The Veridic Gardens of Effie Leroux - Flagstaff, AZ.

So we're vacationing in Arizona for a week or so, and visiting the big spots: Wickenberg, Gilbert (not so big really but where my sister and her husband Tim live), Prescott (no, no … that's pronounced Preskit), then up to Flagstaff for a peek at the Grand Canyon  (just to see if I'm still afraid of heights … yup ... that never changes!)  Flagstaff is still a far-out hippie hang-out; see, even if you didn't see any hippies there you could tell that they inhabited Flagstaff at least at one point because of all the prominent public art.  It's all over the place there.  What's that? Well, we're not really sure exactly what is included in the category, but you can check it out here.  Anyway, I'm walking toward Leroux Street and there's this mural on the wall behind a Diablo Burger that catches my attention.  So I stroll up to take a closer look.  Mural. 

I'm kind of into checking it out in detail … deeply sucked in actually, looking pretty carefully at what's going on in the fantasy world of this mural -- and just then a guy walks out of Diablo Burger and I ask him if he knows who did this mural?  He said, "Sure. He's a friend of mine: Joe Sorren.  [If you're interested in seeing more of his work you can check it out here]. I've got some information on the mural -- do you want it?" "Yes I do."  According to Squidoo.com, one of Joe's best-known public art pieces is the 40-foot by 30-foot mural [actually, according to Joe, is 45'x'15'] at Heritage Square in Flagstaff, which he started in the spring of 1999 and completed in September 2000, after nine months of work.  Painted on the curved wall of a parking garage, the mural serves as a backdrop for what is now the Diablo Burger Restaurant. 

The mural wasn't pre-planned, it kind of came into existence as the work was being done, sort of as a 'puzzle' coming together. Joe described it as "Let's see what the wall wants to be today." The title was supposed to "somehow tie together the giant outdoor park scene and its figures." There were a few lame attempts to entitle it, like Ten Thousand Hoses from the City of Big-Headed People; and The Ants Don't Call Home Anymore; and still a favorite of Joe's that didn't win, Please, Just Some Gravy. Enter a friend, Matt Hall, who along with Joe brainstormed the title in about an hour. The next cross street in Flagstaff was Leroux Street, so that worked as a starting place. But you have to love the rest of the title: 'The Veridic Gardens.' The Free Dictionary suggests the Latin derivative veridicus means 'to say the truth,' as in 'verily, verily.' What seems most appropriate about the title is how the Free Dictionary relates the adjective veridicous to a psychological meaning: 

"of or relating to revelations in dreams, hallucinations, etc, that appear to be confirmed by subsequent events."

When the assistant editor for the Flagstaff paper wanted to do a story on the mural -- Matt wrote up some notes about it -- "a completely fictitious name/person Effie Leroux … an early 20th century philanthropist who created veridic [verity = truth] gardens, peaceful places for 'people to experience with all five senses the possibility of a fuller life." 

Joe then wrote up the details as if they were all facts. The big fictitious story about the mural got published in a booklet called The Veridic Gardens of Effie Leroux (of all things). What's really cool about the story line is that it fills in the details of Effie's fictitious life by detailing the various segments of the mural.

For instance -- this scene from the mural is interesting.   

This child is riding some kind of Salvador Dali inner tube contraption; note the wings on the child's back, and the giant hands holding the 'reins' of his plastic horse. Joe likes big hands in his artwork; the tiny feet and a small halo over his head. The entry in the book says of this section of the mural:

"Deidre brought her baby today. He's getting so big. He looks like his father, serious and sweet under a tangle of dark hair. I wheeled myself outside and watched as Deidre played with him in the water, making up a song as she did. "We live a garden life," she piped. "That's right, that's right, that's right." And the boy, my great-grandson, splashed, and I breathe in deep." The whole idea is magnificently fictitiously true.

It seems so clear to me now how one does not find truth or peace or god. One lives these things.

[Effie Leroux.  Diary entry: "July 21, 1950 (Oahu, Hawaii)": The Collected Diaries of Effie Leroux, Volume 16.

  

These two pictures from the mural were retrieved here.

Joe's other artistic endeavors include beings that are on the nightmare spectrum of creepily friendly. He's just downright awesome. You can read a more personalized article on Joe and his work in the AZ Daily Sun here.  If you find you'd like to explore more of his stuff, here's another sampling of the kind of art he does.

    

 

THE SID VICIOUS SPITTING SPECTACLE

Is rap the new punk?

When I go to the mall and I see middle-class white kids (MCWK) talking, smoking, tattooing, dressing, sagging, thinking (well, maybe not thinking ...), and attempting to mimic (start naming any rapper), I think: 

What is it about this whole 'rapper thing' that's appealing to the MCWK??  Why is their perception of the rap lifestyle so worthy of being glorified in their eyes? Then of course it doesn't take long to realize that's what we saw the MCWKs doing back in the 1980s; same problem then, different culture being emulated.

Rap reminds me of some wannabe societal drop-outs who seek to glorify themselves by pissing off whoever doesn't like rap. It's about trying to be 'King of the Mountain' in modern-day refuse dumps [where rats find different ways to steal each others trash]; it's about telling the story of being king where the only mountain to be king on is in a city that's mostly a refuse pile... and then coming up with lame lyrics to someone else's melody and changing the words to "Come on everybody, 'Let's Do This!'"  

