Eos: The Creative Context

Health Insurance Bill — in support of the government option

beagarth — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:12:31 +0000

Editorial by Bea Garth

Whilst I was almost to the end unconvinced, the House passed the historic Health Insurance bill which includes the government option last night. Overall I think this should give us hope that something can actually be done right in these United States even now in 2009. While it is not a perfect bill, it is a big improvement over nothing.

I am encouraged since the government option would not have been included except for citizen involvement. All those emails and phone calls to our Representatives actually made a huge difference. Hard to believe but true–the turn around in what was considered viable or not completely changed due to the public’s involvement this Fall rejecting the general Washington opinion that the government option was a dead deal. So the lesson remains, more of the same must be done by all of us to encourage the Senate to follow suit. Thus don’t be surprised if I forward on a couple of calls for involvement on this. And also don’t be surprised if there is another huge build up of resistance to the government option by the big insurance companies as well as members of the Right Wing, even if it means many of them will be irrationally negating their own benefit.

If we get a Health Insurance Bill through the Senate that doesn’t include the government option, my feeling is we the public will have lost and big insurance companies instead will have won massively to our detriment. So don’t lose out on this opportunity to make a real difference! Make those emails and phone calls to your senators, go to political gatherings in support of the government option for health care and write letters to the editors . This is a portentous time to make a positive difference to lessen suffering in America despite other continuing troubles in the world.

In Memory of Tim Cottengim

beagarth — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 08:33:37 +0000

In Memory of Tim Cottengim (1957-2009)

Editor’s Note: Friday, November 20th there will be a reception for Tim Cottengim’s Retrospective at Works Perfroming Arts Center from 7:00 to 9:00 PM at 455 South First street. The Gallery exhibition will be open Nov. 19^th, 20^th, 21^st

A lot can be said and written about a person, but nothing can match the moments lived with them. Each of us was affected by Tim Cottengim in a unique way. Tim was a shy man of few well chosen words. He spoke in a slow and measured voice and his smile accompanied his sharp wit and wry humor. He was so shy, he could not even speak about his art at an exhibition. In many ways, his actions spoke louder than words. Often, the he made a surprise greeting, with a tap on the back of the shoulder followed by a big grin and a crooked handshake. He would vanish as quickly as he appeared, like he was the opening celebration to an event. I first met him at Overpass Gallery, where he exhibited his artwork, and enjoyed doing barbecue duty and art installation. He enjoyed the festivities, particularly the drum circles, music, dancing, and poetry reading. He danced like riding a pogo and drummed furiously. At the end of the evening, he could be found curled up on the floor or rescued in some woman’s arms. Many have draped him with a blanket. He seemed to relish the attention affection provided.

I got to know him better on a day I drove him from Overpass Gallery to another art event at the Citadel. Along the way, he showed me the downtown San Jose architecture he admired. At the Citadel, he eagerly gave me tour of the facilities, relating a history of the characters that frequented the place, and the art that adorned the walls. It felt like peering into a special place.

At his memorial, I met those who knew him well and knew him as a man of deep intellect and great generosity. There were those that knew him as a friend, as an artist, and as family and some who can be said adopted him as family. One thing for sure, he made an impression that was undeniable, direct, and heartfelt.

I tried to look after him, as many did. I always worried about him, with his frail, slender, body. We all wanted to protect him. That’s the way he was. That’s why so many were touched by him. I felt a loss with his passing that is hard to communicate. However, I think everyone who knew him will understand. Each of us knows why he touched us so deeply and each of us will remember him. So long Tim, and thanks for just being you.

Tim, I hardly knew you……

beagarth — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 08:07:08 +0000

Tim I hardly knew you….

by Al Preciado, copyright 2009
for Tim Cottengim

I can still remember those Snake-skin pants, almost painted on to his body,
probably by himself. Jumping up and down slinky Kangaroo                      crazy
crunked in time to the music, his music, medicine of sound, the salve, the balm
that comforted this waif of a man, this guy fairy from Disneyland, this icon of
cool. Cool because he was so un cool. Cool because the drumbeat he heard
and followed was his own way of being like a cat napping in supreme
satisfaction. He challenged the conviction of what is normal He was only freakish
to those that did not know him To the privileged few of us he was Tim, Timmy,
Sixth son                    Wandering lost lamb searching for the holy grail of who
knows what. Sometimes in the middle of night he cried like a wounded animal,
aghast and lamenting , his despair sticking forward like the brim of his cap But
Tim was a stand-up guy, at the drop of a dime or a drop of a hat, driving me in
his beat-up Duct –taped colored stickered compact anywhere, anytime. Tim’s
paintings were powerful, brimming, intense and burning with rage and struggle,
hope and redemption             Stained , gaunt men metamorphosing to butterflies                                                                                     And
that next to last night, as Michael held you close in a bear hug and David,
Rueben and I gazed in wonder, your heart grew as big as a blimp and your
undeniable genius was palpable. And if the Gods of the Grapes dragged you
down, whirl pooling you into the firewater cesspool of hell and the rare clouds
of paradise                   Your trembling soul still shines bright
Because you were the true North Star                                              The
anchor of genuine words that held us close to earth…                    You were a
tender man, a kind man We   go on forward                          But we must
remember you     I love you, my brother

Tim Cottengim’s Life and Paintings

beagarth — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 05:20:44 +0000

Tim Cottengim’s paintings were often about the brief nature of life combined with a sense of beauty and a gentle self mocking humor as well as at times soul searching angst or anger. I suppose it was only natural, given how sensitive Tim was.

