Dried Blood and Dandelion Wine

Tag : Toilet Applicance

On the 21 bus, freshly high and scrubbed clean (as clean as one canget from a bucket; I hadn't had a shower or bath in two months), Ifelt I was trapped in a video game, grabbing the subconscious shadeof green through plastic. I pushed the bar on the back door of thebus and heard a Nintendo sound effect of achievement. The dandelion is a common wildflowerthat goes through an easily recognized metamorphosis. It's oftencalled a weed, though not by the National Audubon Society . It came to mind that I could do a mural-sized aerosol painting ofa dandelion after it had turned white and was about to blow away inthe wind so it could start its cycle over again. I'd find adecaying area of our lofted city and do several aerosol paintingson the big vertical walls of some urban squat or another. It wouldbe a good job for me and would add something to the landscape.

("Canada Violets" by Gabriel Combs)
In early June, I was sitting in the downtown Minneapolis jail forgetting drunk and making a fool out of myself. I was being a littletoo honest and a little too much of an ass - probably from all ofmy recent despair and loneliness - so I ended up in a cell upstairsat the jail. I'd chosen isolation away from the general populationof the jail, a choice that gave me only an hour of cell-free time aday. The cell hadn't been cleaned, and some other man's"possessions" were still there on the eating table, cakedwith his dried blood. I started sporadically reading a book of Sherlock Holmes stories and taking in my surroundings. In one spot there were someclumps of human hair. In another, there were some letters and jailpapers. The last man appeared to have been reading and writing inSpanish, but he was listed as African-American on the papers. Hewas a couple years younger than I.

I was wearing orange jail clothes. Since I didn't know how long I'dbe stuck in jail, I stashed two stub pencils in the only place theyweren't likely to look for them - in a space between a bar and theround seat at the table. This was the only design flaw in the cell,from a security standpoint. Everything else was simple geometricalshapes with no lips, overhangs, or ledges that could conceal asmuch as a cigarette. Nothing could conceal my mind and ideas,however. I had been analyzing the psychology of the cops - whichwas the good one, which was the bad - just from their passing wordsof weather small talk. Saving the pencils meant I could draw if Iended up in jail very long. I was interested in reading though, andI wished they'd switch the library cart. I must've seen three orfour other carts on the handcuffed walk to this room. Last time,they had To Kill A Mockingbird, and I would've liked to read that.

(Photo of Gabriel Combs taken on the night of one of his recentarrests.)
Two baloney sandwiches and an apple came in a brown paper sack, butI couldn't eat them because my jaw was fucked up from the night Imouthed back to three guys. They beat me up and then called thecops on me, probably because I got back on my feet and produced apair of bolt cutters to chase them off. They left out the fact thatthey'd beaten me up to the cops. On my first day out of jail, Ididn't get my studio keys or wallet back for four days. They blameda computer problem for this. The internal affairs forms wereuseless when they had a faulty machine. I also had a sketchbookthat was in police custody from when I got arrested in May. Theywere throwing the book at me, I guess, ignoring their profit marginon crack dealers, because the sketchbook was supposedly a graffitibook. It isn't graffiti, of course, but there was no arguing.

On the outside, pressed to figure out how to get back to makingart, I thought fast and remembered the owners were remodeling anapartment in the building where I rented my basement studio, so Icould ask them for a key to copy. I then went to the hardware storeto get keys remade. The guy looked pretty sideways at me, and Icouldn't blame him. I was unshaven and full of anxiety about therepercussions of going to jail twice within a few weeks. I wasfortunate to find this place and rent it for just $190 a month,considering I had an eviction on my record. I'd found the space onCraigslist, and the owners seemed OK with the idea of my using itas a painting studio. I sometimes slept in the studio when Icouldn't find a friend's couch to sleep on. It was pretty clean fora basement, though there were plenty of spiders, silverfish, and common house centipedes.

