VIP King Confirms Callahan Collection

All good things come to those that wait. A VIP visit from Nicholas King, former Executive Director of the Philadelphia based Barnes Foundation, validates The Knapp Gallery’s collection of Christopher Callahan’s paintings. The Barnes Foundation collection, considered by many as the world’s foremost private collection of impressionist and post impressionist paintings, includes 180 Renoirs, 69 Cezannes, 60 Matisses and 44 Picassos.

In the mid 70s, at the early age of 21, Callahan began working at the Barnes Foundation in a custodial capacity under Nicholas King, then Superintendent. Soon recognized as an artistic prodigy, Callahan became the protégé of now deceased and infamous former foundation Director, Violette de Mazia. During the mid nineties, after the death of Miss de Mazia, King having been appointed to the Directorship called Christopher back to the foundation as a docent lecturer! The extensive history/story of the Callahan - King - Barnes Foundation troika is book worthy. The overall influence of this history rings true throughout Callahan’s extensive body of work.

Having known Callahan in varied capacities, it’s been 10 years since Nicholas King has seen Christopher’s paintings. Thrilled at the direction and progression of Callahan’s work, King keenly isolated Chris’ most recent work. “This must be Chris’s latest work,” pointing to the lone untitled painting hanging on the back wall of the gallery. “It’s a thrill to see where he’s come in the past ten years.”

I’ve suggested a reunion between the two and asked if the gallery could facilitate. Before leaving, King signed the register; “Chris, very very proud of your work. Congratulation! “

Christopher Callahan’s paintings will hang until September 27th.

All Guns Down

There is still talk of revolution. Each generation puts their twist on it. Ernesto and Gabrielle, present day road warriors remind us there is a lot more going on at street level than just exercising one’s right to free enterprise.

I first noticed him across the street on First Friday. He and his partner were selling jewelry out of their Ford Escort wagon. His chiseled Peruvian facial features and tussled black mane stood out amidst the crowd. Beyond that, my sixth sense detected more going on than what appeared on the surface. I watched a bit then went over to investigate. There were a few velvet covered boards of handcrafted earrings, necklaces, anklets and bracelets - unique stuff - marketable. Many stopped. They both worked on new designs as I poked around. I listened and watched. There was something refreshing about how they worked together. Amidst my second divorce, I’m sensitive to such things, wanting to experience the same for myself. They shared ideas on their designs pointing intimately to the others’ current work. With deftness, each wielded jeweler’s pliers.

I told them I worked across the street in the art gallery. We talked a bit about opportunity, free enterprise, and responsibility as citizens. Clearly, Ernesto liked that I engaged him. Excitedly, he preached of love, equality, a fair wage for a day’s work, collectivism. From Montreal, they were proponents of socialized medicine. We debated the pros and cons of capitalism, citizenship, misuse of power and our depraved nature as Homo sapiens. Ernesto was big on honesty and loyalty amongst brothers and lashed out at man’s propensity to abrogate their role in collective responsibility. Gabrielle came to life passionately espousing her position on a green economy; Pacha Mama – Mother Earth having only limited resources to sustain the creation.

Unencumbered by concern for means, living day to day out of their car, bending wire into jewelry, Ernesto and Gabrielle travel city to city. I could appreciate their journey, knowing myself the rigors of the road. If by chance you have forgotten what freedom looked like, this pair was art in action; walking art. I had been right; there was something about this guy and his gal. They were revolutionaries, itinerants preaching peace, unity and One Love.

Back in the gallery, I laughed to myself, thinking back on my days of radicalism. I didn’t realize how much I missed engaging at that level, being in that conversation. I was still hungry, I wanted more. I went back across the street and offered to make them dinner; they would think about it. An hour later Ernesto came back to see if the invite was for real; I prepared simple faire – fresh greens, red snapper over a Chinese noodles, seared broccoli florets with balsamic vinegar. Interestingly, as a young boy, even as an adult, I was often reprimanded for bringing strangers home for dinner. There is something about feeding the hungry. I once brought a homeless man home named Al Joseph Trueblood, an ex-felon. He stayed with me and my family for a week. My first wife, Valerie, was none too happy with this arrangement; our children were young, 3 and 5. My actions were considered reckless.

