Joseph L. Kagle, Jr. Peace Essays

Sometime ago I created an imaginary artist friend named Bubba Jay III who I could go to when the world got too crazy or I had to open up my mind and experience and see something new. He had to be a special part of me that could be externalized. He had to be, also, pure Texas (which I will never be). He had to be an artist so that we could talk and he had to know what I knew but question more than I would even ask. This is one way to find peace of mind. You start by say, “Self, what do you think and feel about this?” Peace may start from this kind of introspection. Here is some history on my “imaginary friend” in case you ever meet him or someone like him.

Bubba Jay III, Waco Artist

There are stories about artists that we sometimes cannot discern between fact and fiction.

         Did Vincent Van Gogh really cut off his ear for a prostitute?

Did Whistler invite guests for Sunday morning buttermilk pancakes and light opium candles to sell more works of art?

Did Goya go knife fighting in the taverns when he was not court painter for the Spanish king?

Did Bubba Jay III really meet his wife at a roller derby when she got knocked into his lap?

There are so many stories of Bubba Jay that it is truly difficult to picture all these things being true. Bubba Jay III was born in Elm Mott, Texas, in 1941. His father was a fundamentalist Baptist minister, and his mother was a free-lance writer for the Christian Science Monitor.

Bubba starred on his high school football team and went two years to Texas A&M. It was there that he found his call: art. He won a scholarship to the Famous Artists correspondence course by drawing a two-foot copy of a pit bull. The Famous Artists critique complimented Bubba on the quality of his line and depth of his chiaroscuro.

 Bubba dismisses the praise, saying, "Hey, it was only a sketch. I never expected to win anything." But Bubba's life in art can be traced to that simple, almost unglamorous beginning. He finished his schooling at the Art League of New York, studying with Thomas Hart Benton and Robert Motherwell.

Bubba met his wife at a roller rink (not a roller derby as some have alleged). She is part American Indian; in fact, she tells the story that her father was a direct descendant of the Huaco Indians. Her name is Hummingbird Rose. They have two children, Elisha Blue and Lynda Lylac.

If you travel out to Lake Waco (which Bubba calls "that engineered lake in Waco"), you can see Bubba painting the grandeur of the land, the water, and the free, open sky. Bubba calls Lake Waco "God's gift to the locals." He says that he can make that statement since he is a local himself, living just east of Waco on a farm.

When Bubba is not painting, you can see him at the wrestling matches or tractor pulls at the Heart of Texas Coliseum. You can tell it is Bubba because he is the only one there with a Walkman, listening to Mozart or Stravinsky. Bubba is against burning the flag, but, as he says, "damned if I will vote to silence anyone. At least, not in this country. I don't want us to be what the Eastern Bloc countries have left behind."

Some would call Bubba complex, but he is what he is; simple as Waco is simple, complex as Waco is complex. His art reflects the earth tones of his Central Texas youth and the fundamental colors that make up his visual works. When asked why, with his skills, he still prefers Waco to other places with better markets for his art, Bubba smiles and says, "I stay to beat the rush."

In fact, Bubba and his family say they find Waco wonderful. Bubba once said that should be the city's motto, "Wonderful Waco." It is hard to picture any city where Lynda Lylac Jay could aspire to be a Kilgore Rangerette and possible Rhodes scholar at the same time.

Andy Warhol once said that we would all be famous for 15 minutes, but Bubba laughs at that. He has commented that he has been famous all his life. It is just that, at times, only he knows it.

Bubba says, "Every leader should not be too far in front of his troops. He might get shot in the butt." Fame, for Bubba, is a shot in the butt. Even so, Bubba says he is going to run for mayor of Waco one day.

Many will not see Bubba's work in the National Gallery this week. Bubba Jay III (or as his friends call him, Bubba Jay 3) is larger than life; his work is an expression of his life in Waco. He is a mythic hero in his own time. His latest paintings are called "Ode to Tammy Faye and Buddha."

Who Decides, "All the News that's Fit to Print"?

It took two millenniums to drive to Bubba Jay III's house on what was once called Dripping Springs Road. Starting in Tulsa on a visit to my grandchild, I took off in 1999 and arrived at his doorstep in 2000. Now a two thousand year journey to visit a friend should be news but we had no car crashes, saw no disasters, murdered no one, witnessed no celebrity making a fool out of him or herself, drove by no high school where gunshots were fired at students, and in fact have a simple, enjoyable, seven-hour drive. Oh, we did stop at Brawn's for breakfast because we love their ice cream as dessert.

