Pop Art Wars

            Many would argue my art was government sanctioned.  Stroud, my mentor, fully supported my expression and output and she ensured my benefactor and patron received the art with an open mind, often directing them to experience the intent of the journey, disregarding anything they felt might be an error.  She challenged them to simply enjoy the creativity and expression of the artist; not trying to fit the artist into a pre-conceived notion of the intersection of prose and art.  Most of my peers felt words were enough to convey the complex emotions within their writing.  I felt I needed to add a more visual representation of my voice.  My words needed vibrant color to allow maximum comprehension of my inner turmoil, the thing which powered my creativity.

Stroud challenged me, sometimes she gave specific guidance, other times she just let me create; free form.  Words, pictures, codes, it didn’t matter.  I was to go where my brain took me.  Some have said it was as if she had assigned me to create.  Her rules were there were no rules other than being present, in the moment, preferably working quietly as to not disturb the other gifted and talented second graders in the trailer on the upper playground of East Side Elementary School in Winnfield, Louisiana.

My initial assignment, dated Sept. 6, 1977, when I was but a lad of six, started a productive period spanning nine months (until May, 1978), demonstrating my evolution as an artist and national commentator on subjects as varied as witches, raindrops, why policemen wear blue and what made me giggle.  At such a young age it seems I understood the nebulous line between art and commerce, oftentimes co-opting commercial art to masquerade as an academic exercise.  Also, I was partial to magenta.   

As an avid reader, viewing this body of work, I was reminded of someone else who in the late 70s was mired in indecision, pondering what was more important; creativity and discovering the new or focusing on the acceptance of the existing to ensure financial viability for the future.  Andy Warhol was, in 1977/1978, just starting to be comfortable in his own shoes as a person, an artist and a social arbiter between the talented and the monied.

My funding stream, the parents, allowed for a remarkable lack of tension and stress, often necessary for true creativity.  I feel if I had to fend for my finances, I may have been less happy but more productive.  As it stands, I was comfortable both with my output and the quality thereof as well as my child-like reliance on brevity and transparency.  I felt no reason to hide anything from my audience including my incessant need to draw lines and immediately color outside them.  I wonder if this was a passive-aggressive recognition of observed boundaries and my cavalier intent to disregard them. 

I refer to this time as my invisible war with Mr. Warhol as he and I seemed to have an agreement to not acknowledge the work of the other.  But there are too many parallels to now ignore.  Although I existed outside the mainstream art scene nationally, my increasing reliance on the marriage of style (words) and art, my move toward an almost crass consumerism as well as my disturbing adoption of the vernacular of the party scene in NYC begs the question, who was influencing whom?

Whatever the case may have been, Mr. Warhol seemed to make a specific point not to mention me in his diaries and I wonder was it professional courtesy, lack of awareness of a fiercely competitive peer or simply the journalistic peccadilloes of his editrix, Pat Hackett?

Over the next few months, I will share with you these stories and accompanying illustrations juxtaposed with Mr. Warhol’s entries in his diary to see how closely he and I were in annotating the world around us, not as we saw it but as we intended it to be seen and wished it to be.  I fully expect this competition to provoke rigorous debate but in the end we shall see who emerges victorious.  Who will win the Pop Art Wars?

This first piece is undated but contains no prose and is not labeled, hallmarks of my oeuvre.  As such I feel it may have been my first attempt at establishing my personality as an artist and the acceptance and interpretation (even I am unaware of its intent) caused me to begin the practice of dating and labeling.

The multi-colored scales seem to nod toward an animal of a fantastic nature.  Note the use of vibrant color and movement.  Also note both people’s bodies are a deep pink.  Were the protuberances wings?  Were they bubbles?  The pink people, I know, are male based on their haircut.  As this was the 1970s and societal norms dictated gender assignment based on the at-least-since-the 1950s-code of short hair denotes male, long hair denotes female.   As my brother had just turned three during the summer of 1977, I’m unsure if he is the other male; I feel fairly certain I incorporated myself into the work.  If it’s not my brother it may have been any of my friends from that time (Jason, Kyle or JJ) or even my cousin Jody. 