At 10:30, it became clear that it was too late to send the dynamic duo back out into the streets. I told them to spend the night in my bed. Gabrielle nearly cried out of joy. We talked well into the morning. Eventually the conversation turned to Communism. Ernesto was determined to convince me of what he considered the true meaning and ideal behind a communistic society. “Americans are brainwashed. True communism, the communism preached by che’Guevara, from the Cuban Revolution benefits us all. There is enough for all.” Passionately, as if life and the world depended on it, back and forth, like a tennis match, baseline to baseline, forehand to backhand, we voiced our positions; neither willing to let the other gain an inch. Gabrielle stretched across the bed enjoying the banter and the comfort of a dwelling.

Ernesto was an Idealist and I told him so. I reminded him of how many messengers of this same message had been killed. He didn’t bat an eye. “You can’t kill an idea! They can kill me, but my message will live on. They killed Malcolm X, Martin, Lennon and the Kennedy’s but their messages and ideals live on. I’m not afraid to die. I’m about peace and love. Love God above all things first and love your brothers and neighbors as you would love yourself.” And then he would raise his peace sign, always the peace sign.

The love between Ernesto and Gabrielle was clear. They wore each other like familiar garments. I envisioned them dying in each others’ arms, riddled with bullets having been hunted down by fundamentalist right wingers. I warned Ernesto that the American Capitalist would never lay down his weapon of choice. “We have exhausted our time of choice. The last minute comes soon! Like the spark of the revolution chasing after the powder, an awakening comes amidst the explosion. All will see that we must be one or we will perish as humankind; no unity - no life.” Like water over a waterfall, the oil of Ernesto’s poetry flowed never ending. I warned Gabrielle; against such charisma she was powerless. She only smiled that Gabrielle smile.

And then, in an instant, the light bulb of clarity shone brightly. I heard my own words – “lay down his weapon of choice.” Off and on, throughout the day and evening, I had wondered why these two had shown up, for what purpose had my Creator sent them across my path? I had only to be patient and remain open. It was clear; the appearance of Ernesto and Gabrielle was a reminder of what’s real and what’s not. Love and life is real. Choice is real. Art is real!

Back in February, Jon Eckel and I showed 23 paintings, in Princeton, New Jersey. Painted jointly as a collaboration, the body of work entitled All Guns Down, touted a message not too dissimilar from the one preached by che’Ernesto. Jon and I were convinced, we need only lay aside our weapons of defense, our selfishness, self interests, self indulgence and we could paint an epic body of work. This doctrine holds true across the board, in all venues, from government through to our personal relationships. Prioritizing a mutually beneficial goal, seeking the best interest of another and putting all available resources behind your efforts are paramount to a successful equation. Like the notion of equality, unity and oneness preached by che’Ernesto, All Guns Down, requires of humankind a higher way of being.

In October ’09 Jon moved temporarily from Philadelphia to Princeton. We had been given the use of a monster house to live in, with a carriage house in the back that served as our studio. For 3 1/2 months, we painted night and day; some days 14 and 16 hours. Throwing caution to the wind, we challenged ourselves to a higher order, painting beyond our comfort zones desiring a third emerging signature from our divergent painting styles; Jon a figurist - myself an abstractionist. We were two very different cats with a similar goal - wanting desperately to get to the finish line; like our very lives depended on it. That was the goal. Twenty three paintings later, we set our brushes down. When the dust settled, we knew we had stumbled on a truth: Prioritize the goal, set aside the differences and all things are possible.

