Posts Tagged ‘Sue Hedrick’

Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

03 Jul


52 O Street Studio


The following is a thread that Facebook captured, the only thread of its kind in my spotty career, a very special thread to me, for obvious reasons—I am being praised, harangued, and supported by several important women in a fury of words I have never experienced, before or since, in such volume or impact. Thank you, all you funny, sunny, honey girls. You're my blistering awesome public. There are a few others, but they were here for these three days. Now, go, don't be a distraction. I have much work to do, most of it far away from a paint brush or canvas. But I trust, yes, I trust one day most of you will understand more fully what I cannot say today.

I debated taking out the timestamps, but decided to leave them in rather than create a story out of whole cloth, when most of social civilization recognizes and respects the Facebook model, and willfully shares its information with the Internet, despite the periodic outrage of privacy and intellectual property rights advocates. Show here goes. Chances are I will frame in a bit of ad lib, but I think that the time stamp may make that difficult for both format design and creative considerations. So be it.

  • Shannon Koehler Fleming at 7:18pm July 1
    No goodbyes to the art world, your art is amazing, and has to keep on coming, the real estate is just a side project, one that I hope will fund many more paintings, oh and pay the bills…
  • Char McNair Bafalis at 7:55pm July 1
    Bullshit…the Gabriel I know will never quit…come on…keep driving everyone crazy!! love ya…but hate quitter’s.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:10pm July 1
    Thanks Shannon, but I’m a bull in the china shop gone berserk. Can’t fathom under what skies I’m doing in real estate, but yes, it’s about money. Nobody’s buying my art these past couple of years and the irrational optimism vanished. I’ve sunk tens of thousands of dollars into a means of observation and expression which earns me at best a small peace of mind, a mere fragment of what’s left of a failed or perhaps recoiled intellectual, but in the post Warholian world, if it doesn’t sell, it ain’t art…

    Matt Sesow sells. Gabriel Thy does not. So it’s off to the gristmill for me…

    Working real estate paper will not come easy for me, at this point in my life when I am so preoccupied with other projects, and there are no guarantees there either, but I will give the sector all the muscle and energy I’ve got left after sinking heavily into debt chasing the paint and the word only I can define as my own.

    Individuality of imprint seems to be my driving force. Bittersweet doesn’t begin to describe the pain, but it’s all I know…

    Or the words I left out of this response.

  • Gabriel Thy at 8:27pm July 1
    Who’s quitting? You bought two pieces at my very first show. Thanks. That was fab. But I haven’t seen Charlotte’s Harlots at a GT show or studios since. Can’t paint AND put in seventy hours a week hustling up listing leads, something that frightens the hell out of me, by the way. Char, my dear beautiful bombastic belladonna, I haven’t QUIT anything. But I’ve been stonewalled plenty. Life is tough, that’s all. And I’m getting too old and too harried to keep throwing Sue’s money down a drain…
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:28pm July 1
    Part-time painter? hah!
  • Shannon Koehler Fleming at 8:48pm July 1
    oh god i hate that shit, true expression and creativity, can’t put a price on it, but that’s the point you need to get paid….so, ….but you know the real estate profession may inspire some new artistic ideas or things to write about, lord knows people and their ways can inspire, haha, or infuriate, or drive to the depths of insanity, a good start in the art world…well keep on keepin on or just fuck it…happiness is underrated…i want it no matter what the price.
  • Gabriel Thy at 9:14pm July 1
    Yeah, Shannon. You nailed it. So did Char. And guess what, so did I. Who knows what form the future will present? You both know I’m just stressing about this new direction. It’s damn scary, right Char, me? Real estate agent? In what parallel universe? But here I am, licensed, affiliated, and erect with marching orders, supported by a team of great new people. What more could I possibly need?

    Good grief, Charlie Brown.

