Posted: October 7, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
Photograph @copyright David Raccuglia
Boyd being himself. He died September 6, 2018. “It never got weird enough for me.”
From Marfa Public Radio:
Legendary West Texas artist Boyd Elder has died.
His daughter, Shaula Elder, confirmed the 74-year-old’s death on Facebook Saturday night.
“The rumors are swirling about our father passing into the cosmos,” the post reads. “It breaks my heart to say it is true. He is stardust.”
The circumstances of Elder’s death are unclear at this time.
Elder — who’s known for his work on several Eagle’s album covers, including the best-selling album of all time, 1976’s Their Greatest Hits (1971-1975) — lived in Valentine, Texas, where he worked on his art out of an old barn.
“Most fine artists have their work in museums or collections,” Elder told Sterry Butcher for Texas Monthly earlier this year. “My work is in millions of households all over the world.”
Elder was born in El Paso, Texas but spent several years of his early childhood in Valentine, where his family had deep roots. His grandfather, a West Texas land and cattle baron, helped to plot the Valentine townsite in the late 1800s. But by the time Elder was in elementary school, his family moved to El Paso full time — much to his disappointment.
“I didn’t have the outdoors,” Elder told Marfa Public Radio in a 2010 interview. “I didn’t have my horses and dogs. I didn’t have my horses and dogs. I just didn’t have the landscapes and vistas that you have here.”
But even after Elder’s family moved to El Paso, they would often visit Valentine during summer vacations and holidays.
Soon, Elder’s bubbling interest in art grew from watercolors to pinstriping and painting hotrods that would blaze through the streets on El Paso nights.
“I was very much into cars and hot rods,” Elder said in 2010. “I built dragsters, I pinstriped and painted motorcycles and cars.”
While in school in El Paso, Elder pursued his interest in art, studying with several area artists. His weekends were filled with lessons at the El Paso Museum of Art. “You can teach drawing and music,” Elder said in 2010. “I don’t know if you can really teach art. It’s kind of inherent.”
Elder’s high school teachers encouraged him to apply for art school and shortly after graduating, the native Texan headed West to the Chouinard Art Institute in California to study painting and sculpture. While in school, Elder would often drive up to Sunset Boulevard and hang out at the famed Troubadour nightclub — where he met musicians, painters, and writers, like David Crosby, Jackson Browne, and Joni Mitchell.
In 1972, Elder put on a one-man show in Venice — El Chingadero.
At the exhibition, a few of Elder’s friends played their first public show as The Eagles.
“They had six or seven songs,” Elder told Texas Monthly this year. “They played them all the way through, and when they got to the end, they played them again.”
The following year, in 1973, some of the work that Elder had displayed at El Chingadero was lost to a fire at his Valentine studio. With no local fire department to respond, the old family garage, which had become Elder’s makeshift studio, burned completely.
He was left with nothing.
But shortly after, Elder received two wild steer skulls, a bull and a cow. So he painted them — pinstriped — just like he would to the hotrods he loved as a teenager. One of those skulls, he covered in a soft blue, adding reds and yellows, feathers and even wings.
It became the album art for the Eagles 1975 album One of These Nights.
The artist continued his work over the years and was a well-known presence in the Big Bend.
This entry was posted on KRTS News
Posted: October 7, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
Joan Didion
Trouble in Lakewood: How a once idyllic postwar town fell under the sway of a teen-age gang.
Friends,
It’s misleading to say this is about gangs. Don’t let this summary of a Joan Didion story fool you. The story is really about how most people go through life asleep as trusting clogs in the giant machine: in other words it’s about why Donald Trump is president.
Astoundingly, the story is almost thirty years old. It’s as deep and good as journalism can get: great observation, great interviewing, great sourcing, great prose, great intelligence making the invisible visible.
It took me about 1-1/2 hours to read and it pulled back another dozen veils from my clouded eyes. It takes many discrete pieces and makes so many connections its prescience chills your toes. I would love to have taught this article in a magazine writing course. I did teach her “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” and it was a revelation to serious students.
Put this aside to read sometime when you’re thirsty for what great reporting and writing offers…not one word is out of place.
Posted: August 22, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
“… Many of us can see our ends coming as in a dream. Under a tree in a meadow, or more likely, a car in the night, balling in the bathtub when drunk, sitting in a chair at the window and the world slowly disappears to music you’ve never heard before…”
–part of a poem from Dead Man’s Float
––Harrison died on March 26, 2016, in Patagonia, Ariz, while sitting in a chair at his desk working on a poem next to a window near a running stream.
Posted: June 21, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
Stanley Cavell, 91, has died. He was my guide, along with Harold Bloom, into Emerson and Thoreau. His influences included Wittgenstein, and Austin, and a range of popular mediums including photography, movies and music. He filled my life with a succession of essays and books as exciting and relevant as any written during the past five decades. A few tributes trumpeting his brilliance are listed below. If you don’t know his work, give him a look and you may want to read more.
From the The New York Times, from the The New York Review of Books…Google Cavell’s books on Amazon. A lifetime of stimulating, human questioning of the big ideas, discussed in penetrating ordinary language, awaits you.
Posted: June 3, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
The Tonic Rays
This is an excerpt from my unpublished travel book, part of a series of vignettes.