In our collaboration exercise bridging generation and culture, we overcame age differences, ethnicity, differences in religion and demographics. Jon is a trained painter graduating from Tyler School of Art, myself an untrained outsider artist. Trusting the others commitment to the task, believing in all that is good, we were able to overcome the stumbling blocks that have historically shipwrecked the best altruistic efforts. There are no safety nets, no excuses and no short cuts, just the task at hand. There must be a point where our beliefs and convictions fuel the intent and purpose behind our actions. What are you willing to lay down for the greater good?

“The paintings writhe with vibrant jolts of color, line, texture, and bold restive figures. Intimate and provocative themes are by turns poignant, comical, dark and mysterious. Despite strong content and an “in your face” palette, the imagery is approachable and inviting. Musically, the paintings strike a complex, soulful and “saxy” note; with an aggressive tenor and persistent “bottom.” Overcoming initial concerns of clashing independent styles, melding form and abstraction, a confident and resolute harmony prevails; the two painters have become one in these paintings” Ebet Dudley, Writer-Critic


Click the link to see the remaining paintings http://www.knappgallery.com/artists-eckel-slocum.php

Christopher Callahan - For such a time as this

The Knapp Gallery is excited about introducing Christopher Callahan in his first solo exhibition this coming “First Friday” Sept ’09.


We always hear about somebody who was in the right place at the right time, made the right investment and the story of their remarkable find. Every time we hear one of these stories we say “why doesn’t that happen to me” or “that not’s real.” Well, in my mind, I’m about to tell one of those stories. As my grandfather, Osceola Slocum, would have said, “Christopher Callahan is the real McCoy.” Well acquainted with good painters, I represent a couple of phenom artists that I believe will be recognized down through the corridor of time, namely Tom Brady and Jon Eckel. Today, this story is about Christopher Callahan, a painter from Narberth, PA. Beyond believing right place-right time, I believe I was meant/sent to be in a particular place at an appointed time.

It was a few months ago, I had closed the gallery. The door was locked. I was turning away with my bike, heading home. “Are you closed for the day?” a voice asked. “I’ve brought a friend downtown to see you. He has had a bit of a rough time and I’m trying to get him to engage.” Chris stood off to the side and was holding a book. From where I was standing, I could see the title said Christopher Callahan. I asked him if that was him. Nonchalantly, he said “yes.” I leaned my bike against the building, walked over and took the book out of his hands, flipped through about twenty pages and realized we needed to go back into the gallery and sit down.

Back inside, sitting at my desk, Chris shared about what he’d been going through. The loss of his stepson Asher had devastated him. Depressed and not painting, a friend’s love had bought him back out into the streets. I asked about his book, if he had brought it for me. “Oh no, this is the only copy. My sister had this book made for me as a Christmas present; she has always supported me in my painting.” I replied that knew a similar love of a sister. I became overwhelmed thinking back on my sister’s support. Tears welled up and ran down my cheeks. Chris responded in kind. It was in that moment that my relationship with Chris was sealed.

Looking more closely at the book it became clear that Callahan was the genuine article, a painter’s painter. His work showed a maturity, exacted remarkable freedom yet with a definitive direction. He evidenced diversity, painting form, figure and abstraction. Further subdivisions of his work included folk art, impressionism, and structuralism; I asked him what his plans and goals were. I asked him if I could visit him at his studio and see his work. Surprisingly, he said he would like that. A week later I called and we set a date and time.

Arriving at his home in Narberth, it was evident that Chris was in much better spirits. He was excited at having someone come to see him and his work; outside of family and a few select friends, I was a first. Inside his studio, on a table close by his easel, I saw a bible. Sharing our love for our Creator, we prayed, cried and thanked God for his presence and guidance. “I knew God would show up and reveal the right guy that I could trust to represent my work.” We agreed that our meeting was fortuitous and towards a greater end; not just for the two of us. I spent 5 hours looking at work and barely made a dent. “Karl, at the rate you’re going it will take a week to get through all the work!” Despite a second visit, I still haven’t gotten through all the work.