  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 7:51am July 2
    very black and white of you gabe, extremely dramatic.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 7:57am July 2
    oh gabriel, you will continue to paint, not because it makes sense, but because you must, it will quiet your mind, and drive you. very few people make enough money from their art to become rich. also, having a day job (which is scarey) doesn’t unmake an artist. this economy is the pits though, and thats just the way it is. Art and real estate will make a comeback when the economy does. until then, let them eat paint.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:24am July 2
    Well said, Marianne. But you know I’m know dilettante. I’m in all the way or I’m not in at all. And dramatic, yeah, I’m either stoic on the diastolic and ruthlessly dramatic on the systolic with no middle ground, beat me with a feather. Comebacks may not be in our future from what I read, but it rarely hurts to be salt and peppered by folks with a nominally cheery outlook, despite their questionable math skills. Thanks.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:28am July 2
    Truth is both careers are full time full body contact sports. Half ass is as half ass does…
  • Char McNair Bafalis at 12:14pm July 2
    I so agree with Marianne..your art defines you…so now you will make real estate your muse…who doesn’t need art on their new, freshly painted walls? As for Charlotte’s Harlots..touchet”….one can lead a horse to water…..when can you have another viewing.
  • Sue Hedrick at 6:04pm July 2
    Gabriel is and has always been an artist since the very day I met him, and I am sure he will always be.
  • Erin Murphy at 10:51pm July 2
    Gabriel – as Sue says, you will ALWAYS be an artist (you can’t help it) and what you do for a living is irrelevant.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 12:51am July 3
    well, i don’t have any math skills, but i do have a day job that puts a roof over my head, and i am a fucking artist. but sometimes i feel stuck in the talking heads song, once in a life time, but what the hell aren’t we all walking contradictions. and sue is right, and always has been.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 12:52am July 3
    i disagree with the idea that real estate could be your muse, architecture perhaps, poetry, painting sure.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:21am July 3
    Was Arthur Rimbaud still an artist long years after he penned his final line, then running guns and slaves in the African desert, losing a leg to cancer, mad with death at the ripe bloody age of 37, found in bed clutching his money belt like a whimpering child with rag doll?

    Besides, it not about labels. And contrary, Marianne, to your comment that not many make it rich, extreme wealth I do not seek, but crawling out from the depth of debt we have sunk into giving this old man an identity muster is important as is a name of mild intellectual regard in the field, always a thing of vanity, but rarely as stiff as it sounds. As a kid nearly universally acclaimed most likely to succeed, I frankly have failed rather miserably as a human achiever, and let’s also note that it is those damned early expectations that make us who we are, that inform our passions and our hurdles, that color our landscapes and number our fixations. And haunt us until the end of our days.

  • Gabriel Thy at 9:28am July 3
    Thanks for all the LOVE guys. You know I could drag these discussions out forever, but there’s no real point to that. Yet, one last blow. Each of you have MADE my point. How can I possibly devote the kind of time and disciplined sprints I am told in prep classes it will take to succeed in the world of real estate, even if I had the energy of three ballyhoos, when my natural need to write and paint and politik and shove aside the world – as an artist with severe notions of what it takes to succeed on his own terms in the art world – will not be easily suppressed?

    And believe me, I would like to succeed on both ends of this candlestick…

    Don’t believe art is an attitude. Art is knowledge executed in such a way as to profoundly effect the senses and knowledge base of those experiencing it.

    Punk rock thrived on attitude, but how much of greater PR perspective was genuine ART and not just simply an exercise in celebratory decadence and costumed alienation?

    The same with so many of these peace, love, and understanding movements. Nothing but artificial constructs made up of lingusitic and jingoistic chants, charms, and spells meant to jiggle the curtain of reality just long enough for some petty transaction to be conducted.

    My intellectual demons run long, they run hard. Will I ever be able to overthrow them long enough to carry off some mainstream industrial-stength service professional racket?

  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 10:11am July 3
    life is just so damn hard sometimes, but you are magnificent.
  • Gabriel Thy at 10:28am July 3
    Aw, gosh. You’re still that sweet and sour artsy hippie chick you always were, dear Marianne. Thanks for maintaining that flair and swatting me with it…

Camille & Liberty Sue For Rights

29 Oct

Camille Paglia

Camille Paglia


Originally published on October 29, 1996

Paglia, eh? Great. You're a leg up on me with that pair of trousers, but yes, she's plugged into my short shorts of writers I intend to exploit on my own terms, buttressing hers, by reading a fuller body of her work.

You are waving at battleship clowns though, in pointing out what you read as gross generalizations on maleness, presuming, as we agree, the topic is her announced speciality, because far too many books I have read on race, gender, even pop ass religion & nuclear physics are written by ascendant experts guilty of similar transgressions against their own daring models of zero, not zero. But if her generalizations of "her men" are just that, aren't those of "her women" just as general and no less caricatured than those of Henry Miller, Mick Jagger, or Gloria Steinum?

