Wonton Violence
Material: oil on canvas
Size: 44×72
Year: 1989

I shall not seek and I will not accept the nomination of my party for another term as your president.     – Lyndon Johnson

In 1994, I was confronted at a Columbus, Ohio solo art show by a Vietnam veteran who demanded to know how I had the audacity to portray a satirical scene from a war I did not attend.  I explained to him that this was my own, twelve-year-old’s evening news experience of seeing the same event, but backwards and in flip-flops, and he was satisfied enough to let me off with a stern warning.  A short time later, a carpenter offered me sex in exchange for the same painting, but I sure took advantage of him – I sold him a forgery!  What a sucker!  I’m lying, by the way — Gallant politely declined the offer.

I had another, more significant encounter with a Vietnam veteran once on the University of Cincinnati campus, where I was studying industrial design.  My college career had gotten off to a phenomenal start, but after a few years, the grind and the utter nonexistence of any social life, brought on by my frequent co-op (work-study program) absences, had begun to affect my mood.  One day I plopped down on a bench between classes and stared at the ground, feeling sorry for myself, feeling I could not go on, when a Vietnam vet sat on the other end of the bench and lit a cigarette.  We knew who these guys were – they were shaggy and bearded, looked to be 25 going on 55 years of age, and wore pieces of army surplus clothing.  This one smoked silently for a minute, then, without my saying a word, threw his cigarette down, got up in my face, and yelled, “Goddammit, are you gonna do something about it, or are you just gonna sit there?”  He stormed off, and I knew I had nothing to complain about.  My academic career was immediately back on track.

I have visited Ho Chi Minh City (now known as Saigon) and I’ve stood exactly where this original, iconic photo was taken, and almost got run over by a tuk-tuk.

 

 

 

Title: Aiti Pullankanssa
Material: oil on canvas
Size: 72×60
Year: 1989

 

The major concern was to create a monument which would have lasting significance and would be a landmark of our time.  Neither an obelisk nor a rectangular box nor a dome seemed right on this site or for this purpose.  But here, at the edge of the Mississippi River, a great arch did seem right.     — Eero Saarinen

Me and my Eero.

Aiti was my Finnish grandmother.  ‘Aiti’ means ‘Mother’, ‘pulla’ is Finnish coffee bread, ‘kansa’ means ‘with her’, and ‘molopaa’ means ‘dick-head’.  So “Aiti Pullankansaa” means “Mother with Her Coffee Bread”*.   But I speak none of that tangled coat-hanger of a language, and Finns rarely speak at all, so reality in Aiti’s dark, wooden house tended to slowly spiral into a point of nothing like a snake consuming itself tail-first.  But there are no snakes in Finland, unless it can be proven otherwise by some smart zoologist.  None that I know of, anyhow.  I’m certain there are no grasshoppers, thanks to St. Urho, who drove them out.  This is well-documented.  Now if someone could drive the dogs out of West Philly.

Unless we wanted to watch baseball with my grandfather Ukki (“Grandfather”) we could read a book on the porch or, if we were really bored, wander up to the Fineview schoolyard and sportingly present ourselves to be beaten senseless by the Irish city kids for mocking their inarticulate attempts to engage us verbally.  While enjoying the fine view of the gray Pittsburgh sky with our backs on the broken asphalt, of course.

*Finnish words can be ridiculously long, because they string all of a noun’s modifiers together into one extended, seamless word.  For instance, the English phrase “even with its quality of not being possible to be made irrational” becomes the Finnish word “epajarjestelmallistyttamattmyydel-lansakaan”.  It seems unfair that Latin is a dead language, but Finnish lives.

 

 

Title: I Was Here I Am: portrait of Quanah Parker
Material: oil on canvas
Size: 66×66
Year: 1988

This painting was prompted by a dream in which a Native American questioned me as to why I was on his land.