Carry On: The Gold Standard

In the mid-Seventies, radio station KJR had a contest: "$10,000 in gold has been buried somewhere in the world; listen to our clues, figure out that location, and give the right answer when we call your name on the air. Then we'll fly you out there to collect your gold." (Now, that would be a carry-on worth toting! I thought.)

My son Glenn, age 10 maybe, was determined that we could win if I would only listen to the radio (at work) every day and jot down each day's new pair of clues. I got into it, did just that, and we carefully tracked the clues using our Atlas, leading (we thought) across the Pacific, down through the South Seas to New Zealand and then to its South Island, and on to the cities Christchurch and Dunedin... (Meanwhile, contestants on the air were incorrectly guessing locations in Spain, North Africa, Hawaii, Central Asia.)

Then one day there came a clue about Scottish poet Robert Burns, which left me stumped--just had no idea what it meant. And the very next morning, of course, Glenn's name was called out on KJR, and we had 10 minutes to phone in with our answer. (First we had to get all the interlopers off our phoneline, strangers calling instantly to try to give us their answers to gain half the prize!) But with a minute to spare, Glenn got through to the station, and then came the moment. If we were on the right course, which New Zealand city connected somehow to Burns... Dunedin or Christchurch?

Sweating bullets, I flipped a mental coin and went for the bigger and better-known Christchurch. Glenn gave his N.Z. answer to the disc jockey. Total silence, dead air, for 20 seconds or more, then the deejay cleared his throat and said. "Er, sorry, that's not the right answer."

Aw nuts. Glenn was still happy, because he would receive a hundred dollars for playing the game on the air (money for a new bike). But I felt like another kind of carrion... How could I have misread those clues so badly?

The contest carried on, two more weeks of new clues and bad guesses, and finally one day came the correct answer: "Dunedin, New Zealand." Dunedin, I immediately learned, was a veritable den of Scotsmen and Burns lovers! We had missed by less than a hundred miles! I coulda been a contender--hell, coulda been a rich champion! What a ridiculous muck-up.

But the years passed, and around 1986 I left the US for a couple of years travelling the world, wearing a huge backpack and lugging a strong carry-on full of books. One stop had to be Dunedin to see the damned statue of Robert Burns that had cost us ten grand. Yep, there it was, on a park square, right near a Mexican restaurant. (No Latins to be seen but amazing mole enchiladas.) I looked up at Robbie, jotted down some thoughts in my journal, and moved on...

Two more decades pass, and now I sell books on the Internet; and for one sale a customer in England mails me US cash in a small letter packet, the bills for no reason hidden inside a 1979 brochure on the buses running between Christchurch and Dunedin! (Argh! Grabbed again by the clasping hand of fate.)

I'll be hanging that pesky flyer somewhere at the new installation, and if you hear me pathetically carrying on about Burns and En Zed (as they say Down Under), just remember, "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men/ Gang aft agley." But you gotta carry on.

Directions to the Gallery from the Prince Georges Factory Outlet Mall

Take I-95 South to the Capital Beltway (I-495). Follow the Capital Beltway (I-495) toward Silver Spring to Route 1 South (Exit 25) toward College Park (left side exit). Continue on Route 1 South to East West Highway (Rt. 410). Turn right onto East West Highway. Go past Prince Georges Factory Outlet Mall on the right, then double back to Route 410 also known as the East West Highway. Take Exit 24 and continue on the frontage road, watching on your left for the Capital Beltway on ramp, then merge slowly to your right, back on to Interstate 95 North. Head for Virginia.

Keep right to take I-270 N via Exit 35 toward FREDERICK. Merge onto I-70 W via Exit 32 toward HAGERSTOWN, crossing into Pennsylvania. Take the US-30 E/I-70 W exit toward HARRISBURG. Turn slightly rigth onto I-70/LINCOLN HWY. Merge onto I-70 W toward I-76/Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Merge onto I-76 W/PENNSYLVANIA TURNPIKE toward Pittsburgh/Exits 146-2. Keep left at the fork to go on I-76 W, crossing into Ohio. Take I-80 W toward CLEVELAND. Merge onto I-80 W via Exit 21 toward IN-51 S, crossing into Illinois. Merge onto I-380 N/IA-27 N via Exit 239B toward Cedar Rapids. Ah, fuck it…

April Installation - Carry On!

