For those of you not familiar with Ink Tank, it is a non-profit located on 1411 Main Street (moved from 1311) whose tagline is “Changing Cincinnati one word at a time.”  It began with the idea of social justice and racial integration and now serves in strong partnership with the Drop Inn Center. Open mic nights are the first Tuesday of every month and there are two writer’s groups; Writer’s Salon every other Thursday and Poetry Salon recently begun by Keith Wilson.  Other progams include:

Men’s Drop Inn Recovery Program

Women’s First Step Recovery Program

Readvitalization Final Friday

Book Bank

Final Friday readings were held this past Final Friday and readings will be held again this Saturday, September 4 from 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM at the Contemprary Art Center  for their 44 Series.   Here’s the Facebook invitation – Join Us!

CincyVoices would like to congratulate all the teams who screened videos in last nights Best of Cincinnati for The 48 Hour Film Project.

For your viewing pleasure here is the Best of Cincinnati Winner:

The Grind – A Musical About Porn

-Loki, Founder and Publisher

There are two things that have changed my life in the past few years. The first is Louis C.K.’s amazing bit on Conan. Seriously, it’s brilliant. The second is what I saw in Haiti. The company I work for in Cincinnati produced a short documentary on Rev. Vaugelas Pierre and his Mission there. You can watch it here. We traveled to La Croix for filming approximately four months before the January 2010 earthquake. This is my experience, juxtaposed to another normal day in my life here at home.

For a minute I can’t see, because the sweat from my forehead has run into my eyes again. I shift my camera to my other arm so I can blot my face with my sleeve. Strangely, there are no flying bugs surrounding me. I walk back towards the white Land Cruiser we drove in with, parked by the unfinished cinderblock and rebar house at the bottom of the hill. Next to them, a row of dried, cracking mud and straw roof huts that look like they would collapse if I leaned too heavily on one of them. One of the Haitian couples from the village is there with Rev. Pierre. I think they’re talking about one of the wells by the mission’s schoolhouse. There are no trees, even on the rolling mountains surrounding us, speckled brown, gray, with the occasional dull green from the dry brush that did manage to grow between the cracked earth and rock. The sky above is an endlessly blue, save for a few clouds and the random trail of smoke rising from a shelter in the distance. The sun is agonizingly bright, white hot. It’s about 11:30 in the afternoon, and it’s already 99 degrees out. I’ve just finished filming some b-roll of the construction work on the houses financed by the La Croix mission… when I say construction work, I mean about twelve guys carrying cinderblocks by hand up the side of this small, rocky mountain. The last hurricane season blew away most of the weak huts the people had previously built. Several of them drowned in the flooding, or died of a resulting condition. Walking over, Pierre and Pastor Mike say there is another group of villagers about three miles from here. We needed to head back to finish up the second part of the interviews for the documentary, not to mention I’m already exhausted from the heat, but this is the only opportunity to get the footage so I want to go.

We “drive” for a bit; it’s more like stumbling. Some places there’s actually a road, but mostly it’s just gravel roads littered with craters. Mikes hands slide over the steering wheel, whipping around a pothole the size of a Volkswagen. It’s like an SUV full of bobbleheads. He mentions something about them going through a set of tires about every five hundred miles or so. They get them from the church in Pennsylvania, and I know they have to bribe customs to actually get them. I’m not too crazy about this truck, remembering the jostling six hour drive in last night from PAP Airport, only sixty-five miles away. I grab hold of the handrail as the truck bobs and rolls and turns off into another village, kicking up an inertial cloud of gray and tan dust. A few women are washing clothes and dishes in a barely soapy tin tub. Most of the teenagers have regular looking clothes on: jean skirts, faded t-shirts, khakis… although pretty much every toddler I’ve seen has been running around naked. One of the younger girls recognizes Pastor Mike and immediately runs up to him when we get out. There’s actually trees here, I noticed. I found out later this was one of the places Pierre planted them years ago. He told us that he would probably be killed over them if gangs came up this way, who would certainly cut them down for charcoal. Filming goes slowly, because I have to stop about every five minutes to wipe dust off the lens of the camera, which feels a lot heavier than when I started this morning. I get some good footage of the kids, the pressed, swept dirt floors of most of their shelters, the animals roaming freely. There’s a bit of universal movement towards a hut where an elderly woman is standing, hands on her hips, talking to Mike. Feeling obligated and hearing low murmurs, I head that way. Inside, lying shaking on a thin white blanket, is an old man, probably in his seventies. His jet-black skin is pocked with large, openly infected sores, a stomach-churning combination of puffy white and pinkish red, probably staph. I definitely did not expect that, but reality hit me right where I was. Clumsily, I mutter a “mesi” or “thank you”, the only kreyòl I know, and move on to try and film a mud wall or something, anything else. Dr. Tyger tells us the next morning that the man had died.