Christopher Callahan, 56, has been painting and drawing for nearly thirty-five years. Different than most painters, lacking trust in galleries and dealers, he has not sought representation. With the exception of his paintings posted on Flickr, he has never shown his work. A tradesman, Chris, has supported himself as a carpenter and electrician’s helper. He is a pensive man; economical with his words. Despite a soft spoken persona, Chris has a profound and settled presence. He talks little of his work believing good art should stand on its own, that a painter's experience is separate from the viewer. “What they walk away with is for them, my words shouldn’t influence their experience.”

How deep? Commitment deep.

I am bicyclist, though not for my love of Spandex. You may have seen me riding downtown, out by the Art Museum, riding down Kelly Drive or out in Old City. By default, I’ve become a full-time committed commuter. However, there are drawbacks to this undertaking. I’ve made this commitment during comfortable summer months. Well aware of an imminent winter, I ready myself for the cold.

Pictured here is my riding/racing jersey. I am a novice racer. Having lost my mother to Lupus, I also ride/race to raise awareness about a debilitating disease that attacks all vital organs. Despite 50 years of research we still have no cure.

I started riding just 6 months ago. I made an investment in myself. One could also say I rewarded myself for having finally quit smoking cigarettes after having smoked for a gazillion years; I tried quitting numerous other times but with no success. . Wanting more from myself, from my will, I was not about the “patch.” I hate feeling weak, not in control. I’m not big on fitness, hating exercise; the gym is hell on earth. I attribute my physical conditioning to having lived an extremely active and physical life. That is another story for a different day.

Knowing my nature, prone to start smoking at first excuse, I invested in a health aid; the bicycle. The way I figured it, having spent the money, I’d be forced to honor the new direction, albeit heading towards fitness. No turning back now. Back in my thirties, I used to run but knee problems knocked me out of the game. I never enjoyed running, it was always boring to me; not enough to keep my mind occupied. I kept a fast pace to overcome the boredom. My five times a week running regime was 7 miles @ 7 minutes a mile. 49 minutes of hell. Let’s just get it done. Nobody wanted to run with me. Now, much later in the game, turning fifty, in September, I opted for bicycles over the remaining choices. So back in March, I had a bicycle made for me. I began riding when it was still very cold. At speed, with the sub-zero wind chill factors, it was brutal. I remember thinking about mid August and the heat. Out riding in 30 degree weather, your feet and hands freezing, one’s thoughts tend to go to the extreme.

Thawing out itself is a painful ordeal. I remember sitting in a gas station in Ringoes, NJ thinking my toes were frost bitten knowing I still had to turn around and head back. “Why was I doing this?’ This was lunacy. I reconciled it as “it’s all part of the investment.” Only a fool would pick up another cigarette, having endured this level of pain and suffering. But it is so much more than just about the cigarette. On the one hand it seemed crazy and obsessive that I was out riding in the extremes, towards what end? Albeit only a dusting, it had snowed that morning! To which cause was I committed, extreme cycling or non-smoking?

To a great degree I am at fault for my discomfort. Inappropriately dressed, I was unprepared for the weather conditions. A proponent of the tenets of relativity, I tend to apply wisdom across the board. How we faire amidst many of our commitments is about our state of preparedness. Like my frigid Ringoes ride, I was not well prepared in taking the Director’s chair here at the Knapp Gallery. Actually, at first offer, I declined the Directorship, stating the position was outside my scope of experience. Nine months later, Barclay Knapp, my friend, once patron, past employer and mentor, leaned in, looked over his eyeglasses and said, “I want and need you to move to Philadelphia and run my gallery. Karl, I believe in who you are not in your experience or lack thereof.” I moved to Philadelphia.

