Canton’s Other Son

By Rhonda Baughman

Canton might be able to lay claim to molding and slightly raising one ultra talent - Marilyn Manson. Or just molding, in other sense – my verdict s not in yet on this count. And you’re reading someone who just doesn’t give a good goddamn about politics anymore, not that I ever really did. However, more often than not, as with most cases of genius, a hometown will be unaware of the other fair maidens and debauched courtesans of artistic merit inhabiting it, instead focusing only on the most obvious. That’s fine – it’s just the nature of humanity, although it’s no less stomach churning.

And that’s one of the emotions, at the every least, artwork should induce: disgust. Among other feelings of an instantaneous, visceral, and Stendhal-esque nature, revulsion is high on my list – and next to cheerful ambivalence, which according to our artisan, comes from the word ‘ambidextrous’ and means of two minds. See there? I oft took the word as a synonym for ‘nonchalant’ and in fact, this is not correct. I learned something indirectly by looking at the artwork of a local creator. This is more than an average formal class taught me in one semester. I need to tread carefully now – or I might begin to wonder if education, like capitalism, like the masses’ definitions of art even – like humanity itself - isn’t just …

one

big

scam.

So, let’s also get one fucking thing straight. I don’t see art very often. This word is thrown about like love and is often used to describe anything and everything. I am a firm believer in semantics, word choice, vocabulary, theory, connotative definitions and rebellion – but what I cannot believe in, nor will I, is simply because some entity is created, it must therefore be ART. You can argue with me all you want, and of course you are entitled to your opinion. However, you’re wrong. And that gunk I see gathering at various church bazaars and craft shows – this is not art. These are trinkets birthed from mindless hobbies. I can see more art floating in a toilet bowl, sans shit, than I have at an “art show”.

If you ask the artist who he is, or where his inspiration comes from, you’ll most likely get a mumbled response, a slight death stare, and an increasing sense of pending attack. This is all just conjecture on one writer’s part, but really – he prefers to be alone or among a small gathering of like-minded folks. There just isn’t anyone with his mind on record yet – and when one does appear, I doubt he’ll let anyone know. And getting him to answer any questions is akin to his Micro-Shock bio: anonymous.

I do know a few things, but this only because we have been nurtured in the same window box – none of which I can write here, because he does know where I live – and I have been told that his revenge is often “epic.” For this reason, I have included the five photos evoking the most rigid of immediate denial, which eventually gave way to a need for Ibuprofen, then the stark realization I liked being made to feel like a dirty, dirty voyeur. Oops.

Love them, hate them, or remain indifferent (hell, even imagine yourself as a cloacae, I did … thanks to the artist’s love of filth and vocabulary) – I found them illuminating and worthy enough for a Micro-Shock update. Strangely, the best piece of art is not shown, and was actually a functional, useful, and striking gift from the artist. Striking both literally and figuratively. Come over and see it – most likely it will be the last reflection your corneas can handle.