Valise Gallery
17633 Vashon Hwy SW
One door south of Gusto Girls
www.valisegallery.org
Visit our website for more about Carry On

Please join us for the opening reception of
“Carry On”
An installation by Elizabeth Conner in collaboration with Valise members

First Friday, April 3, 6-9pm


Inspired by the artist collective's name Valise, an installation titled "Carry On" will welcome visitors to a space that might remind you of storage for lost luggage... or playing in your grandmother's attic... the aftermath of a gentle earthquake...or a collection of secrets waiting to be claimed.

What comes to mind when you hear the words "carry on"?

We invite you to bring written thoughts, photographs, or small objects (3" x 4" maximum) to Valise during the April Gallery Cruise. We will add your contributions to the installation, which will grow and change during the month of April.

Show runs through April.

(photo by Irene Stroganova)

Another Drawing Session

Monday Evening Life Drawing

Come Draw the Peacock Lady!




The Valise Artist Collective will host a second free drawing session Monday, March 30 from 6:00 to 9:00 pm at the Valise Gallery. Come draw the Peacock Lady in all her finery. The session is open to all ages. Please bring your own drawing materials and a chair or cushion.

Playing God with Chickens (or Playing Chicken with Gods)

by Victor Bravo Monchego, Jr.

Animals have been my best teachers when it comes to life’s big lessons. Unlike too many humans, animals teach by the creed: Show, Don’t Tell. Animals never pontificate.

There was the Canadian goose that I shot, not so deftly, on the bank of the Platte River. That goose taught me about the responsibility of power.

My dogs, over the years, have taught me about loyalty and unconditional love, even when I’ve behaved badly if not inexcusably. It is possible to forgive those who have trespassed and harmed you the most.

I’ve outlived many generations of pets. This metering has tried to instruct me about impermanence, the reckoning of our lives, and the hazards of procrastinating away important dreams and goals.

My most recent coach is a Sicilian named Butter Cup. She is a chicken. Last night, I found Butter Cup on the bottom of the coop, badly wounded. She was twisting and quivering in the guano beneath her sisters’ perch. One eye was working, one was not. Her neck was badly wracked, mortally by my assessment. Butter Cup dropped me off at a moral crossroads:

To the north was the road to mercy; kill Butter Cup and end her suffering. An honest, practical man would have Butter Cup for tomorrow’s dinner, too.

To the south led the road of compassion. Care for the bird and attempt to mend her. Should the matter of her being born Gallus gallus instead of Homo sapiens make a difference in a Zen cosmic scheme?

Either direction, south or north, were morally equivalent in my mind. They were both acceptable decisions.

To the west, there was no trail. It was bushwackery. The choice was to do nothing, feel nothing. Return to the house, pop a Schlitz and watch The Real Housewives of Orange County. In other words, let Butter Cup die in the dung.

I did feel something. I was empathetic but a type of fear was meddling with me. I lacked the conviction for a merciful execution or for a compassionate doctoring, because let’s face it; doctoring is messy. Doctoring often requires impounding the injured while tending the wound.

As Master Yoda forewarned, fear turns to anger. I was becoming angry with myself because I knew I lacked conviction. I was judging myself because I couldn’t end the bird’s misery, and too inept to nurse it.

Fortunately, I knew a back road. I chose the path to the east, the coward’s way: I called in my virtuous spouse who possesses a braver constitution. She has the ability to act decently, in most situations, without pondering. She lives in a world of black and white, where mine tends to be all shades of gray, not to mention yellow.

So now we have a gimpy chicken recovering in our shower stall. According to the vet, Butter Cup does not have a broken neck. She has neurological damage which may or may not be permanent. The vet said, it looks like the results of a hawk attack. We should know in the next few days, if she improves.

For now, we are hydrating Butter Cup’s crop and feeding her by force. She is crippled. Feeding requires sliding a tube down her gullet several times a day. This is the same way geese are fattened for pate. Like most patients, Butter Cup is adjusting to the unpleasant procedure.

So the easterly coward’s path eventually turned southward. Thank the gods I don’t walk alone.

Please Keep Your Baggage with You at All Times

Drawing Session

Sunday, March 29

Valise Gallery, a collective of Island artists, is hosting a drawing session Sunday March 29th, 12:00 to 3:00 PM at the Valise Gallery, 17622 Vashon Hwy.

The session is open to all ages and will combine some life drawing and still life study. Participants are requested to supply their own drawing materials and bring a chair or cushion as well, however, drawing materials will be provided to those just beginning.

Valise will be hosting this session monthly. For more information contact Brian @ 227-0061.

Mason Bee and Chicken Assault !!

Saturday, March 28

At 2:15p.m. Saturday, March 28 after the Farmers Market closes, everyone is invited to Valise Gallery at 17622 Vashon Highway, one door south of Gusto Girls.