Tim didn’t talk much, however his actions spoke volumes. He was always there helping to set up yet another show at Works or at the Overpass Gallery with Al Preciado, or at the old San Jose Art League or acting as the chef for a potluck or actively participating in a group painting.

However it was in his own work that Tim spoke loudest. His paintings developed into an honest search of the soul that spoke volumes.

It was with both sorrow and love that a crowd of family, friends and acquaintances attended the celebration of this beautiful man’s life in October, 2009 at Al Preciado’s home and gallery (Ten10).

As noted in Chris Arcus piece, there will be a show of Tim Cottengim’s paintings at Works Gallery on Friday evening, November 20th. It should be a night to remember.

For now, enjoy the following paintings — representative of some of Tim’s work in the last few years. (Please note–I titled these and the above works of Tim’s for ease of reference. If anyone knows the correct titles please let me know.)

Afternoon Tea

beagarth — Sun, 18 Oct 2009 01:33:12 +0000

by Bea Garth, copyright 1988, 2009
This was my first ceramic sculpture that was successful when I used the electric kiln. It was here I devised a method of covering my sculpture with a dark engobe or slip and then carved the picture out of it much like one would do with scratchboard (in ceramics its called scraffito). Previous to that I depended upon using a gas kiln.

Caterpillar

beagarth — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 16:37:34 +0000

I watch
a green caterpillar
crawl across the hem
of my black dress,
the sinuous creature’s
yellow brown hairs
radiating bristly
fine haired filaments.
I put the caterpillar
onto the ground
and watch it struggle
crawling up and down
the blades of grass
on its approach
to the oak tree
we are sitting under
and I wonder
is this like me
or you
struggling to reach
the other?

Nudes by Lynn Rogers

beagarth — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 17:46:34 +0000

These are two nudes by Lynn Rogers (with another below), like examples of which will be shown Oct. 15th, 2009 at the Stone Griffin Gallery (411 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell CA)during this month’s Thursday Gig.

Lynn Rogers and poet Steve Arntson will be the features. Open Mic. follows. The event goes from 6:30-9:30 PM. It is a Potluck, BYOB event.

Steve Arntson also has several poems on this site–check them out too (see the list on the right side under Pages and Poetry) if you have a moment!

Nude Sketch in Reverse

beagarth — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 04:45:31 +0000

nude sketch in reverse

Lynn Rogers will be presenting several of her drawings and paintings Oct. 15, 2009 6:30-9:30 PM at Thursday Gig at the Stone Griffin Gallery, 411 E. Campbell Ave., Campbell, CA.

Homage to my father in the summer of 2008

beagarth — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 01:29:19 +0000

by Al Preciado, copyright 2009

This was the summer
The summer of a thousand wildfires
This was the summer of my nephew playing Stairway to Heaven
The summer of the hell hounds of pain
bounding up ladders into our houses
This was the summer of my father’s struggle and then passing
Into another world, into arms of his long absent mother
This was the last summer of my father
He of immense, irrefutable strength
A bear of a bull of a dark-skinned man
Abandoned by his father, a coward retreating back to Mexico
Leaving my Dad a father-less child,
unprotected from the evils of the world
Staining his innocent, young heart,
metamorphosing into a palpable, unwavering
rage of self-abuse, of family abuse spilling out his body
like sweat out of pores
But he was my father and he did give a rat’s ass
In the end he did not abandon me, my brothers, my sisters, my mother
He was a man with a scowl etched permanent, a furious man
Working like a dog to put a roof over our many heads
Protecting us from rain, if not tears
His Teamster hands were as big as a catchers mitt
His voice as deep as the Pacific booming his unshakable, unsinkable faith
That he would find a way a way to shelter us
with the umbrella of his hardened heart
Leading us up the wooden stairs of warmth, food, comfort
Here is the long and short of it
He was forged by the fires of humiliation, abuse and violence
And yet in the end , here he was a good man laying in a hospital bed
Five stairway landings up, as close to the sky as he ever got
Surrounded by grandchildren , adoring him like a kind king
I remember him crawling up our front yard stairs,
past the rocks he inserted in cement
with my grandfather’s help, past the roses
he planted to honor my mother,
up the two-story
and stumbling in a drunken fog to me and putting his arms
around me and saying;
I wish I could say I love you, but I can’t
But he did
So I let those ribbons that were tied to the stone of grief loose
The ribbons of memory, the childhood creeks he took us to,
the cactus tuna fruit
he peeled as easy as he parked an 18-wheeler,
the Eucalyptus, the BBQ’s, the pancakes,
the menudo aromas, the chili grinding under his strong hands, sure hands
These are scents I will breathe in and think of as homage
to my father as I
let them loose into the blue, blue sky
of my Father’s California

WALKING TO THE NORTHERN BEACH ALONE

beagarth — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 07:26:20 +0000

by Greg Hall, copyright 1997, 2009

Despite the wind
There is nothing here
But my footprints
When I return)—
The summer broken
And the autumn still smoking
The winter
Wounded to death—
Roses are rising
Inside the breasts
Of the spring—
The year turns,
And the ocean
Is reversing itself,
The wind hesitates,
Not sure whether
To oppose my return
(That driving wall
Of mysterious
Breath and sand),
Or to lash me forward
Agreeing without words
That all destinations
Must be reached,
That the last seven drops of wine
Must join their sisters
In the steadily darkening
Glass of our lives—
I have no arguments
For the wind,
Because to confront
A force
Without words
Only silence
Must speak…

Note from the Editor: I first printed this in 1997 as a broadside for a reading Greg gave at the Cafe Rouge in Los Gatos, CA. The poem. like most of Greg’s work, still is as fresh and philosophically pertinent today as ever.