If the defining factor of her work can be said to bestow truth to the fact that the man on the hipper side of the manhood schematic is as driven to be "a man" by forces he struggles to control and improve against great odds of acrimony and self-doubt as those which women bear inside themselves—which they, grabbing their own perspective, conclude as just and feminine (but perhaps not righteous for all?). As a woman speaking on this topic, your subjectivity remains the trait you can never escape regardless of race, gender, creed or dvisibility by less than anything I have to say on this or any subject matter. Such is the human condition in reality. All else is politics, art, and the place on earth where stupid remarks are taken for granted because human frailty and the language they have invented has made it that way.

Absolute gender essence is a fiction, but factors forcing us into certain camps are just & natural all the same. While we may find it fascinating to sit under a banana shrub tree with a cool drink to pine for a formula that would equalize the world, nothing is further from the true, and is simply a fuzzy concept developed to bring a better cohesion between differences in a crowd. While some political theories have tried to erase, other smudge the inherent differences between men and other men, women and other women, alliances and enemies cross pollinating the lines, so the best we can hope for is an active intelligence when this whistling dixie of topics is brought to the table.

If Johnny can't read. That's a problem Johnny has. If nobody in Johnny's class can read, maybe that's a class problem, or perhaps a rude statistical anomaly. Solving for a class problem is a one Johnny at a time scenario, no matter how many times Billy's, or Rachel's or Al-Amid's class (who can all read after a fashion, but in emphatic degrees of speciality, one to and against another, and so we say there is no class problem, but an individual level of compliance to a standard which suffers in a state of flux, never at rest, but always evolving with new imput). And so it goes. Natural selection. Crowd warfare disguised as crowd fanfare. We both know the issue is more complicated than Johnny. His home life, his specific subculture, and the tumultuous uber culture drive the imagination into places no young mind can handle without strong guidance, and simply overwhelm the attention span where little teaching, even if made interesting and important to the student can penetrate. I'd like to know, Landry, of a few Paglia clichés you find utterly testing reality. It could prove an interesting exchange between us.

The body must go. Recycle this dirt is what I say. I feel alive only when co-opting the conspiracies of language as my own private sandbox. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to find myself a woman who has a sick thang for amputees.
I hate being traffic cop and lone cleanup crew around here, but I am a natural for the job. I live among two wood bees who tend to be slobs. Tim & Sue give a good bawdyhouse try at neatliness and order of the court, but they wear blinders as narrow as my hunt for the perfect job. Am I a braggart to state that each of them exercise weaker powers of observation, and ply a more sluggish recall from whatever ROM hard drive they've in the belfry? So I get to play the neatnik butch Gabriel who says, I'm running the show and I said THIS is how WE do it. After footing the bill Sue's a gem trapped in the goo of sporadic bursts of saltwater taffy which describes our push and pull dichotomy, and puts up with it only because she understands the efforts I put in around here go a long way toward making the whole Dollhouse balancing act work.

While I'm still probably not back to fifty percent normal, the Dollhouse clutter piled up for days until I couldn't help myself but to storm around all day picking up in a slow painful hobble. Of course everyone including Lizbeth& Chris last weekend has predicted my left foot without a cast will heal to an ouchy mess, even though my choice to forego the cast was one of the doc's original options as he groped the swollen mob of purple toes and x-rays last week. So I'm taking my chances with Providence, but haven't I always?

Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which eventually will all blur together after a while and I guess that’s what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.
The body must go. Recycle this freckled pail of dirt is what I say. The best notion of life, that time when I most feel alive in duty and occupation, no matter what my lesser aptitudes may say about me, is when I am co-opting the language conspiracies of men and women into my own private sandbox. Exercise of the walkabout flesh is very painful to me. I've always needed a specific purpose to getting out and going over and above, sustaining my own life. Longevity appeals only in the sense that I might reach a level of success in this exploration of mind. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to comfort myself in a woman who has a sick affection for amputees. Sue only this morning after complimenting me for swallowing a couple ibuprofrin and I goo gooed in pointing out how tickled baby dance silly she gets when I'm popping pills, said back that she just wanted me to get better so I could stomp around again. Hmmm. Baby likes my stomping around better than my gimping around. That's normal, ME too, but it's always a fart when Sue dishes out a pill because she seems to have this weird buddy system relationship with pain pills.

She ain't no JUNKY by any stretch. We're just talking over the counter stuff, but she's really blows a goose whenever the pillbox is passed around. In my case, it's as if—if she can just get me to pop a pill—she has performed a recognizable measure of social work in heading me in the right direction of the fit & well. But I DO have to give her credit for some fine sweet words of caring as she nagged me into submission about finally going to see Doctor Ford. Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which will eventually all blur together after a while and I guess that's what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.

