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the same time each weekend I take the reserved plaques off a particular set of paintings. they’re for Em, a regular who comes to my booth each week. I don’t know her real name but I call her that because of the humming noise she makes while she observes.

I know she’ll never buy them. but that’s why I make sure nobody else does.

she used to talk with me when she first came here, over four years ago. now she just smiles as she enters, takes the metal folding chair from behind the bookshelf, and sets it in her usual spot. she arranges the paintings so she can leaf through them one by one. and then she starts emming.

when the pollen of my little lot catches the curios, when expression stretches its petals, it too starts to hum. that’s when the raccoons and the fleas and the opossums begin to talk, when the albums pull out their own metal chair to dance and brood and bicker. it’s when the paintings Em studies start to refract and fold in the light—when she becomes the painted object observing the painter.

and in my portal booth, it’s where she can talk with Frank. where she becomes JYM, the model who sat cooking in frank’s observation for four decades. where the portrait becomes their aging interaction, where she turns into the streetlights, the staircases. where her poster skin curls and peels, cooking in the heat of his study.

when she eventually leaves, I walk back over to hang the reserved plaques back on. and I can always smell fresh paint.

bought: various portraits by (from the breathing box)

interaction:

my trinkets received no free attention from the blond lady. she was a hornet moving through my booth, hovering with her head above her determined steps. she drew straight lines between the objects, moving from item to item with indifferent speed. she gave no obligatory long nods or soft blinks of consideration to what was displayed. nothing slowed her until she reached a particular box of art, of portraits mostly.

dropping down, she started shuffling through them. she held out pieces she liked with outstretched arms. and the ones she really liked made her head vibrate. after placing one to her side, she broke into an impenetrable rant.

she told me how much she can’t stand realistic or realism art, telling me that people should go buy a camera. there were lots of mutters and grunts any time she said the word “real” so it was hard to understand for sure. but I did catch that she thought realistic type of art was more of a vocational craft, like plumbing or hedge trimming, than art. that gave me a nose chuckle. she did not notice. at one point the rant turned to mirrors and she started talking faster and faster, and as she placed another art piece at her side, she said mirrors are liars, that they reflect no part of her. she looked down at the painting to her side and gave a couple of taps to the frame. she was levitating at this point. and then she told me that these art pieces were her mirror.

eventually she stood up and picked up her stack. they were an assortment of work by Guy Denning. after thanking me, she turned and walked out of my booth. I stuck her rant in my pocket as I continued to watch her walk, head in front of her feet, in a determined line past all the other booths.

her rant had walls and teeth so I never got the chance to tell her about how I found those paintings in the Finistère or about the mirrors I have in the back, or how the box she dug through was one of the very few labeled things in my booth, and how there’s duct tape on the bottom that reads “the breathing box.” those thoughts too, were for the pocket.

below is the art the lady left with. for more by Guy Denning

thankk youuu for stopping by. love ya!

I never know where to place these art pieces in my booth. Sometimes I place them near the front entrance, while other days I hide them behind the couch, facing away from the crowd, cached away like the artists who created them.

This particular collection of art was never meant to be seen, much less scrutinized. And some days I want to protect their innocence. While on other days, like today, I want to impose their authenticity and glue them onto windshields and drape them over stoplights and insert them underneath every phone glass. Either way, their location in my booth is a symptom of my mercurial moods.

The flea market setting (amongst all the tents of barter and exchange) doesn’t help the indecision. There’s too much noise vying for influence. So sometimes, in an effort to see them with a sober mind, I throw them into the back of my flying 1991 Ford Ranger and take off to Cleveland, Ohio—a place where I trust dispositions.

***screeching tire noises***

Nobody projects onto Cleveland, Ohio. Nobody dreams about walking and getting lost in its streets, or imagines themselves blasting down the boulevard with their arms waving out of a sunroof. If I see something in Cleveland (a statue, a broad walkway, a seedy-looking bar), I know it exists not to appease or profit off of my grandeur ideas of Cleveland but because Cleveland necessitates it (through need or desire).

When there, I take the paintings and drawings out and I lay them against the brick. And there, in a setting void of performance, I absorb the collection of art with clarity. I see the brush strokes and slashes of ink and enjoy knowing that the force behind the movements is not for my judgement or jealousy or appreciation, but for that specific art piece’s craving for such movements.

This art, much like Cleveland, exists for itself.