To the perceived movement of the bodies, I wonder if we are floating?  Hopping about in zero gravity?  Jumping?  As we are smiling one can assume we are not falling or being flung from the back of this candy-colored creature. 

I know not the source of my fascination with flamboyant fauna, but it became a touchstone of sorts and continues to this day, although at the age of 44 11/12ths, I have become said fauna thanks to Brooks Brothers and Bonobos.  But we aren’t here to discuss my sense of style or Mr. Warhol’s although he did start the trend of wearing tuxedo jackets with jeans and that alone is a worthy legacy.

This exercise is supposed to compare our respective works for both creativity and output.  Much as I, Mr. Warhol was reliant on the use color, almost too much if you listen to critics of pop art (both his and others like Rauschenberg, Oldenburg and Lichtenstein).  Unlike Mr. Warhol, I stayed within the boundaries of my own lines.  He traced many of his subjects and purposefully printed them off-center.  Most of his work didn’t have to be labeled as they were silk-screened prints, not free-form drawings.  His experimentation with color was advanced; he would often invite visitors to urinate on some paintings to change the colors, which, while vulgar, is creative.

                There is no date for direct comparison and my drawing is freehand while his were typically traced, so a soup can to soup can comparison is not possible.  Even though he was creative, the fact I, as a child of 6, was able to refrain from urinating on my own art gives me a decided advantage. 

The Pop Art War score thus far is Dusty 1, Andy 0.

Would Clint Eastwood Make a Movie About Clothes?

              As you know I pride myself in always looking my best regardless of the circumstances.  I have stuck to this mantra until very recently and under extreme circumstances.  Anyone who moves to Southern California and questions the lack of central air in most homes and apartments is told, in a ridiculously condescending manner, “It doesn’t get humid enough to need air conditioning.”  Lies!  Lies and vicious rumors!!  These past few weeks have been New Orleans humid and Mississippi hot and I am not happy about it.  Homophobia is only 30% of why I left the South; the other 70% was attempting to escape the humidity and that whole ‘gravy as a beverage’ lifestyle.  I was fat, y’all. 

                Due to this unfortunate weather change, I have resorted to wearing shorts and polos each weekend, except at church.  I am all about inclusivity at church, but I would rather not see the knees and toes of my fellow worshippers, some of whom appear capable of climbing trees like a sloth.  And I am referring to the animal, not the deadly sin.  I don’t like my toes, much less anyone else’s but I feel I should give a shout out to the women who keep their toes ‘did’. 

                This change in my wardrobe and my Bible Study ‘homework’ of being less focused on ‘things’, has me dressing more like the average person and while I am dealing with those issues, it has started to impact my life in unexpected ways.  I have shared with y’all how I am treated when I am dressed in my normal manner and there are many upsides to it; however, there were downsides as well and I never realized it until I became much more relaxed in my wardrobe choices.  I will share with you forthwith:

The Good:

1. I always get better service while shopping.
2. Strangers often ask me for fashion advice.  Sometimes I offer my advice if I feel they need it, either to give a vote of confidence to someone unsure of their new look or to avert a disaster in the making.
3. I have been offered an interior designer’s discount while shopping for home furnishings at places like West Elm.
4. More than 20 years after graduation I am still consulted by friends and fraternity brothers on wardrobe questions and I gladly offer my advice.  I appreciate the fact they care enough to ask.
5. People have told me a compliment from me means more to them than one from someone less, shall we say, fashion forward.

The Bad:

1. Upon my initial visit to any new doctor’s office, the staff thinks I am a drug rep, and one without snacks, so I am not necessarily greeted in a timely manner.
2. If I wear my fire engine red chinos to Target I am mistaken for a manager.  I’ve stopped correcting the shoppers who stop me and simply answer their questions or take them to the appropriate aisle or hand them off to customer service.  I guess I’m a Target volunteer at this point.
3. If I go directly to a mall after work wearing my suit, I am mistaken for a jewelry store employee, which is either an insult or a compliment depending on the jewelry store.  Tiffany’s, I’ll take.  Zale’s, not so much.
4. If I go to Starbucks directly from work, without my suit jacket but still wearing my tie, I am often mistaken for a bank employee and was once caught up in a Wells Fargo/Bank of America shouting match in the parking lot of a Starbucks. 

