Dem Bones
I Went To A Garden Party
Fred Stonehouse has been around town long enough to have gained quite a bit of fame, both local and national. In fact, Madonna, a taste-maker if there ever was one, owns his quirky paintings, and wow, Sheryl Crowe snapped up his entire exhibit at the recent Jazz Festival in the Big Easy. Stoney has a full time teaching position at the UW in Madison, so I was impressed to see his name on the list of artists contributing to a treasure of auction items at the August 2 “Way Beyond the Sea” event in the Mount Mary College Alumnae Dining Room. The last time I was at the college was for a memorial event for a former Mount Mary art teacher and good friend of mine, Karen Olson. Cancer claimed her in the spring just when things were beginning to bloom. I thought about life beyond as I stood under a budding tree on the campus, missing my friend. In 2006, Fred Stonehouse donated a gyclee print to the garden party and will contribute another for the coming soirée. The opening bids hover around $50-$100, and auction items may rise from $200 to $1,400, though the average is around $300-$400. A catalog of auction items, with photographs by Jim Moy, will be available. The fundraiser benefits The Grace Foundation and in fact, has another tag….”Kathy’s Garden Party,” named so, to honor Kathleen Chenoweth Corby, who died of cancer a decade ago. WISN-12 News co-anchor, Kathy Mykleby, will host the event which goes “way beyond” what you’d expect from a less exciting fundraiser. For example, guests will be treated to a runway show with models showcasing unique pieces of art contributed by 35 artists, including Todd Graveline, Chris Poehlmann and Joy Harmon. Choreographed lights, movement, special effects (plus food and drink), will put a spin on what death can’t erase, which is to say, it will be lively, lovely, and loving. If you want to be a part of remembering and renewing, visit www.givinggrace.org (The Grace Foundation was founded in 2002), or call Rose Deutsch at 414-771-1578. Mount Mary itself is a work of art set on broad expansive lawns studded with trees. Parking is a snap and August is perfect for a garden party. When I visit the campus, I usually take Wisconsin Avenue due west for a meander down the beautiful tree lined streets of Wauwatosa. A swing north and I’m at 2900 N. Menomonee River Parkway. North Avenue is almost a straight-line route, and yes, the expressway is even speedier, but time is on your side whichever path you choose. If mosquitoes are on your mind, never fear, they’ll be humming around outside of the building’s dining hall. You’ll be inside considering what you’d like to purchase.
Aug 1st, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Earning Chops
Back in the heady days when “outsider” (a term I dislike) art was hot, painter Fred Stonehouse was a big star, particularly at the Dean Jensen Gallery, and later, at the Tory Folliard Gallery. Gee whiz, Madonna bought at least one of his quirky paintings! Stonehouse just kept doing his thing and never let it go to his head. Frankly, he earned every inch of his success, so it is great to learn that he recently was hired to teach at UW-Madison, which means he’s going to spend lots of time commuting from here to there and back again. I know I’m years behind, but I just finished reading Love In The Time of Cholera, the 1988 masterful magic-realism novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and was delighted to learn that Stonehouse’s work is heavily influenced by the writings of Marquez. To my mind, there is no such thing as great art without great thought. What’s lacking in so much of what’s passed off as “art” is the ability to integrate one’s personal experiences and all that one learns from either those experiences (or the study of the experiences of others) into moments of sublime understanding. Stonehouse earned his chops by paying attention. Vox, Acrylic on Canvas, 36″ x 48″ Fred Stonehouse Courtesy of Tory Folliard Gallery – Milwaukee Two others who pay attention are Tom Bamberger, a local photographer and frequent contributor to Milwaukee Magazine, who is teaching at UW-Milwaukee, and Debra Brehmer, another frequent contributor to Milwaukee Magazine and the co-owner of the Portrait Gallery, who has been teaching for about five years at MIAD. It’s no big surprise that both are fans of Stonehouse. Quality attracts quality. All three earned their chops by paying attention.