I had a $30.25 check that the jail gave me, which their bankwouldn't cash because I didn't have an ID (it was in the walletthey couldn't give back to me). Luckily, my regular bank isdowntown, and they know me, so, despite my embarrassment, I wentthere to get my money. All was well now, because I had enough paintand art supplies for the time being - plus, some food, my phone, atoilet, and time to think.

I stayed sober through most of June just because I couldn't dealwith the panic attacks. On the Internet at the library, with newkeys in my pocket but still no identity, I saw a friend who wasdriving by, and I had a coke with him and talked about mysituation. As an artist, he'd been close to the same situation onoccasion. I told him I was feeling scarred and rejected by society,especially since I'd spent my entire life trying to make thingsbetter in the world by making art.

A week later, I was back drinking, fighting the sense of impendingdoom because of the upcoming court date. I was probably facingfurther incarceration for long enough that I'd lose my studio,humble as it was. The studio isn't a home, but it's a place to makeart and to keep my art stuff and slight private personalpossessions safe. I'm burning the candle at both ends now - atleast until I say to hell with it and throw the every damned thingin the fire.

I sometimes can't take the worrying about it all. So what, I think,if I lose two drawing tables, an easel, and various stashes of oiland latex paint? So what if I lose some sentimental objects I'vekept safe from harm for thirty years? I've always lived just aschaotic a life as this, but it's been securely enveloped in aseries of locked doors. I've always had an official address, andI've embraced the trappings of society - a job, a social life, anda bank account that was refreshed every two weeks but alwaysremained a few dollars short at month's end. There were no frills,just a one-room efficiency, a bike for transport (until it gottotaled), no cell phone but a stripped down landline, a little netaccess, and a bit of liquor every now and then.

It wasn't much, but it was more than I have now. Still, I make moreart now.

When I lost my last job two-and-a-half years ago and I was facingfinancial desolation despite a frugal lifestyle, to make ends meetI copied an idea from printmaking. I would make a complete seriesof paintings - each similar to, but different from, each other -whenever I had squeezed some paint and the colors and ideas wereout and fresh. I've sold over 400 pieces of art since - for prices ranging from 99 cents up to, recently, just over fourhundred dollars (my all-time record). I take endlessdumpster-diving missions, and I pick up any scraps of real wood Ican find, along with scrap-metal from discarded appliances. Thetools for getting this metal - including the bolt cutters thatmaybe saved my life - resulted in a charge of "intent tocommit a crime." One of my favorite things to find is dresserdrawers, the dove-tailed kind especially -- although they usuallyneed to be sanded first. I make my paintings ready-to-hang bystringing them with copper wire from dead appliance motors andscrews from everything I find. Masonite scraps, familiar to manyartists, are another valuble find.

Two-and-a-half years ago I simply decided to make a run at thisartist thing, and I've been inventing it - rather than just talkingabout it - ever since. My old friends see me coming and treat melike I'm homeless, which I am, but at least I am fulfilling mydream. They've got the same old complaints, and I have as muchapprehension about coming into contact with them as they do me. Ialso have callouses turned to blisters and back again from thestruggle to make art, which they don't.

They'll go back to their homes, partners, and steady incomes.They'll drive to a nice vacation spot this summer, while either Isit in jail or I toil away at my art, working toward selling my onethousandth piece.

(Bike shop mural by Gabriel Combs)


At the bike shop on Selby and Dale in Saint Paul, the shop ownerpaid me more than the price we agreed upon, saying "I can'tpossibly pay you enough for your time." The bike shop folkloved the mural, and so did the area residents, which is aconfidence builder for someone who, despite the shit he talks,basically feels like everything he paints is shit.

If I lose the last few items I own and my studio, I'll remain asvital as before - if not more so - as that's what this thing is.Being an artist is not a fashion statement that passes with theseason; it's not something that hinges on gas prices. Art issomething that combines with the culture to establish roots thatintertwine with and break up the cement of society so thewildflowers can grow.

Art breaks up a false foundation and replaces it with dirt. Iwonder if it's really possible to make dandelion wine...