The Ugly:

1. Many people assume I am constantly judging, which is not always the case.  TO be fair I am always judging the sharing of the toes, but otherwise not so much.   To be clear, I am constantly assessing, but I am not always critiquing and I typically share my opinion only when is it is solicited.  I try to never be rude; my mother raised me better than that.

          The moment I can retire these shorts and polos and return to my glory days as a fashion plate, I'll be sure and let you know.  Maybe I'll post photos.  And that is all I'm saying for now.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Business Savvy

           Over the course of my career in the public and private sector I have met many people who are unhappy in their jobs.  I’ve tried to give them an opportunity to talk about what they dislike and what they hope will change and most of their issues are with people (boss, co-workers) more than job duties.  There are ways to lead up and lead sideways in order to establish a more conducive environment.  However, if the behavior exhibited by bosses or co-workers is illogical, I try to help them see sometimes you have to just let it go, like Queen Elsa, but without that whole frozen kingdom thing.

                I present to you Uncle Dusty’s Guide to Business Savvy.

1. When someone shows you who they are by their actions, pay attention.  Maya Angelou taught us many things; this is one of the most important. 
2. You cannot reason with an unreasonable person.  Stop trying.
3. Adapt, adopt, abandon is not just for business processes.  Improve it, use it or get rid of it.  What ‘it’ is depends on you. 
4. Abandonment is not a failure; it is a decision to stop participating in an activity which offers no sustained value.   
5. You should LOVE your job or you should get a different job.  Someone else is out there waiting to LOVE your job but you’re in it.  They may be in yours. 
6. Leaders should be talent scouts, always on the lookout for the next generation of leaders and thinkers. 
7. Don’t be afraid to poach talent from another department, agency or business.  It’s up to their boss to try and keep them.
8. Don’t automatically promote star employees. Some people are meant to be a star on the front lines.  Critically evaluate their ability to lead and manage. 
9. Blame processes, not people, but verify the people are following the processes.
10. When someone presents you a weak idea, have them walk you through their thought processes.  In the subsequent conversation, you can lead them to an improved idea and better critical thinking skills.
11. You cannot achieve anything meaningful without a plan.
12. Teach anyone who is willing to learn. 
13. Highly effective people are lifelong learners; be willing to be taught.
14. Demonstrate passion for your work regardless of whether or not people are watching you.  Be aware people are always watching, even when you think they aren’t, especially if you are the boss.
15. Socializing is one of the best methods to introduce new ideas and concepts.  Chat about your idea before you formally submit your plans.

           These ideas have been road-tested and I have the scars to prove it.  I don’t always learn

things easily but I usually learn it the first time around.  And I share because I care about you people.  As ardent fans of ol’ Uncle Dusty, of course you will commit these to memory and practice with the quickness, right?

          And that’s all I’m saying for now.

          

An Angry Inheritance

               Anger is a badge of honor for my father.  It is included in his version of what a real man is and I carried it with me.  Why was I angry?  So many reasons.  Righteous anger is being angry at what angers God .  We as a society feel pretty sure we have the right to this particular type of anger, but we are usually wrong with this assessment as we are usually wrong about what angers God.

                When I was born I looked very much like my father, chubby with short legs.  I would love to say I outgrew both of those, but sadly did not.  Growing up I tried to be like him, even going so far as to state my desire to be a welder in a sixth grade class report.  The very next year when puberty hit, a lot began to change and I realized how unlike him I was.  Still I tried to mimic him, to make sure he liked me.  Love is unconditional, I thought.  Like is a whole different story. 

                I now realize one of the few traits of his I was able to master was anger.  I have the characteristic temper from the Thompson family genes, mostly Irish with a supposed smattering of Native American but not enough to get scholarship money or casino dividends.  My temper was held mostly at bay by the guiding hand of my exclusively English and devoutly Christian mother, until I left for college.  Once there I began to explore the temper and companion salty language of my father’s people with almost as much passion as I pursued academics and social acceptance.  My temper ran parallel to my achievements and both increased at a surprising rate, considering I was a closeted, chubby nerd and life is not an after-school special.