———————————————–

I still can’t believe how crowded it is in this place. I can’t walk a few feet without having to re-navigate around somebody huddling around an iPhone. The store is brightly lit, everything pristine white or lacquered hardwood, save for the occasional glass and metal. Enormous, panoramic banners are plastered behind every glittering, shiny gadget. As soon as one person walks away from a computer, two people waiting behind them jump right in their place, clicking incessantly, Facebooking, taking unflattering pictures. I turn to barely miss running into some guy’s enormous Banana Republic bag, not that it would be anywhere near as disastrous as knocking the giant coffee out of his other hand. I try to apologize, but he keeps walking, unfazed. There’s a line of people waiting to put their name on a list at the front of the store, I assume to buy a phone. There’s a startling amount of people working today too, yet they’re effortlessly outnumbered.  It’s so loud I can barely hear the muzak, just the relentless drone of conversation. Every few minutes a group of people walk into the store, look around at the crowd, and then almost immediately retreat the way they came in. Ha, I don’t blame them. It’s constantly busy here, so jam packed full of people that the store had to convert to a system where literally every employee has can make credit card purchases. I just read the other day how the manufacturers can’t even keep up. At least Channel 9 isn’t here today, I think to myself.

I try to focus, and head towards the accessories aisle, which is hopelessly crowded. It’s a little warm in here, probably 75, 76. I need a case, but I think they’re sold out. I’ve already scratched my phone once. Finally, I spot a friend of mine who works here, back at the tech support desk. I momentarily quicken my pace to greet him, but quickly change my mind as I get closer. Despite the surrounding droves of people waiting, laptops and phones at their sides, his unusually confused expression is fixed directly on the woman standing about a foot in front of him, her jaw squared in a noticeably cross demeanor. She looks like she just came from work, fairly dressed up.

“I don’t understand why this is so complicated. I already made an appointment to get support!” As she spoke, she jams her pointed finger on the table top beside them in an annunciated fashion. I eavesdrop from a safe distance as my friend answers: “I know, but your appointment was for half an hour ago and we had to move on to the next person. I can still fit you in tonight, it will just be a little while until someone’s available.”

“No, I can’t -” she stops, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Is this your idea of customer service?” she asks, laughing angrily. She’s hardly demonstrative, but it’s definitely capturing the attention of those around. I notice a security badge hanging from the keys in her left hand. “I just drove twenty minutes to get here. It’s completely out of my way.” I smirk to myself; my friend lives in Kentucky, a good 50 minutes from his here.

He doesn’t seem to take issue though. “I know, and I want to help you. I’ve just got to find someone. Gimme a minute.” He calmly steps away to talk into a radio. The woman motions her hands, as if hopeless. “God,” I hear her mutter as she walks to the side, looking down to rummage through her black purse for her phone. My phone dings in my pocket. It’s a text from Anna. Figuring this is obviously not the best time to catch up, and noticing the empty space on the wall where cases usually are anyway, I turn and make my way through the endless sea of people towards the exit, the light reflecting off the glass.

———————————————–

Blinded again. It’s almost 2pm. I crouch down, propping my camera against an unoccupied table to escape the beams of sunlight refracting off the metal window frame. The rows of roughly-carved wooden benches are lined with kids, each one wearing pale red shorts and a checkered shirt. A few have shoes on. A musty aroma blows by every few seconds from the steaming vat of rice, beans and tiny bits of fish at the end of one table. Pierre and another Haitian are spooning portions onto tin plates, passing them down the lined-up rows of boisterous, hungry children still waiting. Behind me, a women sifts rice, tossing it in the air. Several kneel on the dirty floor behind a crumbling concrete divide, amongst bubbling pots and vegetable husks, straining boiled things through a weaved basket. We’re under the tin roof of a large, open hall. It’s not as hot here, thanks to the towering ficus trees looming around us, but I’m still sweating hard. Birds squawk noisily from the tops of the trees at the woman sweeping the dry courtyard outside with a straw broom. The sound of tap-taps (an over-crowded taxi of sorts) occasionally sputter by outside the large red iron gates of Pierre’s compound, workers clink shovels and pickaxes on the foundation of a new church building being built. All constant reminders of my uncomfortable distance from home.