Jul 27th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Great Architecture
In 2005, the eight-story 1927 Ambassador Hotel at 2308 W. Wisconsin Avenue had a twelve-million dollar fix, a “lift” inside and out. The Art Deco building certainly deserved help. In fact, prior to the sensitive re-do, it had become infamous as a hangout for serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, who allegedly murdered one of his victims there. That’s in the past, as are the nearby Oxford Apartments where Dahmer lived. They’ve been demolished. Today, the Ambassador, and the area surrounding it, speak about an era when making whoopee didn’t signal total chaos, unless of course you were in a gin mill toting a sidearm. In 1925 Paris, the Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Moderns was unveiled. WWI was over and people were ready to embrace an architectural movement whose primary thrust was to meld industrial technology with the “primitive” arts of Africa, Egypt, and/or Aztec Mexico. Aluminum, stainless steel, lacquer, exotic woods and in some cases, exotic animal skins (such as zebra), were bonded in a muscular mix suggesting “deluxe, first class, and forward thinking.” All of these lush elements were firmly in place long before the term “Art Deco” really caught fire back in the 1960’s. If you’ve thrilled to the films of New York artist Matthew Barney, you know he wasn’t exactly high on the idea of architecture which seemed, because of its monumental scale, to crush and demean Homo-sapiens. In his 2002 “Cremaster 3” film, he blasted architect William Van Alen’s 1928-1930 Chrysler Building, which he considered the most excessive Art Deco architecture on our shores. To Barney’s mind, it is a hideous, stainless steel icon dripping with the corrupt power of politics and big money, a kind of mausoleum of madness, built on the backs of immigrant labor. Some critics thought the Crysler was an omen signaling the 1928 stock market plunge. Comparing The Ambassador Hotel with the Chrysler Building is rather like comparing a rowboat with the Titanic, but it is fair to say that Milwaukee’s Deco jewel shelters, rather than diminishes, persons entering its doors. Six steps up from the canopied and glassy east entrance and you’re in the intimate lobby, where no splashing fountains, jungles of potted plants, relentless music, and/or way too much art, confuse rather than soothe. The lobby chairs, upholstered in fabrics replicating “nature’s forms abstracted,” a popular Art Deco motif, are so discrete as to be barely there. The tables near the seating are small and utilitarian. The décor is refreshingly uncomplicated, even with the deco details inviting you to linger awhile: sconces of frosted glass embellished with metal ferns unfolding, pillars rising to meet a ceiling punctuated with Deco chandeliers, and sunburst motifs proclaiming a “new day is coming.” Gentle curves (less fussy than those of Art Nouveau) harmonize with chevrons, diamond shapes and triangles. Peachy beige, muted browns and grays, enliven the marble and terrazzo floors winding through the area, some leading to the modest Envoy dining room, where tuned-down jazz and rosy-dawn pink walls signal […]
Jul 14th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Twenty Five Tons of Nothing
When California artist David Middlebrook’s 25 ton sculpture, “Tip”, was installed in Gordon Park several years ago, the reception for the clumsy white thing was underwhelming. When “Stratiformis” was installed in Catalano Park, the reception was underwhelming. Of course, the folks responsible for bringing this stuff to Milwaukee took issue with the barrage of criticism. They defended what wasn’t, and still isn’t, worth defending. Things haven’t improved in the realm of public art; in fact, the situation has worsened with the coming of Fonzie in bronze, though I hestitate to put that work in any “art” category. It is, however, public. Making a long list of our public art mistakes is growing ever tedious, so I’ll skip the list. If it’s a short list you’re wanting, then it’s a better idea to start with good public art in our city. Listing ten would be a stretch. Five would be reasonable. Most folks don’t care about public art, let alone think about it. It’s something they may notice now and then, but it doesn’t impact their lives, so what’s the big deal? The same people comment over and over again, so much so, that their comments eventually become as tiresome as the public art mess. A few stout hearts have been trying for years to make sense of why we’re stuck with so much crap. But, well, the scrap heap continues to grow.