                I assumed anger was my inheritance as nothing else in the way of property, money or mixed securities existed.  Mixed insecurities I had by the carload, which exacerbated my anger.  Often, for me at least, anger had its root in fear.  Fear of actually being gay.  Fear of being outed.  Fear of not fitting in.  Fear of rejection by family, friends, fraternity.  Fear of overstaying my welcome in any context including friendships, dinner or even talking to my academic advisor. My friends had no clue how often I fretted, worrying any glimpse of the real me would ruin my strategy to become a “regular guy”.  Truthfully, my feelings were mostly anticipatory fear which is much more toxic as it is based on imagination not reality.  My imagination is strong, y’all, and I can come up with all manner of terrifying scenarios, some of which unfortunately have come true; most, happily, have not.

                As this anger slowly seeped into my personality at work, it began to impact my career path.  I was known for results.  I could walk into a department, assess it fairly quickly and turn it around in a relatively short amount of time.  The success was career-enhancing but the psychological toll on some with whom I interacted was an unfortunate side-effect.  The casualties left in the wake of my leadership style were simply the costs of being awesome, I felt.  I found out later these costs were unnecessary. 

                God placed into my life two mentors who were brutally honest with me and encouraged anger management counseling.  It was marginally helpful from a management perspective but it provided excellent insight to the root of my anger.  I tried to heal, turning to God for relief and redemption.  I had decided in 2004 to leave behind the “gay” and return to church as I felt I had to choose.  When faced with the options of career or eternal damnation, I chose career.  Through prayer, support and leadership training I began to make solid progress.  I learned the difference between leadership and management.  I recognized I had been an occupant of a leadership position, not a true leader.  An uncomfortable truth but one I used to better myself.  I realized I had placed unrealistic expectations on myself and when I invariably stumbled, I was furious with myself.  I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I was none too happy about it. The anger I felt at myself was often misread by my peers and subordinates as anger with them.  I had been too pre-occupied to notice my effect on them. 

                Fear of failing at my experiment of being someone other than the white trash person I felt I was, caused disproportionate reactions to minor set-backs.  I was promoted from a GS-4 to a GS-14 in seven and a half years but felt I could have done it faster.  I wasn’t falling into the typical bad habit of comparing myself to anyone.  I was comparing myself to an unattainable ideal and punishing myself for failing to meet this artificial, self-imposed standard.

                Servant leadership training taught me to be confident in my abilities and unafraid to fail.  Once I started to practice these traits, my sense of calm returned and my anger dwindled.  When The Dad moved in with me, I was working to turn around a failing department in a new facility and it was a demanding job on good days.  When he would question me about my day and I would talk about encouraging people to excel and coaching them to improve, letting them share their opinions and valuing their perspectives, he would mock me and tell me about “when [I] was a boss…”  He only enjoyed the old stories of where I was the governmental equivalent of Charles Bronson.  When I would talk of collaborating with a problem employee, he would say, “You’re gonna look weak.  They’re gonna fire you” or “I can’t believe you let them get one over on you.  I thought you were gonna do something when you became the boss.”

                It would be easy to blame his generation but it’s more likely his attempt to pass down the only inheritance he received from his father, angry until his last breath.  When he tells me I’ve forgotten where I’m from and who I am, I don’t disagree, but it’s not the way he means it.  There are things I retain and cherish like common sense, an appreciation of fried foods and a quick joke.  But there are other heirlooms (holding grudges, closed-minded thinking and anticipatory stress) which are best left behind. 

I move on quietly, purposefully, attempting to go unnoticed to ensure I leave these permanently behind.  I don’t want to look back even though I realize my actions are certain to be misinterpreted.  I know this will be part of my legacy and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it, but I do know I’m not angry.

Could you outrun a Samoan on roller skates?

