Hotbox Studio Exhibition, 2018

Ramsay Self Portrait

Drunken Quakers

Andy Curtis & Michael Green 60” x 40” charcoal, pastels, ink on paper, 2015-2019

Anya

56” x 38” acrylic on canvas, 2018

Scofflaw at opening

Chris Cran flaunting the “Please Do Not Touch The Artworks” sign

Di Playing Bass, High River AB 2012

Brigitte in Wonderland

60” x 40” charcoal, pastels on paper, 2017

In Search of the Elusive Tona Ohama

Acrylic on canvas, 72” x 43”, 2018

Psilocybin Pete

29” x 45” acrylic on canvas, 2018

Doug Curtis

48” x 33” charcoal, pastels on paper, 2016

One day I got a call from Heather suggesting it might be good to come over and see my friend and colleague Doug. When I arrived I found that Andy Curtis was there as well. Andy, although no relation to Doug, is a theatre-brother and director of many of Doug’s early creations. Heather and Doug are the founders of Ghost River Theatre, named after the river that ran next to a cabin wherein Doug would create his mighty monologues.

By the time of that phone call, Doug had, over a period of years, become affected by early onset Parkinson’s. He had bravely continued performing his monologues… until he could not. We watched the creative inside Doug be taken captive. You can still see it when you look in his eyes. It’s in there. You better believe it.

That day Doug had been set to have an operation on his brain. They had shaven his head and marked with Sharpies where the drills and other mechanical devices should go. I still remember Doug telling me that, because he was medicated for the operation (even though he was to be kept awake) he couldn’t make his voice heard. Inside he was yelling as loud as he could “STOP!” Heather knew soon enough that something was awry.

The procedure, thankfully, was stopped.

Geraldine Moodie's Eye

40” x 44”, charcoal on paper, 2017

Michael Green

32” x 47”, charcoal, pastels on paper, 2015

The first time I spoke with Michael was on the phone. He was washing dishes in the kitchen at Ambrosia–one of Witold Twardowski’s early culinary successes–in the Clarence Block on Eighth Avenue. Having just seen a solo percussion show I performed at Off Centre Centre the night before, he wanted me to know, over the sound of plates and food prep, that he would love to produce anything that I might like to try. “Well that’s fucking extraordinary,” I thought.

Who doesn’t have a Michael Green story? Michael was a gifted performer, slight of hand theatre-artist, producer, lover, outrageous idea-guy, oddly Zen. I once watched Blake Brooker verbally unload on Michael for some transgression or other. I swear you could see Michael’s hair fly back from the power of Blake’s emination. But he looked implacable. Firmly rooted to weather this storm. I’m sure they kissed and made up.

Michael made possible so many extraordinary events for both Calgarians and the artists lucky enough to be involved in his adventures. My favourite, The Whip It Out Ensemble; a gargantuan band of addled misfits recreating the music of Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Bertolt Brecht meets vaudeville and punk in a sexy three-way that gives birth to, well, another Michael Green brainchild.

We were still grieving from the loss of Richard McDowell when we were side-swiped again. A senseless, almost classic icy prairie highway collision that took many. Michael, Narcis Blood, Michele Sereda, Lacy Morin-Desjarlais.

Richard’s and Michael’s passing propelled me to many of the artworks on display; an attempt to somehow remain in touch with friends so dear… trying to hold on to a little permanence.