Jul 7th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Deep Doo-doo
Until this year, it never occurred to me that, as a journalist who writes about art, I should also be a journalist who never ever collects art. The opinions about the rights and/or wrongs seem to whirl around the possibility that some art critics expect to be gifted with art from the persons they have reviewed, or are about to review. I found this in an article (Critical Mess) written for a Seattle newspaper, The Stranger: “As a journalist who critiques things, you’re in a position of power, and if you accept gifts from people whom you hold power over, it’s almost impossible to figure out if they’re giving those gifts of their own goodwill, or if they feel obligated to do it, because the power distorts the relationship.” (Poynter Institute, a school of journalism) The New York Times follows the same lines, but adds this: “An arts writer or editor who owns art of exhibition quality (and thus has a financial stake in the reputation of the artist) may inspire questions about the impartiality of his or her critical judgments or editing decisions. Thus members of the culture staff who collect valuable objects in the visual arts (paintings, photographs, sculpture, crafts, and the like) must annually submit a list of their acquisitions and sales to the associate managing editor for news administration.” Yeah, no doubt about it. The doo could get really deep. I’ve been either making my own art or purchasing the art of others for three decades. I began writing about the visual arts over a decade ago, and I can’t recall ever being approached by an artist wanting to give me a freebie in exchange for a possible review. Certainly there are desperate measures taken in the art world, but the closest I’ve come to the intrigue of it all, is going home from an opening with my pockets laden with slides from various artists who hoped I would consider their art. I’ve also noticed that I’m sometimes offered a “discount” when I buy a piece of art. I never accept discounts. If I want those, I buy art at a rummage sale. Or look in a dumpster. An acquaintance got lucky when she found a John Colt watercolor in a trash can; another located a superb Mike “Ringo” White sculpture. There’s another side to this coin. I’m wondering how many gallery owners across the land are “gifted” with art from an artist featured in an exhibition at their gallery? Imagine what a treasure trove (providing the gallerist has a keen eye) might be amassed. It would seem to be “unethical,” but who is checking the particulars? Okay, so let’s say a gallery owner or an art critic has a birthday celebration, and artists come forth with various gifts for the special day? Is that yet another tar pit of possibilities? The Village Voice critic collects only thrift-store paintings and ceramics and says “the rule here is nothing over $10, no clowns, and no dogs”). He […]
Jun 30th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Public Not
The small Iowa town I grew up in had not one piece of public art. And still doesn’t, unless you count the town square’s small granite memorial dedicated to Veterans, and a black and white fiberglass porker standing proud on the rim of town. It’s refreshing to go back for reunions and not have public art in my sight-lines. I doubt if any local folks (population 1,000 and shrinking) have ever thought about the possibility of art that is “public.” Omaha, the home of Warren Buffet, is only 70 miles west, so if they should absolutely have to experience art, I guess that’s where they’d head. Image: Public Sculpture Winter 08 On the route west, there are plenty of stately silos to consider. Stanton, Iowa is only minutes away as the crow reckons, and they do have what I guess is a form of public sculpture: a huge elaborately painted coffee cup mounted on their water tower. Being entirely populated by Swedes who all dwell in small white houses, the town appreciates a good cup of java. Prior to the coffee cup water tower, they had a coffee pot water tower to honor one of their hometown products, Virginia Christine, a.k.a. “Mrs. Olson,” the kindly Swedish lady who became a spokesperson on teevee for Folger’s coffee. When the pot ceased functioning, the good folks shifted gears and went with the cup motif, likely because they didn’t have anyone other than Swedes to consider. When the “Blue Shirt” sculpture proposed for Mitchell International was hung out to dry a few years ago, Milwaukee reached a new low in art appreciation. Our County Executive, Scott Walker, led the charge against the work, along with other misinformed persons who claimed to “know what art is.” Is it worth noting that Walker spent his formative years in Fairfield, Iowa?
Jun 18th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Smoke! Smoke! Smoke!
Smoker’s Paradox: Photographs by Mike Brenner Annual Members Show June 20 — July 25 Walker’s Point Center for the Arts, 911 W. National Avenue Opening reception: Friday, June 20, 6-9 pm Mike Brenner, former proprietor of Hotcakes Gallery, has emerged from that grave, and, at age 34, is busy re-inventing himself, most recently in the annual Members Show at Walker’s Point Center for the Arts (WPCA). He sent me notice and a link to his “Smoker’s Paradox” series wherein he seems to be wearing a hunk of pink fluff on his pate while smoking cigs around town. Three of his 8.5”x l1” photographic images (priced to sell @ $20 each, unframed, and $40 framed) will be available. You don’t have to be a smoker to buy them. Last year around this time, 67 artists participated in the exhibition, so Brenner won’t be flying solo. From what I saw online, Brenner’s entire series (three selected for the exhibit) fill two of my basic three rules for what art is: content and consistency. As for the craftsmanship in his photographs, Brenner emailed this to me: “Overall, I’m not super happy with the quality of the final product, but I think an important part of the process is to put ideas out there and get feedback. My camera was stolen when the gallery was robbed a few years back, so the images were taken with a cheap-ish point and shoot digital and I just printed them out on a printer at home because I’m broke right now and couldn’t afford to send them out to be done.” Brenner studied art for a year and a half at Colorado State University, then went on to study photography at MIAD before graduating in 2000 