Grow Your Own World
A nonfiction design manual on creating and harvesting from small backyard food forests. Garnered interest from Chelsea Green publishing in Jan. 2012.
Hot Art
A short story about a day in the life of a young art authenticator.
It was too comfortable among the masterworks. A client’s Impressionist treasures was in question and I was here researching the great artist Degas’ work. The generously air conditioned halls of the Musee d’Orsay had caused time to escape me. It was a little but not much out of character.
I was an art authenticity researcher. Had been for well over a year. Yet working overseas in the hallowed halls of one the world’s best galleries was a new delight. This place conferred profound and utter bliss on art history initiates like myself. For these walls held the seeds of modernity, the artworks that helped spark industrial civilization’s vision of itself. This museum was the keeper of many of the finest rejects of all time: Renoir, Monet, Van Gogh. These artists were tough sells throughout most of their own lives but today fetch prices of a hundred million a canvas plus. God they were beautiful. Such elations would help me through the long night of report writing, contract revising and overseas correspondence that lay ahead....
I was an art authenticity researcher. Had been for well over a year. Yet working overseas in the hallowed halls of one the world’s best galleries was a new delight. This place conferred profound and utter bliss on art history initiates like myself. For these walls held the seeds of modernity, the artworks that helped spark industrial civilization’s vision of itself. This museum was the keeper of many of the finest rejects of all time: Renoir, Monet, Van Gogh. These artists were tough sells throughout most of their own lives but today fetch prices of a hundred million a canvas plus. God they were beautiful. Such elations would help me through the long night of report writing, contract revising and overseas correspondence that lay ahead....
Prologue - SNEAK PEAK
11 Rue Le Peletier, Paris, France – April, 1876
Down from the Opera house, behind a new plaster façade, the small awkward crowd was groaning. There were none of the shouts or faints seen at the first exhibition of course, yet the distaste in the air was palpable and shamelessly aired. Men in long coats with top hats shuffled and leered amongst ladies swathed in high-neck gowns. A few ragged children ran behind clusters of commoners in unwashed clothing. They laughed and sneered amongst the rows of small paintings which hovered over the scarlet drapes before them. The paintings were less than what most attendees were accustomed to and much uglier. Less finished, less impressive, they were less respectable.
It had been two years since the Societe Anonyme des Peintures, Sculpteurs et Graveurs—better known as the Impressionists— had first displayed their uncouth art in France but tonight’s small crowd was no less forgiving. The Parisian Salon mocked from afar, a white elephant in the room, an undertone in every conversation. These so-called Impressionists were Salon rejects and tonight’s exhibition was making their rejection final. There would be no going back to the Salon to compete for accolades now. It was time to find new ways to present and sell their art, all art. Tonight was a second chance for these bold inventors though at the moment it seemed a dismal one; tenacity feeling like their only becoming trait...
11 Rue Le Peletier, Paris, France – April, 1876
Down from the Opera house, behind a new plaster façade, the small awkward crowd was groaning. There were none of the shouts or faints seen at the first exhibition of course, yet the distaste in the air was palpable and shamelessly aired. Men in long coats with top hats shuffled and leered amongst ladies swathed in high-neck gowns. A few ragged children ran behind clusters of commoners in unwashed clothing. They laughed and sneered amongst the rows of small paintings which hovered over the scarlet drapes before them. The paintings were less than what most attendees were accustomed to and much uglier. Less finished, less impressive, they were less respectable.
It had been two years since the Societe Anonyme des Peintures, Sculpteurs et Graveurs—better known as the Impressionists— had first displayed their uncouth art in France but tonight’s small crowd was no less forgiving. The Parisian Salon mocked from afar, a white elephant in the room, an undertone in every conversation. These so-called Impressionists were Salon rejects and tonight’s exhibition was making their rejection final. There would be no going back to the Salon to compete for accolades now. It was time to find new ways to present and sell their art, all art. Tonight was a second chance for these bold inventors though at the moment it seemed a dismal one; tenacity feeling like their only becoming trait...
A non-fiction art mystery that traces the journey of a single mysterious canvas whose originality is called into question.
Finding Degas
Rachel sat down at the table, her back aching from a long day's work. She had been cooking and cleaning for hours. Then Scott called.
"We're coming in,"
She sucked her breath
"45 minutes."
She heard the click of his intercom. Rocky's voice, "deer on the left up ahead."
Scott hung up fast. Rachel let out a sigh, feeling a weight lift from knowing he was alright.
Quickly she packed her things, started the truck and grabbed the coolers packed with food. She left for the barn knowing it would be a long night.
The frost was hard, close to crystallizing on the windshield. Oh boy, she thought, it's going to be a really long night. Winter had flashed a glimpse of her cold skirt over the mountains. All the bud had to come out tonight or the frost would turn it to mush. A few snowflakes fell. Her tires screeched past glowing eyes in the bushes. She slammed on the breaks dodging the deer and held close to the curves. The bears were in bed but those damn deer...
"We're coming in,"
She sucked her breath
"45 minutes."
She heard the click of his intercom. Rocky's voice, "deer on the left up ahead."
Scott hung up fast. Rachel let out a sigh, feeling a weight lift from knowing he was alright.
Quickly she packed her things, started the truck and grabbed the coolers packed with food. She left for the barn knowing it would be a long night.
The frost was hard, close to crystallizing on the windshield. Oh boy, she thought, it's going to be a really long night. Winter had flashed a glimpse of her cold skirt over the mountains. All the bud had to come out tonight or the frost would turn it to mush. A few snowflakes fell. Her tires screeched past glowing eyes in the bushes. She slammed on the breaks dodging the deer and held close to the curves. The bears were in bed but those damn deer...
Short-listed for the American Gem Screen Writers Competition
The Growers Wife
This poem was written in and commemorates a California coastal wilderness destroyed in the 2018 Woolsey fires.
Ode to the Wild
Publications
2017 "The Grower's Wife," Semi-finalist@American Gem Literary festival, Hollywood, CA, U.S.A.
2009 "Pretty Piece of Flesh," Interrobang Gallery Catalogue, Belkin Art Gallery, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2009 "Take the Money and Run," OneCoolWord Magazine, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2008 "Installation Art" OneCoolWord Magazine, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2008 "George Michael Volkoff & Neutron Stars," co-author, Canadian Undergraduate Physics Journal
2017 "The Grower's Wife," Semi-finalist@American Gem Literary festival, Hollywood, CA, U.S.A.
2009 "Pretty Piece of Flesh," Interrobang Gallery Catalogue, Belkin Art Gallery, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2009 "Take the Money and Run," OneCoolWord Magazine, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2008 "Installation Art" OneCoolWord Magazine, Vancouver, BC, Canada
2008 "George Michael Volkoff & Neutron Stars," co-author, Canadian Undergraduate Physics Journal