We are offering presentations by Jerry Gehrke on “Mason Bees on Vashon: Why, When, and How To” and Amy Beth Holmes and Toby Holmes, along with Sheryl Allen and Grace Hockley on “Having Chickens – a Local Pecking Party Panel.”

Amy Beth Holmes is the owner of Holmestead Farms along with her husband Toby. http://www.holmesteadfarms.com/. Questions are encouraged. Prizes will be awarded for the best chicken and Mason bee imitations.

Valise is a Vashon artist collective of 11 members who have dedicated the last week of each month’s art exhibition to community involvement. Currently, Britt Freda is exhibiting paintings of chickens, bees, and other animals, which sparked the idea for the offering of “Mason Bees and Chickens” to the community. Bring a cushion or folding chair to sit on!

Questions? Call Carol at 567-5907.

Fowl Play at Valise Gallery

In honour of Britt Freda's exhibit, Fowl Brood, we asked Vashon Island musicologist and writer Ed Leimbacher if he knew any songs about chickens. Without much rumination, Ed began to chirp. Here is what we heard:

by Ed Leimbacher

Fowl of a feather brood together... and when they do, a soundtrack is a nice addition eggsactly. Chicks and roosters, hens a-scratchin', they all dig the old-time sound of the barnyard, whether Black, White, or Blues.

Take "Cluck Old Hen," for example, recorded by Taj Mahal on an early double album, and a splendid feature for his rolling, cackling banjo and sly talkalong, not to mention serious musicological learning. Or the Old Timey duo of Arthur McClain and Joe Evans recorded in 1931 (in the heart of New York City!), their syncopatin' mandolins rippling right on through "Old Hen Cackle." And anyone of a certain age likely remembers Chicago blues giant Howlin' Wolf (and then the Rolling Stones) dissing that "Little Red Rooster"--"too lazy to crow 'fore day," but still able to rise to the right occasion!

Well, this occasion definitely merits a pondering of the chickens of music. Oldtimers galore sang about "chickens crowin' on Sourwood Mountain" ("So many pretty girls you can't count 'em"), while Cannon's Jug Stompers honored the anti-distaff side back in 1929 or so with "The Rooster's Crowing Blues." (But hear this: unknown blues dude Walter Rhodes had waxed "The Crowing Rooster" before them in 1927, playing his accordion! Sea shanty blues, anyone?)

Still, some later "yardbird" connections could be even more esoteric: Charlie Parker stopping to claim a roadkill hen (to cook for dinner) and earning himself a permanent nickname thereafter; Amos Milburn eighty-eighting a "Chicken Shack Boogie" that may have been referenced years later when jazz organist Jimmy Smith recorded "Back at the Chicken Shack"; and New Orleans funkmasters The Meters doin' the "Chicken Strut," which became a NOLA standard and was maybe distantly echoed when Zydeco giant Clifton Chenier (yes, more accordion) declared that we should all "Keep On Scratching." And who can forget British blues bands Chicken Shack and Atomic Rooster, or slide-guitarist Ry Cooder teaming up with the Pahinui family for some Hawaiian slack-key "chickenskin music"?

Do chickens really "roost behind the moon"? Or are all these... well, tracks... strictly for the birds?

Who cares? Just ignore those cackling critics.

Dance, you funky chicken. Play, fowl. Cluck, old hen.

We gossiped and fibbed our way through many Vashon stories about the mysterious, Balkan cigarette man named Ramos (isn’t that a Spanish surname, by the way?).



We heard how Zamfir’s was going to hurt Granny’s Attic and bankrupt the clinic. There were plenty of racial slurs that made no sense. How can one be precisely racist while being completely ignorant about a person’s heritage?

Sea Change Tattoo was in cahoots with Zamfir. Pawn shops were bad because island teens would hock the family toaster oven for drug money.

I heard nothing about the American dream or the reverie of entrepreneurship in Hard Times. Some folks would rather see a line of boarded storefronts than a place to sell Grandpa’s trombone.

We enjoyed several versions of this vignette:

Three Japanese men (sometimes told with two Chinese, or maybe Koreans) entered Movie Magic and asked (in heavy accent) for pornographic movies in hushed voices. The folks at Movie Magic courteously explained that they did not carry hard core. Instead, they offered up Mickey Rourke’s ridiculously erotic 9 ½ Weeks (in VHS only).

The unhappy men wanted nothing from Mickey. When they couldn’t find It on our fair isle, they envisioned opening their own shop. What an opportunity! Nine thousand souls lacking a convenient outlet to purchase pornography.