with a degree in graphic design. WPCA – housed in a building that once belonged to Mr. J.L. Burnham, creator of cream city bricks – is a good fit for him. People like to hang out on the front steps smoking cigs and soaking up the local color. Early issues of Art Muscle magazine were produced in the ballroom on the third floor, and over the years, many artists have lived in its apartment spaces. A few have continued to work in the arts. In many ways, the historic venue is like Brenner himself, who is also a gritty survivor. His “Smokers Paradox” photographs set off lyrics from Tex Ritter’s 1947 tune (written by Merle Travis) … I light up a cig and listen to this wafting through my head: “But nicotine slaves are all the same at a pettin’ party or a poker game; everything gotta stop while they have a cigarette.” This past December, Brenner sold out the photographs he exhibited at Miami Aqua. Using the alias “Samuel Baxter,” he even earned a mention on artinfo.com. “What a coup for a kid from Wisconsin to get a blurb for selling $5 photos in Miami,” Brenner says. But whoa, is Brenner really smoking cigarettes these days? He told me he […]
Jun 17th, 2008 by Vital Archives
Half-Baked (Why presidential candidates should clean their plates)
When Barack Obama exited a Pennsylvania diner, he left behind a plate with a half-eaten waffle and a bit of sausage. Too bad he didn’t clean his plate by stuffing his face, as a waitperson snapped up the detritus and bagged the contents (including the silverware), the result being that it showed up on Ebay, alas to no avail, as it was yanked shortly thereafter. But that didn’t stop the masses calling themselves “artists.” As of late April, an enterprising type had sallied forth on Ebay with a small oil painting, “Memories of Barack Obama”, billed as a one-of-a-kind. Down in Kansas City, artist Sonja Shaffer unveiled paintings of Obama at the Unity Temple, a cozy place I’ve eaten (not waffles) at frequently. It was billed as an Obama fundraiser, with 10% of the sales going to the Obama campaign. The bad news is the Temple limited reservations to no more than twenty five. This would seem to be a losing proposition for everyone. Down in Florida, the Department of Transportation was blasted with gripes that a painting of Barack was a shill for votes, the result being that the Miami-based artist had to paint over BO’s face on the mural, which originally was to be part of a beautification project. The artist, one Serge Toussaint, used white primer in the work, and further griped he is now being accused of “whitewashing” Obama. Isn’t it amazing what artists will do for a shred of publicity? Or could it be that Obama’s people are fueling the mania for things Obama? Would they dare? For your perusal, I’ve included some suspect images by artists vying for fifteen minutes of fame. It’s only going to get worse as we grind on to November. In retrospect, the small painting of the waffle/sausage remains reminds me of the foodie paintings of Wayne Thiebaud, whose slices of eats can be seen at the Milwaukee Art Museum. At least it shows possibilities, and of all of the many Obama images to be found online, it’s only half-bad. It must be hell being a presidential candidate, or the Bronze Fonz, which is on the move again, this time to a more “visible” site on the former Tula’s patio on the Riverwalk.
Jun 16th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Born to be free
Free the Galazan 5! Inova/Kenilworth June 13 – July 27 Opening reception: Friday, June 13, 6 – 9pm Gene Galazan left Milwaukee years ago and fled to Arizona. I remember him from the way back days when he and his artist spouse were active participants in Milwaukee art events, so I was intrigued to learn that Inova/Kenilworth will be exhibiting five of his Cor-ten steel sculptures in an exhibit titled Free the Galazan 5! (June 13 – July 27). I found images of the 5! online at the antique and art site of Gary Gresl, who owns the sculptures and is offering them for sale. The spin surrounding the exhibit is pinned to the “story” behind the sculptures: that they were left to languish in a warehouse when deemed to be too “dangerous” and too “abstract” for public consumption. The sculptures, fabricated in 1980 for CETA, a federally funded jobs program, were shot out of the saddle. Here’s an excerpt from an article written by Dean Jensen (yes, that Dean Jensen), in the Milwaukee Sentinel March 2, 1982: “The pieces, fabricated from Cor-ten steel and weighing 200 to 250 lbs. each….are gathering dust in storerooms in the old Town of Lake water tower on S. 6th St., and in a Public Works Department structure in the Menomonee Valley.” The article goes on to note that Galazan was planning a demonstration outside of City Hall, “seeking to free the sculptures he claimed were being held by the city.” A friend of mine who attended UW-Milwaukee recalls Galazan’s parents as being “civic-minded trendy art junkies with a big house on Lake Drive.” They were active in Jewish Vocational Services (his mom ran the JVS pottery department) and were as “sweet as can be,” or so remembers my friend. Of course, most artists have tales to tell, particularly those with bones to pick, and Galazan was (like other artists of his era) highly theatrical. That said, Inova/Kenilworth decided these sculptures and their colorful history would be useful in enlightening viewers about the problems of making art for the “public.” A good example of things gone awry is the current flap surrounding the proposed sculpture memorializing the sinking of the Lady Elgin. Most people involved in the arts will also recall when Dennis Oppenheim’s proposal for the Blue Shirt sculpture was hung out to dry. However, the basic question remains: are these five sculptures worth the effort of pondering, let alone building an exhibit around? Inova curator, Nick Frank, first saw the Galazan 5 during a visit to Gresl’s home, where they sat among weeds and high grasses. He listened to the back story and decided to have all five hauled by truck and placed in Inova/Kenilworth’s vast gallery space. The largest sculpture is priced at $2,000. You can view it and the others at www.greslartmarket.com. It’s a shame that the five are being sold separately. They clearly belong together. Prior to writing this and visiting the gallery, I went online to see what […]
Jun 12th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Gotcha!
