I really don't remember much of my early years. There was a persistent vivid recurring nightmare which involved images of crashing through the atmosphere of an unknown looming planet. This involved the unforgettable experience of spatial disorientation and panic while tightly wrapped in a spinning canister. The heat was most unpleasant & uncomfortable. I vividly recall sweating buckets of liquid, panting for breath, then nothing…
My birth certificate records a certain military hospital in New Mexico and a set of parents, but for some reason, I can't help but regard them as "adoptive," vaguely familiar, but strangers nonetheless.
Gradually, as the traumatic experience receded in frequency, memories of another planet emerged. I began to recall having been reprimanded one too many times and "volunteered" to the explorers group. So much for a rebellious bored laborer. The result? Inevitable for such characters back on My Home Planet! Sentenced to a can hurtling through space aimed in a broadside of such cans with the idea that maybe one explorer will hit the target Earth and survive. The mission? Observe and report on the human life form encountered here.
All throughout my long visit I have never been much interested in any of the conventional "cover" occupations familiar to and indeed sought after by the local populace. The only exception has been the arts! I simply cannot resist the attraction.
Sure, I went to school. I took what limited art classes were available in public school, supplementing those with independent study and whatever workshops I could get access to. In my teens, I hung out at the campus of R. I. S. D. in my free time while working a part-time retail job in Providence, R.I. I soon realized that I would not have the money to actually attend as a student. At the time I was fascinated with architecture and somewhat obsessed with drafting floor plans and elevations of my own modernistic version of the residence.
Ultimately I was embarrassed into entering my "real" work in a graduating H.S. class art show. This was my reaction after learning that a particular instructor had without my knowledge entered my playful experiments from her intro class. The result? My work was well received and I sold everything for a few hundred bucks. That surprised me. Thus encouraged, I followed up at local university, enrolling as an Art Major, but was again bored to death and most especially so with the studio art intro class. Cutting out colored paper in a series of Warhol-type exercises? Really? How many soup cans? What's the point? Warhol himself already made the comment, non? Once was enough. You think this is the "new" art? Really? Not interested. Thanks. Bye.
Plagued with the constant message of my adoptive parent and his ultra conservative male dominant prejudice, "You can't make a living as an artist!" I turned my energy to commercial pursuits. And so I moved on. I worked in a couple of business oriented career fields over the interim years until the challenges met yielded success there. I had plenty of money creature comforts and dabbled in exploring and indulging the "playboy" lifestyle and image. Eventually the glam and glitter faded. The vapid corporate business environment bred only boredom and the urge to move on yet again.
I returned to university environment with the intent to pursue a writing degree, originally interested in writing for film. The school had no such program so I simply took writing in all available disciplines, enrolling in the Theatre Dept. for convenience. My personal focus or "major" morphed into more advanced writing for theatre, with ongoing "seminar program" and to eventually convert to writing for film. I supplemented this primary objective with anything I thought would contribute to my experience. This "minor" included English Lit., Journalism, Multi-cultural Studies, Dance, and Choreography. Light and Sound Design. All of this study and experience was to prove a rich and varied backdrop for an as yet unknown future in the arts.
As producer, and with a student director of similar interests, we formed an independent guerilla theatre group. Our first efforts included a rollicking update of the classic comedy "Volpone," and another minimalist production of a writer's original drama for stage. This led to the formation of yet another independent writers group with regular reading schedules and discussion panel to assist independent writers in developing their own pet projects.
All along the way I have collected the various skills now consolidated in the practice I have formulated and developed mostly on my own initiative. I have only two guiding principles: Break all the rules! And a similar test question; is a particular technique chosen Germaine to the subject?
That is my background and story in a nutshell. Why am I back at it? Art? … Why for Arts sake, man! What else?
The results? This first release "Twelve" represents nearly 20 years of experiment, trial and error and as yet an undiminished interest in the arts.
Antonius (cir. 2012)
"If he is telling the truth, then he is some damn alien, crashed to earth in a meteorite shower. I had him investigated, but there ain't one damn shred of evidence to proof a thing he says! That starry tale about some "Home Planet"? Truth is, I think he's a stark-raving nutcase. It's that simple."
Billy-Joe Jamison, undersheriff, Calaveras County, Ca.