Expressed belief in somebody will carry them a long way; through a downturned economy, cold, wind and rain. It’s gonna have to as I commute to work this winter. In terms of Gallery preparedness, continued research, reading, poking, prodding and asking tons of questions keeps me fairly comfortable amidst the wind and wave of this sea of unfamiliarity. Beyond a sense of comfort, I’m exhausting every available avenue towards success; winning is the only option. Over time, The Boss has learned that I am a results oriented individual; that I stand in my commitments. He knows I will do whatever it takes to get the job done. I will deliver. My nature is to finish well in the things that I start.



On an ending note: Through research of a different kind, I have found a winter bicycle riding shoe that will keep my toes toasty. Though a bit pricy, they’ll be well worth the investment. Better gloves will help out at the other extremity.

Putting our best foot forward

Necessity is the mother of invention. Who said that? Props to that cat. We do the best we can with what we have in the moment.

Feedback is a wonderful thing. Well, that’s if you care what others think, believe or care about. Feedback isn’t always about us. Through what others say about us, in their feedback, they are affirming who they are, their needs, that which is important to them. Translating feedback is a developed artform of mine. Dialogue is costly. It is the exception not the norm. Everybody that comes through the door of the gallery does not want to engage. Rare is the opportunity of being fully engaged with a “Walk-in”. Most of my conversations are with artists. Weekend walk-ins are different though. During the week, it’s a bit tougher to get with someone about the art.

When everything is right, when we meet someone that wants engage, there is perfection in the conversation; sharing how the painted image affects us. Rarely do I run into an enthusiasm level equal to my own. That’s okay. I know my place. I love when a visitor lets me run, like a rider giving the horse its head and letting him run flat out. On Saturday, I ran into a decent cat that was about the art.

He comes in with a friend and likes what he sees. “Do you have more?” he asks? Yes, I have more. Down in the basement he’s excited about being near the inventory. I can appreciate that. I am an inventory guy myself. I give him an impromptu show, pulling out paintings by the different artists I represent: Brady, Eckel , Callahan, Pappallas, Silvert, E.F. Halbert, Oechsli, Farrell… When we get to the paintings from Jon Eckel’s most recent show, he’s plugged in. Initially he had been looking for a Trip-tik; a three paneled painting. One by one I pulled out Jon’s last show. Quickly, I ran out of room downstairs and begin bringing them up into the Gallery. After adding eight 48” x 60” paintings into the gallery, things got a bit crowded, but we enjoyed a maze of sorts that was created; walking through the paintings standing on end had an eerie but enjoyable sensation to it.

The guy says he thrilled at my engagement. Said he hadn’t gotten similar hospitality in other galleries before making it to Knapp that day. Needless to say, I have mixed feelings about this comment.

So, collectively, as a group of Old City galleries, our joint report card, for that individual, was below par. A fast paced and bizarre ‘010 lifestyle doesn’t afford us many opportunities to build lasting relationships. Truth be known, art is about relationship. I’m just saying. Times are hard enough without having to fend off a bad "rep" to boot. We might want to put our best foot forward, engage and develop relationship within the community? The Art Community, a sub category within the community at large, provides a significant service. We are the vehicle through which culture is maintained; the portal through which your neighbor keeps rhythm with life. Today, I did not sell a painting. However, I did engage and hopefully planted the seeds of a lasting relationship, while possibly changing one person’s tainted perspective of “Old City” galleries.

Support our troops

My job is about selling paintings. Making the rent is real. Galleries may offer a community service of sorts, but face it, like most business models the traditional art gallery business model is designed to make money. Gather art. Sell art. Art is a commodity. Making it, marketing it, selling it and trading it. This is an industry. We all participate in it at some level. Today, I’m talking about the buying end of it.

“I can’t afford to buy art, but I’m clear on something, I can’t be without it.” I hear this all the time. What am I supposed to do with that? One option I offer is to “become a painter.” I do encourage this. Many are exercising this option. There is a trend that I’ll call “Post Career Painting Syndrome. In addition to the young art students, the undergrads, graduates, the MFAers, apprentices, journeymen, itinerant painters, the accomplished, the mid-lifers are coming also. Everybody wants in. Informally, I review a minimum of 10 artists weekly. There is a traffic jam of artists wanting in.