You’ve got to love folks who get “snookered.” Even those who get snookered into buying fake works of art. Who would have thought that the thousands of visitors flooding the Art Institute of Chicago to worship Paul Gauguin’s “The Faun” were actually adoring a fake made by a family of fakes (the Greenhalgh family) holed-up in England? The Dec. 17/07 issue of the New Yorker details the catastrophe surrounding Marion True, a former curator of antiquities at the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles, who got caught in a web of intrigue when she bought an “Aphrodite” (of dubious origin) to the Getty. The courts have unsnarled the web, and Aphrodite is returning to Italy, but wouldn’t it be fun if True’s acquisition turned out to be not only of dubious origin, but also a fake? An earlier New Yorker feature unearthed a scam behind the sale of “vintage” wines, wines which were blends blended recently. If you have enough money, and don’t mind playing the game, well, it’s real easy being snookered these days. Such was the case at the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City, the brainchild of R.Crosby Kemper, Jr. He launched the museum by purchasing “Canyon Suite” for five million. Alleged to be the works of Georgia O’Keeffe, it turned out they weren’t, but before that was discovered, the 28 watercolors went on tour. The Kansas City Star broke the story, Kemper got his money back, and the fakes were sent packing. The Milwaukee Art Museum’s new Executive Director, Daniel Keegan, was the Kemper’s Executive Director at the time, but according to extremely reliable sources, he had absolutely nothing to do with their purchase or their promotion. Actually, there is a bona-fide game known as “Snookers,” and I should know, as my dad was a Snooker champ at the University of Iowa. Played with a cue and assorted balls, the game was said to have come into being when British officers stationed in India grew bored with gin and each other. Colonialism itself is snookering on a grand scale. When I refer to snookering, I am using the slang definition akin to “inexperienced, greenhorn, dumb, etc.” It somewhat resembles “snipe-hunting,” another Midwestern sport, wherein the snookered is left holding a bag while others go out to beat the bushes for the elusive snipe. Well, you get the picture. In the long ago, I was left holding a bag. But only once. To be on the short-end of the cue, or left holding the bag, isn’t a new phenomenon. It is as old as mankind. Take for instance the Atomic Bomb sent to blow people to smithereens. Sub-primes have snookered us and YouTube snookered us big time in the debate debacle, when a virtual face asked the politicians “What Would Jesus Say?” I feel personally snookered when Oprah endorses Obama, when Huckabee comes off as a regular guy, when John Edwards lays on a honeyed “southern” accent dripping with biscuits and red-eye gravy, when […]
Jun 1st, 2008 by Stella Cretek
Fest me
Fest Me Milwaukee is in the grips of “Festivalism,” a word coined by Peter Schjeldahl (art critic for the New Yorker magazine) after surviving the Venice Biennale in 1999. “The drill is ambulatory consumption,” he quips, “a little of this, a little of that.” As I write, Memorial Day weekend’s Kite Fest unfolds below my balcony, and we’re off and running in the art fair race, where the most asked question is, “Where are the restrooms?” The Milwaukee International Art Fair has come and gone in a bowling alley event; it wasn’t on the lake, though it did feature water spouting from a can encased in plexiglass fronting the General Store booth. Of course Milwaukee isn’t Venice, but we do have Lake Michigan and organizers of art fairs get as close to it as possible (the most notable being the Lakefront Festival of the Arts), or if that’s not feasible, they hug as many inland lakes as possible. The media publishes long lists of where to go and what to peruse (Google on) though one needn’t travel far from one’s neighborhood these days because art fairs are everywhere, some resembling rummage sales for the culturally challenged. It’s almost required that shoppers come home with something, and it might even be a decent piece of art. In the corner of my office is a wooden sculpture purchased twenty years ago at the aforementioned Lakefront Festival of the Arts. It’s a female figure resembling a Marisol sculpture. It has multiple drawers and the head lifts off to reveal a secret