And I am redeemed with honors (called GETTING THE CREDIT in Dollhouse parlance) for having been right as a pat hand of three aces and a greenhaired Jack in both diagnosing & proscribing a laissez faire attitude in the first place, but it was good to get professional confirmation. That's the best health care I can suffer. Emergency blockades. Damage control. Squeaky clean is somebody's else triumphant life. Blind faith in OVERCOMING the body in all these war wounds is the method of least resistence I cling to, it's a motto, a white flag, black flag, label of a thousand filthy warthogs rutting in the mud...

As for this blurring of categories I often speak of, especially in what Miller sarcastically loathed as literature, I do not stand on ceremonial demarcations of fiction, biography, lasting truth, evidence of genius, email correspondence, men of letters, rogue pundits, cultural betters, dry bone or snot-nosed detractors. Distractions, all of it. Like a drop or two of kerosene in a steaming pot of outdoor stew, it'll all boil off in the end.


Wedding Vows: September 13, 1985

13 Sep


Still Together 28 Years Later


As faithfully delivered by a Christ Universalist minister whose name cannot be recalled at this particular moment but will be supplied the next time we come across it, the following text was composed literally in the eleventh hour just before the service itself as guests were still pouring into the house, asking questions about the phone number and the address, creating odd nuisances et cetera. Meanwhile, we also began to worry the minister wasn't going to show. She arrived at quarter til the midnight hour, was quite a tiny woman in her early 70s, less than five feet tall, but sharp enough to take this wild group on its own terms.

Friends and fellow wankers, we are collected here at this obnoxious but corrective hour to witness and celebrate a high and holy social contract, the merger of two special and not so undeserving characters of repose who dare to laugh at the ghost of confusion and hypocrisy by proclaiming their committment to their own autonomous gaze into the crippled status of matrimony. Let us recognize this in smiles and other fine washables; rejoice and remember—be faithful and multiply!

Sue and Gabriel, you are inspiring each other to weld a solid relationship tonight based not on the old unreliable concept of love, but based on a mutual need and alienation which has confounded the experts, belittled the gossips, and wrecked the ties that bind. There exists some doubt in the cynical minds of the disgruntled that you are entitled to such a paper chase turf as you have laid claim, but you march in vision towards homogeny, continuity, creative indulgence, and artistic supplication. This marriage is made in the earthiest of terrain, in heaven as on earth. Til death shall you partake of the felled pleasures and chosen responsibilities of your vows.

Make no vows but invoke spaz integrity. A spiritual conspiracy. Words that evaporate the pain of living should be your constant effort. Shepherd your facts with a nose towards each others lusts and inspirations, for it is with this stroke and ardor that gives good odor to the breath of your next ideal. No danger would then come to you or your moral codes. Live for no slogans. For slogans are merely wordsuck. Your knowledge shall become profound through the carnal test of time so as to stump your detractors, bury the dead, raise the living to new heights of surrealistic acceptance focussing on passion’s denomination. Your creed is your terminal belief in the naked symbols of rite and behavior. You struggle to resurrect them in each other. You bank on each other. You survive each other. Your bootheels are legends to your maps of subtle decency. How many times have people you have known—and even yourselves—vowed forever and forever…only to scratch off in that great statistical graveyard—divorce? So who’s in charge here? What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. The scam is up, the audience never sleeps.

This is America the Unsolvable. This is SAMPLEX. This is holy matrimony, and finally, this is Gabriel and Sue. Will you about face—to face it?

Gabriel, do you take Sue to be your work of dependency, to love her, to protect her and to be her number one skank, as long as you both shall remember? And Sue, do you take Gabriel to be your work of dependency, to love him, to protect him from his distant daze, and to be his crown of thorns so long as you both shall curry to invest?

The rings—

Your rings are a sign of the times, to be worn as a perpetual warning to yourselves and to others that love is lost when confusion knocks on inspiration’s door. Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours. Go forth and search new words and new seasons for contraband. Take these rings in remembrance of these things.

Remember too, the beguiling phrases. (They took us as fools and pried us free of our questions.) This is just another evening, an unquoted evening, in the weird annals of mankind. Don’t waste words, at their condition. They may never come again. And don’t waste Sid Vicious. He may never come again! I pronounce you skank and skank, known here and forever as:

Gabriel Thy & Sue Hedrick.


"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""