I’m struggling to pull off a tight shot of the kids, as they’re either moving around or staring right at me and the camera. I reposition around the hall until I feel at least decently satisfied with the shots. Moving past my producer, I can hear her talking to Pierre about the children.

“Say that again, Gone-ay-eve?” she asks, leaning in as if to hear the pronunciation better.

“Yes Gonaives, some from Saint-Marc, which is a very long way to walk,” he says, motioning towards the children. “Some, it takes a whole day to get here.”

Her eyes widen. “A Day? An entire 24 hours walk?”

“Yes,” he smiles, “… and only several even have shoes. We give them clothes, but cannot yet afford all shoes.” I pass by, listening in a bit more intently. Pierre goes on to mention that this meal is the only one most of the kids get all day. A lot of them have chronic diarrhea or some sort of gastric problems from the water they drink at home, which is the same stream that garbage gets thrown in and the animals drink from typically. Pierre and the mission build wells, but some of them still have to carry the water for miles, and all of them are used to the woods to being the bathroom.

As the evening wears on, the Dominican Republic cuts the power in the area, as they commonly do. Pierre switches on a generator for an hour or two so we have light. A gallon of diesel here costs more than most Haitians make in several months, but they get it donated from the church. There’s a toilet and, Thank God, toilet paper. You have to use a bucket of water every time to make the pump flush, but no one cares. We shake the dead gnats and bugs off the sheets before bedtime as the room cools down from a single AC unit. I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time, the little Airplane Mode icon in the opposite corner a taunting memento to my seemingly never-ending remoteness.

———————————————–

“Guess they didn’t want to wait either.”

I look up from my phone. “Huh?”

The barista nods in my direction as she pulls a shot from the espresso machine. I turn to look behind me at the front of the packed store I was just in, people still milling about, crowded around smart phones and laptops, the employees desperately trying to give everyone personal attention, a seemingly inhuman accomplishment. The entire mall’s busy today. It’s loud… but not nearly as loud as it was and still is in that place.

As I look into the mass of bodies, my eyes fall on a blonde girl and an older guy, probably her dad, walking more quickly than others out of the front of the store.”I can’t believe I can’t just go in and buy a computer. Why is that so difficult?” I overhear the man say as they pass to my right. The girl is practically jogging to keep up with him. “I waited for at least forty minutes and no one helped me. They’re not getting my business,” he huffs loudly. The girl grumbles something under her breath, visibly embarrassed at his vexation and trying to ignore everyone’s stares.

“You want room for cream?” the barista says. Regaining my attention to the task at hand I hand her my credit card. “Yeah, just a little,” only to inevitably glance back down at my phone. The background picture is of Anna, from our vacation last year. She’s sitting on a window ledge of our 15th floor hotel room, looking out at the sea of cars on Michigan Ave. It’s one of my favorite pictures. The afternoon sky’s rays are blooming through the open window, a bright hazy white that ended in a perfectly clear blue sky. I remember that moment, the feel of it, standing there looking at her. The cool AC in the dark room, the energy of the sun, the effervescent flicks of dust in the beams of light through the glass. We had worked a long time to take that vacation, and seeing her so happy was…  a blessing, a few seconds instantly immortalized in my memory. Anna’s text is in an overlaying pop-up on my screen: “wanna do sushi for dinner? ” it says. For a minute I stand there, thinking. Then I type:

“sushi sounds great”

I was 8 when I saw my first opera on PBS  in our tiny living room.  I don’t remember the name but I do remember the finery of the costumes, the majesty of the set and those soaring voices in a language I didn’t understand.  I asked my mom if we would ever see it live.  She laughed, “Honey, opera is for rich people.”

Flash forward 12 years later and I sat in the back of a classroom at Morehead State looking at the score to Mozart’s The Magic Flute my mother’s words echoing in my mind.  My peers were engaged in a lively discussion regarding the piece and I sat frantically trying to write down every word feeling like a spy in a dark alley peering into a lighted window.

This past April I walked into the Fine Art’s Fund BOARDway Bound program these thoughts again flittered just behind my pupils; I was once more crashing the party.  Earlier that month, I had written in my journal all the reasons why I shouldn’t apply for the program: I wasn’t traveled enough, networked enough, rich enough, connected enough, skilled enough…simply not enough.  Who did I think I was doing something like this-me? On an art board?  I put down my pen, wrote a Letter of Intent, updated my resume, filled out the application and dashed off an email.  My justification: I simply wanted to learn something new.