Except, in a weird way, rappers are playing for keeps! I might add that in general, the 'King of the Refuse Pile' message of rap music (hip-hop -- whatever the current morph is), is remarkably appealing to the kids who are clueless about that culture.  And, I'm not sure what the attraction is to emulate a culture you are absolutely clueless about; except maybe to be the laughing stock of the culture you are emulating (in some strange karma world). 

Being attracted to a culture one is clueless about reminds me of a similar message handed out to a MCWK audience at the first (and last) punk concert I ever attended.  A rare moment in concert history, and indeed, one unlikely to be repeated.  What happened that night, (an annal in punk history), was truly a once-in-a-lifetime event, and the fact that no MCWK saw the absurdity in it all truly transcends its fascination for me. (For a better understanding of the punk culture read my post here).

   

Enter the Gang of Four, The Buzzcocks and a few other punk bands (that in terms of popularity were essentially 'go-nowheres').  There we were in Anaheim, California (late 1980’s?) at a nice indoor arena to review a punk concert.  The first 100 feet in front of the stage was the general-frenzy-pit-slamming-blood-bath-of-death-see-if-you-can-stay-alive area.  [I would have gone down but I didn't want to hurt any of the kids.  (Right!)].

Packed in front of the stage were myriads of MCWK ... AKA ‘teenagers.’  You know, “My daddy is President of P G and E; what does your daddy do?” “Oh, my daddy’s Vice Pres. of Continental Bank, etc.” All dressed up in their then MCWK clothes to see England's current touring punk band offerings.  

The Gang of Four come out and start playing through a few songs.  After a few minutes, you can tell the lead singer is somewhat distracted, but what from?  After a while you realize (from back in the seats when the lights are at the right angle) what is distracting him.  MCWKs in front of the stage are spitting huge honkers of snot and saliva at the lead singer.  You can see it sort of flying through the colored lights at him.  And I'm wondering, "Oh ...hey this looks like fun.  Boy I wish I was up there on stage partaking of this fantasy.  I wonder ... how long is this nonsense going to be tolerated?" 

After 10 minutes of this saliva frenzy, in a fit of absolute rage, the lead singer stops playing guitar and singing and curses at the top of his lungs into the microphone.  The rest of the group stops playing.  The lead singer is incredulous about it now.  All the front row MCWKs stop spitting as they stare in awestruck-wonder: Wow ... is it that they can't figure out why he's not into getting spit on? 

"What?  We can't participate?"  they're undoubtedly thinking? “Doesn't he know about Sid Vicious?"  "Isn't this a punk show?"  "Isn't spitting what punk is all about?"  And beautifully, poetically, majestically, the singer's rage building to a beautiful, artful, momentous rainbow of intellectual light, about to crescendo before their MCWK eyes ... (eyes that will never meet punk reality)! The guy slowly, painstakingly, meticulously goes into this acrid biting commentary about how stupid these MCWKs are because they've obviously missed everything about the "spitting" spectacle that made Sid so infamous because ... they can't get it.

 

Imagine: having to stop your punk show only to launch into a badly needed verbal spanking about the history of punk expectoration for a bunch of clueless teenagers … trying to help them to 'get it' in the middle of a song in the middle of a punk concert, in the middle of Middle Class Anaheim.  

"Sid and the guys are trapped by their circumstances see," he tries explaining, "bound to follow their father's empty and meaningless life of working in the coal mines in England because there's nothing else anyone can do there because there's no way out except to work in the mines." (Sort of like trying to be King of the Refuse Mountain in downtown Detroit in a weird kind of other-universe Twilight Zone way). 

"There's no other work.  There's no money.  You can't move away.  Poor isn't the adjective they use to describe their circumstances .... desolate is.  There's no hope for change.  It's always been the same.  It's one of those 'We're all gonna die, and we all know it it's pointless' scenarios, see? … it’s the pathetic wasted lives syndrome." 

He goes on.  "If your dad works in the coal mines, and you are his son, you are born to die in the coal mines.  Should you live long enough and actually survive the hellish work in the mines, you'll die slowly and painfully from lung cancer for sure." 

Only then does he unleash his poignant commentary about the spitting. “And so, you freaking sh%*heads, the spitting thing, is a commentary on the degrading environment and circumstances that desolate punks can't get away from.  Spitting is merely a self-prophesying commentary about the tragic life we are stuck in.  Spitting represents our deplorable situation.  It helps ease the total desperation.  And seeing as how none of you fu*king idiots are in that situation, why are you brainless snobs spitting?  WHY?  You couldn't be more 

clueless! You have every opportunity for success and wealth handed to you from the day you were born.  You couldn’t begin to get a freaking clue about the spitting!" 

And as he walks off the stage shaking his head in absolute disgust, the band follows him and they’re completely done dealing with the spitting spectacle.  (I can just see the headlines now in the London Times: "Punk artist walks off stage mid-concert during first world tour only to return to kick teen in the teeth for spitting on him!").  And I'm watching this with my friend and I'm asking him, "Did you just see what happened up there?” And he's saying, "Wow!  That was amazing."  And I said, "Can you believe what he just said?"  And he said, "It's too much satire on a pathetic situation.  Do you think they'll get it?"

A few minutes later The Buzzcocks come on stage and start  playing, and right away, you could see the honkers of snot flying through the colored lights at the lead singer.  

And tomorrow when I go to the mall, they're gonna be there all dressed up like rap stars too! And it's just gonna be another day when another valuable life lesson goes down the tubes ... ignored by all.  Uh--hu

Sid Vicious Image credit: http://duffmckaganissexy.blogspot.com/