add on bathroom, even if the toilet sits at a bit of an angle. It works, though. Water now leaks permanently from the kitchen sink in an ironic reprise of the leak we found 13 years ago. No heat. The hot water still works.

Robert and April knew when they returned in 2004 that The House’s days were limited. The notice came in early 2007: out by April 15. Surveyors have been busy shooting transit lines across the property. We can see them from the back patio. Looks like redevelopment has finally moved north. This area is adjacent to the new Arizona State University downtown campus and the headquarters of the Genome Project. As always, there is money to be made from vacant land in Phoenix.

Everyone is ready to leave. We’ve all had enough of Phoenix. Robert and April own three acres near Santa Fe and will head there to build out living and studio space. Shelly will join them before heading to Alaska in late May to work in the salmon cannery. Chooga’s staying for a while, sharing a place with his son, Paul, who just filmed his first production, Utopia, using The House as a location for one final time and Robert acting. Maggie and I will leave by June for Olympia, Washington.

The House will be empty for the first time since Fall 1994 and without a permanent tenant since at least the late 1980's. Robert says for all he knows, the owner will rent it out as studio space for other artists. Not likely, too much is going on here. The lots across Fourth Street are now a staging area for construction supplies and equipment for buildings rising just to the south and east. When we moved in, four houses stood there. Three are gone now. I can’t imagine any future scenario that will leave The House still standing. Rumor is that The House and the other three lots between McKinley and Garfield have been sold for redevelopment. Hell, if they did nothing, The House would probably collapse of its own accord. Parts of it have been collapsing over the years.

This story could go on and on, about how we jacked up the add-on bathroom and replaced floor joists, about how the original wood shop listed to one side, about installing coolers and duct work. We did a lot there. What I especially remember from The House, though, is the company and how it opened my mind to new possibilities and ideas. I will always take great pride in the role Maggie and I played in creating and sustaining The House. I also take great pleasure in the people who came into my life through The House. Watching them think, paint, argue, drink, party and work was as grand an adventure as I’ve had in life. Their appreciation for and thoughts about my photography gave me reason to call myself an artist.

The House was a journey among friends. That’s a lot from an old house.


editor's note:

This is my recollection of places and times, what I can recall and what fits together in a more or less coherent story. Robert, April, Chooga and Maggie reminded me of many events not included in my original draft. I added some. Others didn't quite fit the structure and flow of what I had written so they are not included. I invite anyone with memories or experiences of or at The House to add them as comments. They are part of the story, too.

Update:  The development never happened.  The House remained unsecured and vacant for two more years until it burned in the spring of 2009.