Bubba was watching the "idiot box" therefore sat down beside him without a word, just a nod. The first five or six stories were about death and destruction. The lead story was about the NFL wide receiver named Curruth who (never doing anything in life or on the professional football field to make him famous) had murdered his pregnant girl friend. He hired three gunmen to pull the trigger. He had sat in his car and directed the murder on his cell phone. I knew every meaningless detail. This was not the first time for this story or the last I fear. It had been there for two or three weeks. Years ago when I worked at the Dartmouth College newspaper, the editor told me the old story about what in news. "If a man bites a dog," he advised me, "that's news. If a dog bites a man, that's life." I recounted that story to Bubba. He had heard it before. He pointed out that the principle behind my sage editor's advice was if a story is unusual, it is news. My problem today as I watched the square intruder is that it seems death is all I get. The standard news is broken into a fraction of a second of shock image or shock headline. It is geared to a fifth grade education. You rattle first, inform never. But murder, destruction, death, celebrity stupidity is no longer news. We get it all the time. It is what the media pours out as everyday reality. It is now commonplace. A reporter can find death and destruction anywhere on the wire service. William Sorroyan wrote, "As much as death is inevitable, life is inevitable". I told Bubba, "For years, I have ignored or turned off Paul Harvey. I thought that he went for the everyday cliché too much. Last night, I listened to his whole program because everything else was so bad. He told a story about Christmas. "There was a poor boy who worked hard to earn seven dollars. At an auction, he bid on a computerize toy car which was something that he wanted his whole life. He had to stop bidding at seven dollars. Two men continued spirited bidding until one dropped out at over $140. After the auction, the winning bidder came over to the boy and presented him with the special toy car. `I was bidding for you all the time,' he said. It was only later that the boy found out that the second man was also bidding for him. News has to have balance: life and death".

"In today's world," Bubba said. "The boy's story is news. I stopped into a store the other day, doing my Christmas shopping, and a young girl gave me personalized, informed, courteous service. I will go back to that store in the future. That kind of service is good news for a business. Why don't businesses who pay for advertising ask for balanced news?"

"Why can't we have unusual feel-good lead news on page one?" I asked Bubba. "Why must all news be negative or celebrity-driven to get into print or on the "idiot box"? John

Young at the Trib told me that "feel-good" news had been tried. It did not work in turns of customers."

"It should be tried again," Bubba said. "The timing is right. I would watch, it. I would read it. I believe many people are tired of death and destruction being presented as the only news fit to print or fit to broadcast. For a while before we can get back to balance, there is an audience out there that is tired of only one kind of news, "Death Shock Reporting". If life is worth living, then it is worth reporting." Bubba smiled and walked over to extinguish TV's power that he had turned off in his mind long before.

Politics:  A “Dancing–With-Yourself” Tango

     If I did not know that I was at the right house, I would have thought that I was in the wrong neighborhood. Bubba Jay Ill's house was covered and surrounded by signs: Bubba Jay for ARTIST. A television crew was completing an interview. Bubba said, "If elected ARTIST, I will make sure that all National Endowment for the Arts grants go to middle class artists for one year. In the past, grants have gone to the cultural elite. It is time that middle class artists get the recognition they deserve from the           federal government."

Bubba was dressed in a very loud Hawaiian shirt, army pants, a painting coat and a beret that was purposely tilted to one side. Hummingbird Rose, his wife who normally went her own way, was dutifully standing behind him in her traditional American Indian dress had always seen her in comfortable jeans or a loose housedress while at home, but not today.

       The interviewer asked,” Is it true that MADA, Mothers Against Dumb Art,    have publicly come out against you becoming ARTIST of the United States?"

"Yes," said Bubba in his political voice, "but recently I have received the support of RAGS, the Rebel Art Grant Society, which was started to oppose the fundamentalist ratings of Jesse Helms against American freedom of speech, Americans values, against family values."

Again, the interviewer asked, “What will be the philosophical foundation of your office of ARTIST of American?”

“Imagination is a passport to lead us into the real world," Bubba said, looking directly into the television camera, "and I want to make sure that I stamp all American passports."

The television crew left. Bubba and Hummingbird Rose asked me to come inside "because we just do not have a private life anymore unless we shut ourselves away."