Ryan Buffington, an MFA student at the Academy of Fine Arts, located here in Philadelphia, stands with an 8 foot painting he brought by the Gallery for me to see.

The laws of physics require an equal and opposite reaction to this significant influx of artists. Many are the called, but few are the chosen. Plain and simple, some players in this game are meant to be buyers; easy for me to say, right? These are not just idle or empty words. I’ve committed to buying the painters that I show. I will sell only that which I’m willing to buy. So, I’ve set out to acquire the work that I sell. Picking art for the gallery is different than buying one’s own art. On a low budget, I’m forced to prioritize and sacrifice. Now, as a buyer, I know all the reasons for not buying. I’m also developing a list of reasons why to buy.

With every acquisition, I feel the pinch. I’ve had to slow down a bit and find a suitable pace. I’ve set limits and goals. Presently, my max is $500.00 for any given painting. Now, with nearly 20 paintings under my belt, I’m not so impetuous. One must be careful; there is an adrenaline rush that goes along with buying art. I’ve made a few mistakes. I’ve had some surprises and good fortune as well. Being in the game avails us to good fortune.

A guy comes into the gallery wanting to sell me two medium sized framed pastels. The paintings were his mother’s from the 40s by an artist named Alfred Morang. He wants $400.00 for the pair. A quick look on-line I find out that Morang lived from 1901 to 1958. Born in Maine, he died in a fire in his studio in New Mexico. He was a member of the TAO and Santa Fe painters. Recorded sales at auction for oil paintings ranged from $5000.00 to $15,500.00. These were pastels; I offered $300.00 for the paintings, not that I could afford it. He hemmed a bit but eventually agreed. He followed me to the MAC Machine and the deal was done; so I thought. Online, back at the gallery, I searched Alfred Morang again. To my surprise,

there is more information than expected. Beyond that, I even find my two paintings, “Building the barn” and “feeding the chickens!”

Turns out they’ve been to auction, which means there is a pricing track record. A dozen and a half dealers advertise their representation of Santa Fe Painters including Alfred Moran. I contact them by email and say that I’m accepting offers. I get three to four replies. Now, what to do with the paintings? Do I keep them or sell them? I do have options. Being in the game also means you have options.

Options are about opportunity: Amidst a visit to Ashley Flynn’s studio, a local Philadelphia painter, it became clear my $500.00 was not going to get me very far; her work far too valuable and big. Then, I found a small box of small personal drawings. With tears rolling down my face, I picked out 10 small 8” x 11” watercolor/ink/charcoal/pastel intimate masterpieces on paper. We agreed to $50.00 each. She gave me 12 for believing in her work.

There is an undeniable satisfaction that comes with acquiring art. For me, beyond having great art around me at all times, much of being a collector is about the relationships I've created and nurtured with my artists; knowing I am supporting the local community and the life that created it. As a buyer, I am profoundly aware of those that have supported me in my making art over the years. Anne Williams and Antonio Elmaleh, have the largest collection of my paintings and furniture. They have been with me from the beginning. Conceivably, without their support early on in my career, I might not have made it here to the Director's Chair. “I love you guys.”

We never know the final effects of our actions. Casting no vote is still very much a casted vote. Unless we place a value on it, buying art makes no sense. Once it made sense, I was willing to do whatever it took to keep me in the game. I’ve re-prioritized and culled much from my life. Now, by supporting Philadelphia painters, I am supporting the local economy and participating in local Philadelphia history. Just for the record, here is a bit more sense in the form of a new trend. There are a number of New York City artists seeking gallery representation here in Philadelphia. This presents a new dynamic for Phgiladelphia painters. But, I'll address this another day.

Below, are three of my Ashley Flynn renderings.

Turning the corner.