At Night
The Babylon Club is open and there’s a chaotic clash of beautiful Asian ladies and a scattering of Thai hipsters, expats and visiting foreigners. You’d never believe it, unless you were here to witness the scene that unfolds every night. It’s what brought back all the old foreign farts, especially the Americans. Most of them went through Vietnam. Now they’re collecting pensions and sowing the last of their sperm bank. A lot of them had Asian Romance curled into their genes before they’d had real girlfriends, a return visit guaranteed, at least for the die hards, the ones who believed in the 60s, who knew acid wasn’t just a leisure drug. It was the Burning Bush.
Emerson, Huck’s escape, Thoreau’s escape. Such people have watched four decades of the Real America evaporate before their eyes. Those that should and could live in the East now, content to jump into the flow, roll with the waves, lock in to the clock in their mind and body, for all it’s worth, or die trying. Like where Dylan sings, “We’re gonna drive until the wheels catch fire and fall off.” That Dylan unconsciousness, summoning Kerouac’s lonely highway. Three beers or a few straight shots of Mekong Whiskey will burn out the old farts’ fire for the night.
It chills me how many old men I see at the hospital and recognize them as night prowlers. Standing up from a table for them is damn near as embarrassing as looking in the mirror. The ticking clock, nearly God Damn frozen already, including their privates. But give credit where it’s due. If it weren’t for the inventor of Viagra, there would be a hundred thousand fewer old men living in Asia now.
Let’s see now, The Tonic Rays band is cranking up. Tasty musicians and magicians. You can get enough 60s music here in one night to awaken a month of memories. Now here’s two grinning punk Thai hipsters circling two Chinese girls. Fun seekers are staring hard now, and what do they see? This old guy with baggy jowls, flaccid muscles around the biceps, white hair, a paunch belly and lips so frozen they forget how to smile, a cardinal sin in the Land of Smiles. I ask myself why do I look this way? Who’s that? It has everything to do with that rainbow-colored, psychedelic wheel that’s spinning around the day-glow Buddha image behind the bar, garish as hell, postmodern religious symbolism, perfect for the Second Millennium, right? Buddha and Marley. And Elvis, and you name it.
With time, you’ll walk in my shoes too, punks, just liked I’ve walked in yours, to far better music if I do say. Why does all the good music go back to my generation? I’m in paradise now. We’ve got the Marley portrait behind the bar, the green, red and yellow Rasta colors everywhere you look, the white and red Chinese lanterns swaying high in the trees, Chinese and Thai hookers, even more amateurs prowling around, wives and lovers, horny young and old men, all nodding to the Rasta beat. It astounds the Asians how the old farts are even awake this time of night, much less looking for the sweetest ladies here.
Tonight there’s something new. Israeli Army soldiers, probably on leave, close-cropped black hair, still tensed up in military postures, plus a few Afghanistan War exes, all with the same brooding, silent pose, unsure around the casual, fun-loving, friendly Thai lovelies. One American, a giant of a man, a walking oak tree, circles a table of Thai ladies several times. Thinking he sees the future, he grabs a tiny Thai lady and throws her over his shoulder while spinning in circles. Her girlfriend, rising only to his belt buckle, screams at him to put her down – “she’s afraid.”
The Jolly Green Giant puts her down, embarrassed, gives her a monstrous wai with both hands clasped, chastised, as thought balloons appear inside his comic skull – he doesn’t have a clue. He was just playing out a movie scene.
I can’t take my eyes off the light’s rich, yellow glow from the table candles infusing the glasses and beer and liquor bottles scattered around, turning the tableau into a liquid underwater still life. The place is a Chinese poem, scrolling, scrolling. Sing song girls. Crossroads. My wife is into her second Blue Margarita as a chorus of Eyeeees! erupt from her and her niece when they see the eyes of the two Israeli soldiers focused on the niece, newly enshrined in her uplifting bra. A semi-blind man suddenly stands beside me, not saying a word. He stares straight ahead. Silent. Impassive. His empty beggars cup speaks for us all.
The Israeli doesn’t realize he could have a beautiful Thai wife with only an hour of decent conversation and some karma. He smiles weakly and nods. The Chinese girls at the next table, real beauties, what used to called “road flowers,” are wearing tight miniskirts. Their ivory-white skin casts a glow as they get up and start to boogie around their table, throwing back shots of tequila, arms raised, stabbing upward into the night air. Movie star auras. One flicks a look through me, which thrills my heart and sends a faint signal to my past. Ok? In the surface of things is the heart of things. I’m not dreamin’ about sweetcakes in the sky. Come on, all of it.
My little secret is that this, my life, is working out exactly like my dream. If only I could be young forever–and always in love, the love of the hunter under a spring moon, forever. Copyright@Roy Hamric
Posted: February 28, 2018 | Author: roy hamric | Filed under: Uncategorized |
A section of Villa Terlingua in the Terlingua Ghost Town near Big Bend State Park in Far West Texas, owned and operated by Cynta De Navarez.
The side of a cabana at Villa Terlingua with the Chisos Mountains in the far distance.
The Blue House cabana at Villa Terlingua in the Ghost Town near Big Bend State Park near the Rio Grande.
Villa Terlngua’s big house in the Ghost Town of Terlingua near Big Bend State Park in Far West Texas, owned by Cynta De Navarez. The large villa and nearby cabanas are for rent to individuals or groups. See http://www.villaterlingua.com for more information.
the roy hamric journal 