                Anyone who grew up in the 80s knew one of the most popular forms of recreation was roller skating.  We could not get enough of this sport.  We loved wearing pictures of them on our jeans, t-shirts and the backs of our satin jackets.  And roller-skating rinks were the place to be.  I celebrated my 9^th birthday at The Big Wheelie across the river in Vicksburg, MS.  I have always had my finger on the pulse of what’s happening, even while wearing husky-sized Tuffskins on a dirt road, y’all.

                Many small towns had their own rink and Bogata, Texas, was no different.  It had a rickety wooden floor, scandalously shaky walls and a clientele of every socio-economic level, hence my semi-regular attendance during holidays prior to our move to this fair burg.  A week or so before the fateful event I had thoroughly enjoyed skating in a circle with all of my new friends.  I did not, however, enjoy the couple’s skate as I was solo and not in a cool way.  I have never been cool by even the broadest definition.  Awesome, sure.  Cool, no.

                I decided I would ask Marty Burns (and I apologize if I just totally embarrassed you) to skate with me during the allotted time.  My cousin Kendra heartily approved and the stage was set.  Unfortunately, the stage did not factor in inclement weather or my father’s definition of masculinity.

                One the night of the roller rink rendezvous, it began to rain, heavily.  As the rink had a reasonably sturdy ceiling, the downpour did not affect our plans.  As we were exiting the trailer to pile into the Suburban, I slipped and fell, the top step hitting me in the middle of my back, knocking the breath out of me.  When I recovered, I began to cry because it hurt.  I was 11 years old, cut me some slack, people.

                Well, no slack was cut for the oldest son of “Big Red” Thompson.  I was "big" and red but machismo is something I have never shared with my father.  Once I was returned to an upright position, I was informed I was to stay behind as the others left for fun on wheels.  The reasoning was, I guess, crying boys don’t get to do fun things.  I shouldn’t have cried, was punished for crying and then cried as a result of my punishment, which made the punishment even worse. 

“Men don’t cry” was his response when asked why he was punishing me.  No one bothered to ask his opinion on boys crying.  As the oldest son and scion to the family fortune, which consisted of a plaid couch and used station wagon, I was expected to carry on the Thompson name with masculinity to spare. My age was irrelevant. 

I grew up with a skewed view of what is meant to be a man.  Most of my uncles on both sides of the family were blue collar, farmers, carpenters, welders, mechanics and laborers.  I just wanted to be indoors reading, in clean clothes.  There are so many characterizations of masculinity, but I experienced none of them.  The one uncle who was typically in a good mood (and of whom we were not usually frightened) was handy when it came to fixing all things plumbing or electric, so again it was pressed home, this blue collar definition of masculinity.  My Dad’s characterization was specifically rooted in girth and stoicism in the face of physical pain. 

I know there are many facets to masculinity and myriad placements on the spectrum of what is means to be male.  I have learned to define being a man by my actions, not by my father’s opinions.  However, as I talk to him every Saturday (or rather I listen to him complain), I have to manage the reality of his designations.  One of them has been on-going since my weight loss. 

For those who don’t know, at the height of my weight (and sickness) I weighed 422 pounds.  Having lost 200 pounds and kept it off for 7 years, I am what I would consider a normal-sized person.  I am 6’ and weigh 220 pounds.  Due to our divergent opinions of big, my father often expresses concern about my safety.  He truly feels I am now “too skinny” to take care of myself.  He worries I will be attacked in the parking lot of the grocery store due to my tininess.

I’m not sure where he thinks I purchase food, but the only people who consider me tiny would be residents of American Samoa, some pro football players and possibly the stage crew for those hair metal bands squeezing every available dollar from their one power ballad.

And each weekend I assure him I am able to care for myself and remind him I haven’t been attacked, other than by a pigeon, since the one time in a bar by a lesbian during my delayed rebellion at age 25.  And I remind him I was victorious in that particular interaction.  Trust me when I tell you I am not proud of this fact.

And while I am still solo-skating through life, I am content and unafraid, coral chinos and all.  I don’t consider myself a target but I continuously promise him I’ll keep my eyes open for Samoans in the parking lot of my grocery store or The Dollar Tree. I feel fairly certain I could at least outrun someone that size should it be required.  Maybe I should keep some roller skates in the car.  You know, just in case.