chamber. I’m giving it to my grandson who is busy re-decorating his bedroom in “Indiana Jones” style. She was with me when I lived out in the country and the day my small house caught fire, I fled with one thing … her. When the firemen arrived, she greeted them on my front lawn. The first painting I ever purchased (in the late ‘60s) came from an art fair in Oconomowoc, and I think I may have bought it because the artist was lolling around the grounds in a leopard-skin bikini, accompanied by an exotic dog. It’s was a pretty bad painting and eventually I donated it to an auction even though it matched the couch in my suburban tri-level. Actually, art fairs aren’t a terrible way to start collecting stuff, because there’s plenty to choose from. The things you bring home may eventually teach you a thing or two, and at the very least you can say years down the line, “I bought that at an art fair years ago.” They become grist for your memory mill, but it’s doubtful they’ll teach you what art is. That takes years, and art fair viewers don’t have time. A few hours outing on a sunny day is really what they’re about, so go ahead, have some fun. This isn’t to say that whopper fairs like the Venice Biennale will teach you what art is either. I’ve never attended an uber-whopper, but I imagine […]
May 28th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
The truth of the matter
As a kid I believed everything I read was true, especially the Bible (the Old Testament was particularly frightening), and odd as it may seem, tales from True Confessions magazine, a publication forbidden in my Midwestern childhood home. Fortunately, my best friend lived across the street in the shadow of the Presbyterian Church, and when her mom was away, we two would smoke her mom’s Lucky Strikes and dive into what was forbidden in my home. I confess, those were exciting times. Recently, I received a yellowing copy of True Confessions: Sixty Years of Sin, Suffering & Sorrow (1919-1979). It was a time-warp packed with familiar ads: Adola brassieres (“flatters where it matters”), Tayton’s Cake Make-Up (“a Hollywood favorite”), Marchand’s Golden Hair Wash (“don’t let time darken your hair”), and Yours-Truly nylon hosiery, which urged me to send for a FREE sample stocking. Tempting? Yes, but even I realized that a single stocking was useless. Balancing the ads promising full-throttle beauty were many hinting at the disaster of scaly skin blemishes, bad breath, and for one on the cusp of young womanhood … underarm perspiration, which could be fixed with a dab of Odo-Ro-No. The publication was aimed at females, ages 20-35, 75% of who were married. The confessions had sizzling titles: “Shakedown Marriage” (When a showgirl down on her luck meets a naïve lad in khaki on a 36-hour leave, a lot can happen … and does!), “Interrupted Elopement” (But Lester was impatient with anything that thwarted his desires), or this from “My G.I. Joe” (He leaned forward and his big hands covered mine), and “The Girl They Called BAD” (All her sorry, pitiful life, Ivy longed for someone to care, anyone!). Shadow-filled black and white photos of real people in fake situations hinted at Film Noir, another of my early obsessions enjoyed at our town’s Rialto Theater. I never tried Marchand’s Golden Hair Wash, but seven decades have left me with a mop of natural silver. Recently, I learned on Wikipedia (another benefit of age) that confession magazines gave way to comic books in 1949 before staggering forth in condensed form in Reader’s Digest. My computer also revealed that a 1981 movie (True Confessions) starred two Roberts (De Niro and Duvall), as priest vs. gangster. In 1985, television made a stab at a series culled from the pages of True Confessions, but even the show’s host, Bill (“My Favorite Martian”) Bixby, couldn’t keep it from expiring. In 2006, Dorchester Media linked with Leisure Enterprises to launch paperback anthologies titled True Confessions, True Romance, and True Story. Believe it, True Confessions is alive and kicking via subscriptions. Magazine Values.com touts it as a “glimpse into the forbidden!” An image of the magazine’s cover carries headlines titled “Toxic Love,” “My Son Shot His Best Friend,” “Talk Show Terror” and “Why I Married a Gay Man.” Given our current world of “confessions,” a world where celebs mea culpa daily and Jerry Springer is a hero, the True Confessions of my pre-teen […]
May 26th, 2008 by Stella Cretek