One never knows what’s lurking around a corner. Literally, at every turn, there exists the possibility of encountering a life altering experience. As humans, “meaning making machines,” our nature is to label and define these experiences, attempting to make sense out of them. Oftentimes, labels of good or bad are applied to such occurrences. In this, we tend to carry around a running tab of the good vs. the bad. Constantly weighing, falling short, we struggle to stay in the good zone.

Different than many, steering clear of such declarations, I reconcile my “corner turning” experiences as gifts and miracles from our Creator. Actually, I’ve come to expect these gifts of opportunities as a way of living. An integral part of my diet, I believe miracles have nutritional and life sustaining value. Speaking scientifically, there is an extra battery source stored way down deep within us, so deep that only a few people, doctors and scientists know of its existence. Recharging of this battery occurs only with the specific energy released amidst another miracle. Timing is everything. Consequently, few people ever experience the full affect of being plugged in.

In my reality, the words possibility and potential do not co-exist. Hear me out! I’m substantiating my use of the word miracle. Potential is based solely on an ability or capacity for something coming into being. For potential to exist, something else must first exist. Possibility requires nothing. My job here at Knapp is a result of possibility rather than potential, i.e. I met Barclay and Rebecca Knapp, owners of The Knapp Gallery, first as a carpenter in their home. Over time, conversation and golf, my position here in Old City was developed. I digress; this was not my intended destination. I have bigger fish to fry. I want to talk about a mind set and the power we appropriate with a change in perspective.

It can be as simple as “think it and it’s done.” My sister Lisa says I have the remarkable skill of thinking things into reality. To a degree she is correct; it’s a lot more than that. It may have begun when I was a child. Walking on a beach one day, I filled two pockets with smooth and colorful pebbles that I had found. Throughout the day I told everyone that would listen “these pebbles are going to turn into money.” I truly believed it. Later that night, I placed my pile of stones on my night stand and went to sleep. In the morning, I awoke to a pile of pennies, nickels and dimes. I ran through the house reminding everyone of my declaration. “I told you this was going to happen!” My brother Michael was livid. “He went out into the street and found a big ugly rock. Returning he said, “This rock is gonna turn into a dollar.” Needless to say, he was not successful in this endeavor. He lacked conviction.

Miracles can be remarkably personal and tailor made to the recipients needs. To these miracles, acts of intimacy, I ascribe greater value as they are demonstrative of the Creator’s love. Here is an account of one such miracle:

Liam Dean, a young red headed and energetic Philadelphian painter has been after me about going to see his art hanging at the Blink Gallery, a solid space about 8 blocks away. Liam had come here to the gallery a few times that week. We talked a lot about his work; we went online and looked at a few artists I was bringing on. He was excited about me seeing his work hang across the way. He had put in the shoe leather, I felt obliged to go. From what I had seen, he was aggressive, searching and “being” at the same time. He was hungry, talking about what it’s like out on Rittenhouse square trying to make something happen. This is what I hear and see down on 3rd. Street. At ground level, folk want in. And it’s already crowded in the pool. His show had come at a bad time for me. Work had been tough, with long hours. Sales had been few. I spent my days marketing: Offering a fair commission, I’ve been hard selling Private Art Dealers, Art Consultants and Interior Designers to buy from our inventory. On top of that, I was planning an upcoming event. I was tired -worn out.

Anyway, it is the end of the week, I’m exhausted wanting only to go home and sleep. Instead of taking the easy way out, I opt to make my way to Chestnut Street and climb the stairs to the Blink Gallery, Tor Chaikin’s fourth floor gallery space. Liam’s work hangs well, and I agree to purchase a piece titled “Underwater Cave;” a small piece for my own collection, a 24” square aggressive abstraction. I snack, talk a bit and head home. Down on the street I follow the sounds of a muted trumpet located at 3rd and Chestnut. I put some coins in the box and ask the musician to play me some Miles. I lean against the corner of the building close my eyes and get lost in the wafting notes. The trumpet stops and the guy says “I knew a guy looked just like you.” He blew a few more notes and paused, “his name was Karl” …few more notes, “he lived in Morristown, NJ. …few more notes “he had a girlfriend named Susan McDonald” ...notes “his father was a politician.” … How do you know me I blurted out? “Don’t you know me Karl, I’m Clint, you never forget the people that you love.”