In attics, in basements, under candlelight, and in secret, these various artists created these works without ever having the intent of sharing them. They were made solely for the need to create—free from the restrictions of art classes and critiques and far far from performace.

In the world they rejected, they are called outsider artists. In my giddy little world, I call them Cleveland Authentic. Here they are. I hope you enjoy their company and their art (they certainly don’t appreciate yours):

Séraphine Louis (1862-1942)

Louis, pictured above, was a house cleaner who painted in secret under candlelight beneath a France bustling with industry, fashion, and war. She was discovered when a German art collector visited his neighbor’s house and discovered a painting of apples and was shocked to learn the painter was his very own house cleaner, Louis.

Madge Gill (1882-1961)

Madge Gill’s parents isolated her from the rest of the world, so she created her own. In her attic, she scribbled thousands of drawings and sketches. She credits her inspiration to her spirit guide, Myrninerest. Even after her art was discovered, and people offered to show her work in renowned galleries, Gill refused, claiming the art belonged to Myrinerest.

Bill Traylor (1853-1949)

William (Bill) Traylor was a self-taught artist. Born a slave, Bill lived through the Civil War, Jim Crow laws, the Reconstruction, and later became a prominent figure of the budding urban African American culture in the South. While living on the streets of Montgomery, Alabama, he and his art were discovered at his ripe age of 75.

Martín Ramírez (1895-1963)

Martín came to the United States from Mexico to work on the railroad and to send money back to his wife and young children. After a handful of years of work, he ended up homeless, battling mental issues, including schizophrenia. He was later institutionalized, where he remained for his life and where he created his surreal drawings.

Voila. Four Cleveland Authentic artists. Four artists who probably never said thank you without meaning it. Four artists who combated the challenge of their lives with expression.

And as an extra little gift, here is this song by the Texan musician named Jandek, who ducked the spotlight that chased after him and only sent his albums by mail order.

Thanks Ily H.A.G.S.

I ransacked some classics because I care about you market goers so much. Just promise you won’t tell. The authorities will never look in Oceanside so long as we keep it hush.

Christian Krohg (1852-1925)

Above is the original dap, one of my favorites from Krohg collection at Orsay. After learning a little about him, this painting felt like a peek show into who he was—a very organic, non-GMO man. I had to have it—look how he frames the dapper with his booty out of the picture. The critics said what a novice mistake and labeled him an amateur. And Krohg said don’t care. He knew it had some mystery and honesty and kept his hand up, waiting for somebody to understand and give him the first dap ever.

Here’s (below) another one of his elongated booty pics. He also messed with a bunch of other different art forms because he did not care about what flea market bin you tossed him in. Anyways, hope this is worth the short peruse. You can go for a further snoop, for a dap from beyond the grave.

Paul Gaugin (1848-1903)

I also stole this Paul Gauguin piece (below) for your lusty eyes. It’s called the white horse even though the horse is green and the other horse is red and the other horse is dark grey and I might be color blind. Gauguin, I think, is my favorite post-impressionist (at least when I am in the mood to heist).

It’s a great nice painted flat box that I think would look really tie your living room together. It will let your guests know that you travel, that you’re exotic (even though you know not so deep down the subtle secret that no matter how close you get, you will never understand a local (so might as well paint them however exotically you see them in your head).

Here is a nice video on Gauguin if you want to know more about him/if you want to fall asleep on a desk.

Anyway, let me know if you're interested in any of these. Hope to see you around the market soon. I also stole other pieces, like this quick grab-and-dash old advert that used to flap around in Paris around a century ago. Let me know if you want more heists. More to come soon, ily

A laugh shoots out of the main house onto the lot’s grass. I don't look to see who it is because the main house always gets all the attention and because I can start to smell trash burning and I love the smell of trash burning. It's what I want to put in my pocket and take back home with me so I can show everyone when they ask what my favorite part was.

I am king of NicaRica. NicaRica is not a real country but it is a real place.

He throws his smile before aiming. His heavy teeth wake my hibernating past (a pact in an avocado grove, an arrest over a stolen wiper blade, tequila lava in the desert). I want to follow him underneath the playground to find his pirate ship treasures. With no slides, all that ever happens is he asks if I need a bag for my mint, and I tell him no and thank him for the evidence.

An old bony finger, the streetlamp stretches over the road and points to right here, right now, to the granular asphalt and desert wash gutters. It says this is the spot to be, under this yellow light, in this speakeasy that takes two knocks on the twilight to find.