The program consisted of 3 meetings with 8-12 hours of online work between each meeting.  We covered Board Member Responsibilities, Financial Management and Staff Responsibilities, and Fundraising and an Overview of Engagement.  The meetings were informative and focused on application of what we learned on the website.  We heard from various Directors from Clifton Cultural Arts Center, Ensemble Theatre of Cincinnati, and The Carnegie. The idea behind this program is to put together a Board Bank or a collection of individuals who are interested in participating on an art board within the smaller arts organizations in Cincinnati and the surrounding communities.  The Fine Arts Fund appears to be taking more of a community development direction with this program and The Arts Ripple Effect - billed as a “Research-Based Strategy to Build Shared Responsibility for the Arts.”

I learned much from this program; how an art board functions, the mission of an art organization and the how that mission effects financial decision-making.  However, the best was a new defintion of art and how art fits into my own life.

What makes a person rich? seeing a mural on a wall; teaching a child the art of clowning; painting a street; hearing original, independent music on Fountain Square; or seeing an original, contemporary play.  That which makes an individual rich is what makes a community rich.

Last weekend I saw my first Cincinnati opera, La Boheme courtesy of tickets from Enjoy the Arts. 

Hey mom, I’m one of the rich people now.

BOARDway Bound Video

*All photos courtesy of Fine Arts Fund

Wednesday, July 14 was the local premiere of 4192: The Crowning of the Hit King at AMC Newport on the Levee.  The documentary focused solely on Rose’s on-field accomplishments and left his off-field antics off the screen.  Rose narrated nearly all of the film giving some very in-depth information and stories behind his now mythical statistics.

The movie is gratuitous and fairly sappy;  however the scenic views of Riverfront and the beautiful Crosely Field are outstanding.  This turns out to be not a documentary about a controversial ball player as much a commentary on Cincinnati history.  The Anderson Ferry shot in the beginning of the film is a lovely historical moment and Rose’s narrative is surprisingly witty, poignant and, at times, just fascinating.  When Rose talks of playing with Stan Musial during his last game, the brawl with Harrelson or his respect for Bob Gibson; it’s like listening to a cool grandpa revealing interesting stories while on a tour.  He reminds one of the many small psychological tidbits that make Baseball a study of human interaction. 

The audience at the film was just outstanding: I have never seen so many vintage tee shirts  covered by autographs and I would wager most had not been worn in 20+ years.  Folks were jovial, talking with complete strangers in line and bonding over unique Cincinnati history.

Seeing the film also brings out amusing anecdotes of “where were you” and sure enough, on our way home, Not-A-Hubs told his story of peddling his bike up Purcell Ave. as fast as he could.  His neighbor had called and was making the claim that you could hear the Riverfront crowd from the top of Purcell Ave.  Turns out he was right.  4192 reminded me of playing Knothole softball for 13 years in Trenton.  I played all outfields, third, and catcher (my favorite).  I was not a strong hitter but I could field hard and sprint.  My jersey was #14.   It also reminded me why Rose is such an everyman and gives life to the longing appeal that we do have control of our destinies despite whatever humbling beginnings from which we hail.  The same reason I wore #14 is the same reason I read all of Kurt Vonnegut’s writings.  Pete Rose was truly Fanfare for the Common Man.

If you are a Baseball, Reds, or Cincinnati fan then the up-coming DVD is an essential snapshot of Cincinnati history.  The footage, stories, stats and legacy are all worth the price of admission.  You can keep track of when the DVD is released on Facebook and Twitter.

“I was the 13th player to collect my 3000 and got my hit on 9-11. I’m a weird dude.” (Pete Rose)

While the film was worth the $20 per ticket price, the AMC was not.  No signs told us to check our ticket in on the first floor before treading up to the third where there was once again no signs telling patrons the two theatre numbers.  If you hadn’t bothered to look at your ticket you would not have known which one to go to because you surrendered your ticket downstairs.  We did get the right theatre only to find it labeled with a different movie title.  Rose made an appearance and said a few words that no one understood because the microphone was crackling and for the first 5 minutes of the film the lights were left on.

Barking Fish Entertainment = A

AMC Newport on the Levee = F

Film Premiered in LA

Best Documentary in All Sports Los Angeles Film Festival

Welcome to the latest installment of Voices of Cincy, our ongoing series of guest posts by local writers and bloggers. This week’s guest is Keith Banner, and O. Henry Award winner and the founder of both Visionaries & Voices, and Thunder-Sky, Inc.  -Loki

Mr. Thunder-Sky

When people ask why Thunder-Sky, Inc. (a gallery/arts organization housed in Northside near the Comet) exists, I normally tell them to keep Raymond Thunder-Sky’s legacy alive, and to focus the spotlight on artists like him.  But I also think that we did it so we could keep his name alive, as well collect the stories people remember about him.  Every time I write a facebook or blog post about Thunder-Sky, Inc, or draft a letter about something, or answer the phone or whatever it’s like I am keeping his memory around through incantation. Keep saying his name and his spirit sort of flickers, like lightning inside a thunder-cloud. Shakespeare asked the question, “What’s in a name?” I guess the answer is everything.