Thirty-one years ago I did live in Morristown, NJ, my girlfriend was Susan McDonald, and to a degree, dad, a law Professor at Rutgers Law School, was involved in politics. Clint was a guy I met and knew through Susan. It is a miracle to me that in the middle of a Friday night in Philadelphia, on the busy corner of 3rd and Chestnut, a guy that I knew Thirty-one years earlier as a commercial “floor-Waxer” could pick me out of the crowd. And, I had hair back then. Back in Motown, Clint would sit under an over pass by the train station and blow his trumpet into the wee hours of the morning. The miracle of my meeting up with Clint is dramatically compounded in that just two weeks prior, I had told my son a story about Clint and his Clarke floor waxing machine. That wicked machine all but killed me one afternoon. Like in a cartoon gone bad, Clint’s Clarke dragged me around like I was a ragdoll puppet. Clint yelling from the distance just let go! Just let go! Eventually I did, leaving a wake of destruction.

Recently, I’ve had Clint come by and play at few events, including this past First Friday. On a different occasion, Clint played here during a live painting performance by Jon Eckel. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IP-qlB5zi6E .

All things are possible. Miracles keep it interesting. With great anticipation I go through my days turning over rocks, looking to see what treasures will be unveiled. I expect “out of the ordinary” to show up. I’m rarely disappointed. In this, I am well acquainted with success.

Without clearly defined parameters, measuring success can be a difficult thing. While success is already achieved by someone reading these words, know that I want so much more. I want remarkable and measurable change to occur within the Philadelphia Art Community. I want Philadelphia painters to make money on a painting. I want a greater acknowledgement of Philadelphia artists. I want the sustainable Philadelphia Art Community conversation to get much louder. I want the Philadelphia art scene to step into the light, out from the darkness of New York City’s shadow. I want the quality of Philadelphia art to climb higher and soar. Remember, I believe in miracles. Hey, I am all about the underdog. Truthfully, I do believe this to be a dynamic time. Considering the variables, I’m expecting dramatic things to occur.

It makes no sense. There is no money anywhere and Art schools continue to fill classes. “A” plus “B” does not equal “C.” and all that notwithstanding, young people are still enrolling in the art militia. With a promise of only “a hot and a cot” they still line up in droves to join the ranks. Economically, it seems impossible that we continue to create enough demand to support this level of supply.

Despite an unstable and slumbering economy, we continue to invest in a commodity with seemingly limited returns. Delving into art isn’t for the short distance runner. Faith and conviction are requisite in this religion. We are a peculiar people, those of us who are sustained by miracles. Based on present economic variables, strictly by the numbers, the Philadelphia Art Market struggles to survive with limited future growth potential. Thank goodness for the limitlessness of possibility. Hey, I know, it’s not enough just to count on the miracle, like Liam Dean, we have to apply the shoe leather principle, due diligence and self promote.

Oh, back to my pebble story. Much later on, I found out it was my mother that changed my pebbles for the coins. If my mom blessed me so wonderfully with coins, I believe for greater and more abundant things from my Creator. Now, I have a significant cache of remarkable paintings and I’m saying to everyone that will listen. These paintings are going to turn into relationships! One relationship and painting at a time.

Doug Webster, newest member of the Knapp Gallery Family has recently purchased “Red and Black” painted by Petros Pappalas. Petros is a young Philadelphia painter. I introduced Doug to Petros a while back when Petros first started the painting. Doug was smitten long before this painting was complete. Doug is a friend and an awesome guitarist. He loves art and is a modest collector, his collection including a few paintings by yours truly. I’ve known him for years. It was wonderful thing being able to fit him with the Pappalas painting.