Magic Trees 15x24, Trees Near The Park 24x15 Uncle Bob, Uncle Phil

I have a fairly famous uncle. We are somewhat estranged being that he is who he is and I, well, let's just say that I'm the one who does the staying in touch. He won a grammy award in '97 for best album of the year and a whole bunch of people piled on the BD bandwagon then. All through the late 70's and 80's and even in the 90's nobody cared a whit for my dear old uncle Bob. And there we were, the faithful few pulling for him, praying for him and keeping his memory alive. Now every young pop tart that comes along lays claim to some sort of association with him. These are the neo "musicians" who have never played their harps till their lips bled, never made a harmonica holder out of a coat hanger and definitely never played their music out in a cold field in October in northern Minnesota with frozen fingers...in exchange for beer.
I have another uncle (unbeknownst to him) who lives in rural Louisiana. He is the Duck Commander, his name is Phil and he espouses and aptly expresses (albeit with a Cajun flavor) all I hold dear in this life. A & E cable channel is making a spectacle of my uncle Phil and all kinds of Johnny-come-lately dudes who have never even blown a duck call, let alone made one are gonna be rushing in to get in on the action and, consequently, make it difficult for him to invite me out to the duck blind. So it is with fame. I heard my name over the loudspeaker at the Children's Rehab clinic the other day (one of the kids) I got to thinking that this might just be my fifteen seconds of fame. For what it's worth, I have done the above with both duck calls and harmonicas and it has got me just about nowhere. However, I have a standing offer to trade a painting for a mouth harp or a duck call from Bob or Phil. Until I hear from them and get called out on tour I will be found in my little desert studio painting pretty pictures of fantabulous places both real and imagined.

Fall Color 20x24

Middle of October, 102 degrees and the Arizona state fair is in the air. A milieu of beer sloshing and corn dog chomping was the venue for our rendezvous with Mr. Dylan. I know, it isn't exactly the kind of place you'd think to bring the kids to expose them to high culture but we did listen to A Prairie Home on the way up to Phoenix from Tucson if that's any consolation. Besides, if a life-long exposure to dear old uncle Bob's singing hasn't annealed them to the sharp edges of reality nothing will. Yes, Bob is like a creepy old spider who's just been sprayed with something...he's always been like that. But he has a certain magnetism and attractiveness that, at the very least, causes an irresistible curiosity. Liken it to a morbid curiosity if you will but a curiosity nonetheless. It was thirty years ago this summer that the spirit of Bob entered me. I was seventeen years old, had my first road bike (Suzuki 550 GT Ram Air), wore an old army jacket wherever I went and played harmonica. At first I was most interested in what kind of cigarettes he smoked and which of the two main styles of harmonic racks he preferred. I was living near his home town at the time and all his songs seemed to make perfect sense to a wayward kid up on the Iron Range of northern Minnesota. Well, that interest has waxed and waned over the years and other things have long since replaced the passions of my youth. No longer do I care what brand of smokes my favorite star might or might not like to puff. Gone (almost) are the visions of uncle Bob ringing me up and inviting me to join him on tour. I don't drag a guitar along every place I go and when I do sing I don't try to sound like Woody Guthrie. After the concert we were discussing the show and I observed how not one member of the band sang any back-up to Bob. Eddie said that Bob's voice cracked so much it was like two voices...no need for any other singers. The autumn scene above is available on auction here. Feel free to bid...if you win this it will be sure to remind you of those crisp days of fall...and the Arizona state fair.