Dressed in his construction hat and clown collar, his work-coat, boots and jeans, toting his huge tool-box of art-supplies, Raymond Thunder-Sky was always moving from one part of Cincinnati to the next, in search of inspiration and subject matter.  From the late 70s till his death in 2004, he would set up makeshift easels in front of construction and demolition sites and then get to work.  His drawings, always done in magic-marker on card-stock, are of buildings being torn down and replaced by industries and projects imagined by Raymond:  Clown Suit Factories, Card Trick Amusement Parks, and Native American freeways.  Raymond’s father, Richard Bright-Fire Thunder-Sky, was a chief of the Mohawk tribe, and his mother was a descendent of an Austrian Nobleman.

No one ever really understood what Raymond was up to, however, and he spent a huge part of his life cloaked in mystery.  As we’ve gone about creating Thunder-Sky, Inc., we’ve heard all kinds of stories about encounters with Raymond from people across the area.  One gentleman called me a few months back, after coming across the Thunder-Sky, Inc. website (www.thunderskyinc.org).  He lives in North Carolina now, but back in the 80s, he said he used to ride the same Metro bus Raymond did.  One day he said three boys were bothering Raymond – making fun of him, talking really loud about the construction-worker/clown-suit outfit he was wearing.  In the middle of their taunts, Raymond stood up from his bus-seat and stared them right in the faces.  The guy from North Carolina says that cold, flat stare shut the boys up instantly.  Raymond’s face, he said, has stuck in his mind since then, as a sort of symbol of “standing up for yourself, letting people know you are not going to be messed with.”

Another story comes from a web-site Steve Kissing has set up to collect Raymond stories (www.raymondthundersky.com).  A contributor to Cincinnati Magazine, as well as a VP at Barefoot advertising here in town, Steve is on the Thunder-Sky, Inc. board.  Here’s the story submitted anonymously by someone who worked with Raymond:

“While in high school in 1974-1975 I worked in the kitchen of the Holiday Inn W.8th St. Cincinnati.  Raymond also worked there as the pot & pan washer.  The “Chief,” as he was known, loved to wash those pots & pans. This usually involved washing an entire day’s worth of cookware encrusted with dried up food.  This is all that Raymond wanted to do, and he did it very well.  We all understood that Raymond refused to do anything else in the kitchen  except pots & pans.  One evening,  the night dishwasher called in sick, and the new asst. manager ‘forced’ Raymond to wash dishes.  This was a very fast-paced job in this busy restaurant.  Several hours into the shift, the Chief was covered with food.  At that point, Raymond removed his clothing and ran them thru the dishwashing machine to clean them.  Needless to say, he wasn’t told to wash dishes any more.   Raymond was a very good artist with quite an imagination. He would walk around Downtown during the daytime before his shift at the “Inn” drawing pictures of buildings being torn down.  He seemed to be somewhat upset about the destruction of historical buildings. Many of his mid seventies drawings were on the back of restaurant paper place mats.”

Both of these memories point to Raymond’s dedication to his art, and also his sense of who he was not just as an artist but as a person.  He was complex, strong, and in charge of his own destiny.  He was living his art every day of his life.  Every week or so, we hear another story that illuminates his mystery, but in the end the beautiful mystery that he was will more-than-likely be his main legacy.  Even though he made drawings that were direct and meticulous on the surface, and even though he walked about the city dressed as a clown, Raymond’s strange, elusive charm evokes responses that seem to place him in a pantheon of characters that catch us all off guard while also making us feel at home, like Pee Wee Herman, E.T., or Edward Scissorhands.  Raymond created that character through sheer force of will, and performed in his own big-budget movie everyday of his life, riding the bus and walking from construction site to construction, drawing what he wanted to see.

In 1999 Bill Ross, a social-worker, artist and Thunder-Sky, Inc. cofounder, met Raymond when Raymond was placed on his caseload.  For some reason (perhaps Raymond sensed that Bill was an artist too), Raymond chose to show his drawings to Bill in a meeting.