"When did you decide to run for ARTIST?" I asked, "It is just not like you."

“It hit me one day, watching the speeches of Bush and Clinton, that in the latter half of the 20th century, you are not an artist in our democracy unless the public elects you ARTIST'," said Bubba. "What I did not realize at that time is that running for the office of ARTIST took a different me than the artist me."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"The public ARTIST me, the one running for the office, by public definition must be different than the me when I am in office and operating as an artist. The one running for office has to look the part of an artist, "adjusting his beret" and promise things that any sane person knows I cannot deliver. Also there are some things which I dance around - like I mentioned the endorsement of RAGS but not GAFA (pronounced gaphaw), Gay Artists for Art.            I might win the northern west coast vote by publicly announcing their endorsement but would lose part of the south."

"You are right," I said, "It does not make any sense. What will you do if you are elected ARTIST?"

  "One: I would do all that I can to stay in power," said Bubba not breaking into his characteristic smile, "and two; I would serve the American public artist by doing my job of promoting creativity." It was the only time I every saw Bubba speaking without any lights behind his eyes.

      "Did you dream up the slogan: "imagination is a passport to lead us into the real world?”

      "No," said Hummingbird Rose, "his political strategists took that from a New York playwright, John Guare."

      "That is normal for the election me,” said Bubba defensively.

     "What gets me" said Hummingbird Rose, "is that he has to be two Bubbas to be elected: the Bubba who runs for the office and the man I know who is the artist and will manage the duties of artist after Election Day. It is like a dancing-with-yourself tango. We all know that it takes two to tango but this is ridiculous.

     “How has Bubba's running for office of ARTIST affected you,” I asked, "as the wife of the artist?"

     "I can be myself," she said with a sigh, "but I have to be quiet. Also, I have to wear these traditional America Indian clothes. Bubba's

Handlers feel that it will bring in the ethnic vote^. I stand in the background and am quiet.  You know how hard that is for me, but at least I do not have to do major things which are not me.”

     "Wait a minute, you two," Bubba said, "don't talk about me as if I was not here.  I knew that I had to do a little acting when I decided to run for ARTIST.  My audience expects it.”

     "Did you tell your public," I asked naively, "that your campaign slogan was borrowed from a New York play?"

       "No," said Bubba. "I do not lie. I reshape the reality of things. What my public wants is vision.  They must take me on faith.  That is what imagination is supposed to do. “

       “What is next on your schedule?” I asked.

        “A Winnebago tour of artists colonies in the south and the Midwest to begin with, then a second tour of the West Coast, trying to get the commune vote, left over from the 1960”s a trip to Orange county to pick up the Norman Rockwell vote, and finally near the end of my election campaign, an East coast tour to pick up the baby-boomer artist vote,” said Bubba.  “I have the endorsement of Artist Equity, the artist union, but I need the Rust Belt and California Vote.”

         ”Our lives are now a fish bowl existence,” Hummingbird Rose blurted.  “I must check with our clothes designer before I go out.  Every minute of Bubba’s day is now scripted.  Our lives are not what we wanted when we made our decision that Bubba would run for ARTIST.  I am not sure that it is worth it.”

       “Will they give you a big new studio in Washington if you are elected ARTIST of America? Will you be happier with the title and power?” I asked.

      “That is what we are privately questioning, “said Bubba.  “None of this is to be repeated.  Our final decision has not been made, but in the back of my mind I may do a Ross Perot.  Dripping Springs Road had not been the same since I became a national figure, running for ARTIST.  I might just go back to being Bubba Jay III, artist with a small a.”

      “I hope so,” said Hummingbird Rose.  “I can stop wearing my tribal dress all the time and I can speak my mind (which I do now only when we are alone.).”

      “Would it be different if a woman ran for the office?” I asked.

      “It would be if this woman ran,” said Hummingbird Rose.  “It will not be different if women follow the masculine model.   There has been slick George and slick Willie.  There have also been their tango partners: George and Bill, just two guys who want to manage the country. I hope that women would be themselves. Barbara and Hillary seem to have stayed the same, only quiet in the background during the election campaign.    If it were

me running for ARTIST; I would not play the game, and maybe not get elected. I guess we need two women running who will not play the game of a dancing-with-yourself tango. I did not marry slick Bubba, just my Bubba Jay. Our tango was supposed to be together."