Blog number III: Norfolk's own Jack Vauxcelles

And now for something completely different….a bit of good old-fashioned nepotism.

Meet my best friend and college roommate, Christopher Knight Johnson a.k.a. Jack Vauxcelles (his preferred moniker).

Nobly he slaves away each day at Norfolk’s picturesque Mountain View Inn, cooking pancakes and washing dishes until his hands chap.

When he’s not scheduling massages, checking people in, or turning over guest rooms, he paints. And the man painteth well. In fact, he has a degree in it, and plans to further his training in a masters program and eventually teach and sell his works.

Normally, when writing about an artist’s vision, I tend to paraphrase whatever he or she says about his work, sprinkled by a few direct quotes so that I don’t sound like a clueless hack. However, this time around I’ll let him speak for himself about the creative process:

 "The first of two themes that most inspires me is the natural chaos of the universe and nature's struggle to achieve order. This interests me on any scale- from the atrophy of civilization and its attempt to survive, to the mind's struggle to rationalize and make sense of the world around us. The first half of my work is derived from the bittersweet and futile essence of this theme, essentially the warding off of death and the insanity it can cause, but still the necessity of both chaos and order."

 "
Secondly, absurdity and the avoidance of reality dictates the other half of my work. Creating fictional works that completely avoid the question of life and the reality of the struggle complement my portfolio by illustrating the blind optimism and manic desires of the imagination that humanity has for so long used to fill in the unanswerable blanks. Impulsive and uninhibited, the second half of my work honors absurdity excessively, and is the only stance emotional beings can take to shield themselves from the cruelty of life. Therefore, they are meant to humor and amuse.

 "
As in the case with both themes, I usually depict moments or scenes that are not usually viewable.  I choose to display things that are impossible, or usually censored,because they are more captivating than the things we commonly see. Because of this, many of these things have a dream-like quality about them.

Although I wish to make more sophisticated my compositions, I will keep the same simple themes of visceral struggle counterbalanced with blissful ignorance.”

With that being said, here’s what he paints.

A portrait he did of me—this will hang in my office someday, when I actually have an office instead of a crummy corner cubicle:

And one he did of an ex, to win her back, which I’ll let him tell you if it worked or not:

One of James K. Munz, philosophy chairman at Western Connecticut State University:

And sometimes of himself:

He also asks that I post his abstract stuff.

He can be reached at the Mountain View Inn at 2032974991, or check out his website cknightjohnson.com. He takes commissions. He designs websites. He’ll also probably dance if you throw him quarters. Tough times, we artists live in.

Shameless plug: attention ladies, he’s currently single.

Until next time.

--Max

I call this "The Aristocrats Car."

Hi folks,

I’ve been remiss in throwing stuff up on here. I have a decent entry in the works on my attendance at the Washington DC Rally to Restore Sanity (and some other stuff actually related to the Northwest Corner), but in the meantime, I thought I’d post this nugget of New Milford insanity. Maybe I'll work this into one of my fiction stories.

This car was in the Railroad Street parking lot near our office in downtown New Milford for the better part of a week. I have no idea who the owner was, how it got there, or why it looks this way*, but I had to catch it on my HD Flip as I was leaving. Freeze-frame if you aren't offended by, uh, really offensive graffiti.

(*One reliable source, though, said that the owner did this himself.)

Yes, that is a container of cinnamon sitting on the trunk. As I hear so often, "no comment."

Cheeri-o!

-Max.