“The point of the meeting was to try to get him to take better care of himself and to try to convince him to let his caregivers take him to the doctor and help him try to live healthier,” Bill says.  “This message never really sank in.  Looking back he had his own agenda for me at this meeting.  He wanted to make a connection with the world about his art.  This mysterious and very private man choosing this time to share something so deeply personal with me inspired and truly touched me.  I’ll never forget it.”

After that meeting, Bill introduced Raymond to me, and from that point on, Bill and I assisted with finding exhibition venues for Raymond and other self-taught artists with disabilities we had come across.  Eventually in 2003 we were able to establish Visionaries & Voices (V&V), an art-studio/day-program for artists with developmental disabilities here in Cincinnati.  V&V now helps many artists with developmental disabilities make art in two day-programs in the area (www.visionariesandvoices.com).

In 2004, Raymond Thunder-Sky passed away, leaving behind over 2,000 drawings, along with hundreds of tool-boxes, clown costumes, and construction paraphernalia he had picked up along his journeys throughout the city.  After Raymond’s death, Bill and I got so focused and diligent with ensuring that V&V became a flourishing organization that Raymond’s archive, and legacy, got put on the backburner.  Finally, last year (2009), we were able to establish Thunder-Sky, Inc., a gallery and arts organization dedicated to exhibiting and archiving Raymond’s work and maintaining his legacy through showcasing the works of other artists like him.

The inaugural exhibit, “Raymond Nation: Raymond Thunder-Sky’s Northside,” featured Raymond’s art, along with art made by local artists in tribute to him.  The gallery space is located in Northside, the Cincinnati neighborhood that Raymond grew up in.  In fact, an apartment he lived in as an adult is just one block down the street.  The opening event was attended by over 300 people. At the opening reception, a video featuring Mr. Thunder-Sky was debuted.  The video and other information about Raymond and the gallery can be accessed at www.thunderksyinc.org.  Since the opening, we’ve curated three other exhibits featuring artists that make work reminiscent of Raymond’s art.

The latest exhibit, “World Domination:  Antonio Adams & Tony Dotson” features the paintings and sculptures of Antonio Adams, another self-taught artist Bill and I came across doing our jobs as social workers.  We introduced Antonio to Raymond in 2000.  At this time, Antonio was a graduating high school student.  He was depressed and isolated, making art in his bedroom without a social outlet for his art or feelings.  When he met Raymond, something clicked, and as Antonio says, “He inspired me because he was a spiritual clown-artist and construction-artist.  He was happy being that.  He was very peaceful and he worked hard.”

Antonio’s brilliantly colored and intricately witty paintings and cat-sculptures are in collections across the United States.  He is the artist-in-residence at Thunder-Sky, Inc., overseeing the studio we’ve established in the basement under the gallery space, Under-Sky, Inc., an art-making workshop that occurs every Saturday.  Antonio’s two-person exhibit (along with outsider artist Tony Dotson) opens at Thunder-Sky, Inc. June 25, 2010 and will be on display through September 17, 2010.

Antonio references Raymond a lot in his work.  Raymond became not just an inspiration to Antonio, but a sort of totem-spirit.  In 2009, Antonio was able to create a mural memorializing Raymond.  Antonio did this with help from artist Cedric Cox, and high school students from a program called Artworks, which employs students to do arts-related jobs in the summer.  All of this mythologizing has culminated in the mural, which is on the side of the building that now houses one of V&V’s day-programs.  It is an expansive, Technicolor tribute that places Raymond at the center of a demolition site, with a speech-bubble floating beside his head (mimicking the way Raymond narrated all of his drawings):  “3841 Spring Grove Avenue is being town down to make way for the Raymond Thunder-Sky Construction Clown Amusement Park.”

Antonio says, “My mural and Thunder-Sky, Inc. are both fresh starts to know Raymond again.”

Back in 2004, during Raymond’s memorial, a Shriner’s clown chaplain read the “clown’s prayer” and placed a red nose on Raymond’s casket (making Raymond an honorary clown, which would have delighted him).  One of the stanzas in the poem goes, “As I stumble through this life/help me to create more laughter than tears/dispense more cheer than gloom/spread more cheer than despair.”

Raymond’s art and life have helped to create a cultural revolution here in Cincinnati – two studios for artists with disabilities, a gallery that showcases unconventional self-taught artists, and a gorgeous mural that depicts his brave life.  While we celebrate his legacy, we also continue to discover new and fascinating aspects of his life.  We also want to deepen our understanding of his art by curating and exhibiting new artists that embellish what he was pursuing aesthetically.  Raymond was and still is a natural resource.