[Footnote: The Wall Street Journal says porn is recession-proof. Try investing in a porn mutual fund like Fidelity’s Millennial Snuff Fund.]

The strangers did not read English well. As they left, they saw shady Zamfir’s across the street. They misread ‘Pawn’ as ‘Porn.’

The Japanese did not want competition, especially from European gypsies, known to ruthlessly guard their porn and cigarette enterprises. Challenge a Romanian or a Greek or a Turkman (whatever) and you could lose an ear in a knife fight. Or worse.

The way we see it, Zamfir saved Vashon from an Asian porn epidemic.

Valise, Contents Revealed.

A Smashing Good Show.

Thank you, Vashon Island for making our first show so successful.
Thank you for the turnout and enthusiasm.
Thank you, Britt for being part of the venture.

Valise Gallery Opens Tonight at 6 pm!

Please join us for the opening reception of:

Fowl Brood

Paintings by Britt Freda

First Friday, March 6, 6-9pm

Valise Gallery
(one door south of Gusto Girls)
17633 Vashon Hwy SW
fair Isle of Vashon

Bad Times, Inspiration for Artists

by Andrei Codrescu for NPR

I will be happy to see every American become a construction worker and a solar-panel installer. I mean, I will be happy to watch them do that because every American who won't put on a hard hat will have to do something easier and funnier — like Art.

The best art flourishes during two kinds of civic situations: 1. When everybody's at work and the artist is asleep; and 2. When everybody's depressed and there is a general depression and a whole lot of free time.

I've seen four decades of art-making in America. In 1968, there was art everywhere and there were artists on the streets and crashing on the floor, and there was new music, new poetry, new enthusiasm for secondhand clothes, street theater, and lots of love, not exactly free, but love anyway. There was also a recession and a stupid war started by pudgy-faced white men.

Then came the '70s, and there was a lot less art because there were a lot more police officers. There was also a lot less imagination going around because artists were being fished off the streets by the agents of God who descended to Earth in a mind-boggling variety of forms and drafted America's youth for nonprofit religious scams.

Then came the '80s, thank goodness, and art expanded again in a multihued explosion of expletive music and street action driven by raw rage and extreme amusement. Artists felt free not to give a hoot anymore and since nobody could make a living anyway, everybody felt free to manifest like a flaming phoenix wherever there was a spotlight. That's when new bohemians sprouted like fleas on dogs in every city. There was also a recovery and a new gentler police and a general makeover of the American image from snarling bully to smiling prosperity engine.

The smiles got so wide in the '90s, artists joined the general hallelujah chorus and quit making art with everything they had, preferring instead to produce precious saleable objects to contribute to the general esthetic health of the self-satisfied McMansion.

When all that ended, just a few months ago, artists started remembering again what they were for, which is to not be like anything else because they have a job making everything else both more interesting and more real. So it's art time in America again, because everybody's broke. And if everybody gets a hard hat, we should get one, too, to dodge, hopefully, what the citizens will be hurling at us.

Ontogeny Recapitulates Philogeny

Once upon a time, humans lived on family farms and in villages. Humans raised chickens for sustenance and pleasure. It was an honest relationship, built upon natural cycles.

In her exhibit, Fowl Brood, Seattle painter Britt Freda celebrates the chicken, Gallus gallus. The show opens March 6 at Vashon Island’s new gallery, VALISE, at 17633 Vashon Highway SW.



Ms. Freda’s paintings depict exquisite birds, like the Belgian Mille Fleur and the Cochin Blue. The ancient breeds were as culturally distinctive as our ancestors. But this exhibit is more than an Ah-Shucks! homage to our feathered flocks.

I paint an up-close perspective of insects (honeybees) and agricultural animals, central to our human food chain, whose existence, evolution and future are being jeopardized by our cultural addiction to abundant consumption. Nature is bountiful, a land flowing with milk and honey, and resilient, but pushed out of balance essential components of our ecosystem are rapidly dying.

In a nod of approval to our provincial kin, Ms. Freda’s paintings contemplate chickens as symbols of self-reliance. Will we allow ourselves to become human versions of the industrial Leghorn broiler, living unfulfilled in cages? Or can we re-evolve to virtuous creatures?

I believe that the cracks in life are stuffed with surprise and the simplest of things, sometimes even chickens, are secretly studded with precious gems, tangible only to those who take the time to stumble. I believe that wealth is abundant when the common black of night, or an inky rooster, is jeweled by the light of places we imagine.

This is a show about the beauty of truth and our own natural cycles. The show runs through March.