Keith Banner, a social-worker for people with disabilities and a writer, lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.  He cofounded both Visionaries & Voices, and Thunder-Sky, Inc.   He teaches creative writing part-time at Miami University and has published two works of fiction, The Life I Lead, a novel, and The Smallest People Alive, a book of short stories.  He has published numerous short stories and essays in magazines and journals, including American Folk Art Messenger, Washington Square, Kenyon Review, and Third Coast.  He received an O. Henry prize for his short story, “The Smallest People Alive,” and an Ohio Arts Council individual artist fellowship for fiction. The Smallest People Alive was named one of the best books of the year by Publisher’s Weekly.

I admit it: I’m a fan boy. Not since Sean Penn had to have his monstrous ego held back by dozens of cops as he travailed for his lost daughter at the crime scene has an emotional response been so dramatically overdone in a manner of this proportion. It’s Bieber-esque. I recognize the folly, the ridiculousness, yet I choose to casually ignore it. Partially because I know it’s a useless proposition to ask myself to change, partially because No Reservations is on right now so I don’t really have time to deal with it. Oh God, there he is! I hear his voice! I want those boots! In all seriousness, I really like the dude and his show, but I would describe my actual level of hysteria as mildly controlled. It’s at most a man-crush, a glorified bromance, mostly because of his job. Also if I can turn out however-old-he-is and still look like that, great. You won’t find me shrieking at painful decibel levels my affection. Then again, who knows how my body will choose to react if ever an opportunity faces me? What I really appreciate about the man is his unflinching honesty and persona towards travel and American culture, most likely better introduced, I believe, over a couple beers and some fine charcuterie, rather than a public speaking engagement. The question I actually got most asked when I told people I would be seeing him was “what is he going to do for two hours?” I… don’t know. What, indeed? Talk?

Well yes in fact. He talked the whole time, and man was Cincinnati captivated.

I enjoy his writing, especially in his newest book Medium Raw which I started recently, but I couldn’t agree more with Wine Me Dine Me on this one: he excels as an orator. He filled the entire segment with his raw perception of reality, family, opinionated anecdotes of other celebrity chefs and their often asinine TV shows, plenty of literal F-this’ and F-that’s (at least 94), and some rather hilarious one-liners, my favorites being the comparative “Sandra Lee’s Kwanzaa cake video makes Two Girls, One Cup look like Dora the Explorer” and the oh-so-wrong “we should tell our children that eating McDonald’s food makes you a retard.” He even took time away from the verbal ego-massage that was the crowd’s response to every zinger to deliver a brilliantly well-placed jab to our hometown’s most nostalgic of food items: on Bobby Flay, he made the statement that he could cook anyone under the table when it comes to chili… (pause)… “especially here.” Cue. Largest. Crowd moan. EVER. The whole evening ended with some great Q & A, and then he was gone stage left… but I am so flabbergasted at what I consider a glaring oversight on our part: not a single person, myself among the guilty party, asked him when he would be bringing the show to Cincinnati. So here, to relive the moment that could’ve and almost certainly would’ve been, are some words:

(brave man, possibly me, approaches mic): *ahem* Hey Tony?

(Bourdain): Why yes, local fan?

(man): Can you bring the show to Cincinnati?

(Bourdain): Ok, sound good! Let’s all go to Nada! Drinks are on me!

(Delightful Applause)

Aaaand scene.

I feel most disappointed with myself. I mean, I was saying it loudly… in my mind. But I let the chance go by. I honestly have no real expectations for what I’m sure would be an awesome moment for this “sleepy little Germantown”, getting to host such an awesome show. I have no doubts it would be the more surprising episode of the season to viewers, to Anthony himself and even most Cincinnatians, because contrary to some over publicized weirdoes’ perceptions, this city is very much alive and has a lot to offer, like award winning restaurants and culinary educators, some of the best breweries in the country, an unbelievably rich architectural history, and one hell of a baseball team (or so I’m told). Just so you know I can help with all that food and beer stuff, and I know a lot of people who would like to as well. Believe me, we’ve got a lot more than cheap watery chili and that not-a-museum across the river.

To coin a phrase used on your show often, Cincinnati definitely doesn’t suck. Hope you got my calls, Tony.

(Have an itinerary planned for a No Reservations: Cincinnati show? Couldn’t care less? Let it be know in the comments.)

I’m a geek, pure and simple. I work online, I love science fiction, I’m a huge fan of technology and I watch Dr. Who.

Purely by chance this afternoon I stumbled across this extremely silly video and felt the undeniable urge to share it with all of my fellow geeks here in Cincinnati. The Doctor Who Chicken Dance.  It works on another level as well: the Doctor has a fine tradition of broadcast and fans here in the Queen City. Just check out this archived article from Cincinnati Magazine back in 1987- The Magnetic Dr.Who.

I know it ends with Happy Easter, oh well. It’s still a hugely amusing piece of work. So, without further ado, The Doctor Who Chicken Dance

www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC56XQ-8bx4

This one goes out to Yottaquest Fantasy Gaming, The Southwestern Ohio Gathering of Gamers, CincyCon, Sci-Fi City, The Sci-FiCincinnati Book Club, and all of my other fellow geeks in the Queen City!

-Loki, Founder and Publisher

Today I’m sharing a great cartoon by Roy W. Jones, a local Cincy artist whose work can be found on TheCreativeRoy.com. A little something to make you think about the distributed identites you embrace and your attitudes towards those who adopt different ones.

Me, I’m prejudiced. Happy to admit it too. I’m prejudiced against those who judge others on anything other than their actions and the content of their characters. Using sexual preference, race, belief system, etc as a reason to look down on others simply shows a weakness of character.

-Loki, Founder and Publisher

First, big thanks to @DonMooneyJr on twitter for the title!  For those who were asleep this afternoon, Shepard Fairey’s mural on Pike Street in Covington, KY was painted over with white paint.  Lauren Bishop wrote the story at Cincinnati.com and the image is present alongside the article.  The mural was across the street from John G. Carlisle School.

For many of us, this harkens back harrowing memories of Mapplethorpe.  The exhibit, held in 1990 at the Contemporary Arts Center, was titled Robert Mapplethorpe: The Perfect Moment.  The exhibit had been in circulation throughout the country for almost a year before landing in Cincinnati.  What culminated was a perfect storm in which massive protests lead by Citizens for Community Values eventually lead to the indictment of then CAC’s director Dennis Barrie and the CAC for pandering obscenity.  An acquittal came 6 months later.  The larger aftermath resulted in how the art world framed itself and art within the community.  FANTASTIC Enquirer article Mapplethorpe Battle Changed Art World  written by Jackie Demaline is a necessary read for those not familiar.

Two pervasive feelings; one is embarrassment over the censorship from the greater Cincinnati community.  The other is seething anger over the exploitation of the location and Cincinnati’s history.  Cincinnati is attempting to see itself as a world-class city and community and censorship flies in the face of our fledgling self-prescribed identity but this writer feels terrific anger toward an opportunistic artist using our history to further his own agenda and popularity.

I love the Contemporary Art Center.  I’m a member.  However, one is torn between knowing this controversy can be good for our city in garnering the art world’s eyes toward us and feeling that Fairey may have been booked for that very purpose.  I also know that’s not fair.  The CAC’s mission statement is 

“…based on the notion that there is an inextricable link between art and life, and that connections are made through contemporary art.  

We provide a space for reflection and dialogue, where the public can engage with artists, scholars, and each other around contemporary issues.  We are committed to remaining the place where opportunity transcends boundaries.

The CAC is shaped by a symbiotic relationship with the community.  We are a neighbor, a leader, and a facilitator.  We believe in the idea of an open cultural forum where all are welcome to congregate and gain exposure to new ideas and where art is a means for people to connect to each other and to the world outside.”  Contemporary Art Center

Platow fulfilled the CAC’s mission in bringing Fairey here.  Was Shepard Fairey’s choice of mural and location exploitive?  Yep.  Should the owners of the space known?  Yep.  Is it benefitting him?  Yep.  Is it benefitting greater Cincinnati?  Maybe.

Thanks to @LivingInGin for this archived gem:  Elvis/Velvet Gala Opening

Some twitter comments from today’s feed:

@artsnob @CincyCAC monumentalizing and child soldiers with an mural, does not bring problems to light, it celebrates children at war

@5chw4r7z I guess Fairey should have done a mural with Dr King being denied lunch at Woolworths. would have fit with the current climate in KY

@LivingInGin Ax murder mural forces delay of Moscow Metro station opening. They should’ve hired Shepard Fairey. http://bit.ly/dj2xH0

@epavner shame that Covington’s arts district will be known for a Fairey cover-up instead of embracing a teachable moment

@DillyCafe Ah yes, maybe by painting over that image all the real child soldiers around the world will magically disappear.

Other reading:

Mapplethorpe & the CAC: 20 Years Ago Today

Mapplethrope controversy reverberates in Cincinnati 10 years later

Cincinnati Jury Acquits Museum In Mapplethorpe Obscenity Case