Star Wallowing Bull

Self Taught Artist

2011-03-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

I find it interesting for an art instructor to actually give grades for something a student creates. What makes it “A” work?...I’m doing just fine with what I’m doing. Grading art is subjective. I'm sure my techniques to some professors would not warrant an A for the class for my work. I have met numerous artists who are not able to shed their art teacher's influences from their work once they have graduated. A friend of mine James Rosenquist had told me once before to stay away from art teachers. James wants me to be untouched and original. After all I’m a self-taught artist, which is bothersome to some in the art academic world. I feel like it's personal success with my years of hard work. Although getting a college degree in the arts does bring knowledge of history and technique that perhaps one day I can do. I believe I am artist by birth, not my degree. I may be going at my art career backwards than those at the university. But, it's not like getting a degree in accounting, nursing or computers. "Making it" in the art world takes talent and luck and right now, my luck is running high more than going to college. I know the importance of a college education and learn vicariously through my artist friends who are professors and students in the art world. One day, I would like to go to college, but right now, I'm too busy with my art career.

My Nomination for James Rosenquist for the North Dakota Rough Rider Award

2010-10-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

March 30, 2010

Dear Governor Hoeven,

I’m writing to support the nomination of artist, James Rosenquist for the Rough Rider Award this year. He is native to North Dakota and has become one of the most prominent American artists of the past sixty years. I believe he is a superb example of the best of North Dakota. He has remained in touch with this area, and in fact, he has generously supported my growth as an artist.

I first met James Rosenquist in 2005 at the Plains Art Museum in Fargo. James was in town to receive his honorary doctorate degree from North Dakota State University. I was introduced to by my friend, Rusty Freeman, who was the curator at the Plains Art Museum. Mr. Rosenquist and I were talking about art in New York City and I told him I was an artist. Out of curiosity, James wanted to come over to my studio and see my artwork. James and I walked over to my small live-in studio right in the middle of his own party. My studio, at the time, wasn’t much at all. It was converted into a studio from an efficiency apartment. When James walked in, he looked at my color pencil drawings and painting and he really took a great interest in my artwork, especially my paintings.

2005 was the year I started to explore painting but due to the great cost, I was limited to a few tubes of paint and some in-expensive pre-stretched canvas. I would often dig in the garbage cans in the back of the NDSU Art Department for something to paint on even if it was cardboard. James Rosenquist saw great potential in my newly formed paintings. He also bought a small painting from me that first evening we met. Before he left my studio, that evening, I told him I wasn’t doing very well with my art career as I was struggling financially. At the time, I didn’t know who he was or his history as a pop artist. Mr. Rosenquist told me has was once in my shoes and that we all have to start somewhere. He told me not to give up and to work hard. After talking to James, my self-esteem greatly increased as a person and as an artist.

One month later, James sent me two rolls of acrylic primed canvas, a box of top quality oil paints and one thousand dollars to get my painting career started. Later that year, James sent me six large boxes of acrylic paint and another thousand dollars for more art supplies where he instructed me on what supplies to buy. In early 2006, I started to paint full-time, but due to the lack of experience I started out slow. James encouraged me during this touch time and I eventually started to learn as time went on. Later in 2007, James purchased three paintings from me and he kept in contact for updates on my progress. I have now completed ten large paintings and another painting in which James has already purchased. He has been showing my paintings to potential art collectors and art galleries in New York City with hopes of an exhibition of my work. James has not only financially supported my art career, he has given me hope and helped me build experience. Each time I receive a call, email or letter from James, I feel a boost in my confidence as an artist with his willingness to share his knowledge with me. I am grateful and honored to have met him and have him as my mentor.

James Rosenquist is a very important figure in North Dakota and has gained national recognition for his accomplishments in art. I hope that the state of North Dakota will honor his achievements by awarding him the Rough Rider Award when he is in Fargo to unveil his mural at the Plains Art Museum this October. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Star Wallowing Bull

Artist Racial Categorization

2010-08-29T07:09:00.000-07:00

In my opinion, this is Native American Indian art.

I was recently featured in the Fargo-Moorhead Arts Pulse magazine regarding my 2010 Bush Fellowship Award that included my own personal opinion on being labeled a Native American Indian artist. Since I was a little boy, my grade school friends always wondered why I was drawing robots, cars or things that I would see on a daily basis. They expected me to draw Tee-pees, Indian Chiefs, animals, and so on. People still have this idea that Native American Indians should only make Indian art. Deep down inside, I didn't want to be labeled in this sense. I really didn't like drawing images like that either. I didn't find no interest in drawing traditional American Indian cultural icons. If I did, I changed a lot of the images and made them more intricate and interesting. I saw that type of art growing up in a prominate Indian neighborhood of South Minneapolis. Everyone was doing it. Traditional Indian art is so well known, even the Chinese are mass producing it and selling them in gas stations and small retail stores throughout the world. I found that type of art too easy and boring. I wanted to create my own art on a new level and steer clear of the old traditional Indian style of art.

Over the years I have come into heated arguments and rational conversations over being labeled a Native American Indian artist. People seemed to be confused on what kind of artist I should be labeled as these days. Instead of trying to label me, how about seeing me as an artist rather than trying to label my race? People often look at my work and say "your not an Indian artist" or they say "I'm an Indian artist" because I drew an Indian figure. My art reflects a combination of different styles of Indian icon imagery, current mainstream and abstraction. Some opinions continue to be rather different than my own. I respect their opinions, but they should also in turn respect mine as well. Let me give you an example: Swedish, Norwegian artist James Rosenquist. Slovakian artist, Andy Warhol. Irish, Hungarian artist Georgia O'Keefe & German, Cherokee artist Robert Rauschenberg...why aren't these artists nationalities' or races labeled? Why is it only Native American Indians labeled a "tag line" behind their name? I do respect Native Indian artists who want to be recognized with their racial identities but I have also met other Indian artists who agree with me on this issue and would rather be called artists rather then trying to categorize their race or nationality.

I recently spoke to my friend James Rosenquist on this issue and he understood what I was talking about. James didn't understand why people wanted to label an artist's race. James was quite upset over that topic. He said to me, "From now on you're an international artist!"

This topic has been frustrating and tiresome to me over the years, so once again, it's not necessary to label my race as an artist. I'm more than happy to share my heritage, pride and culture with people, just ask. I was born and raised in an American lifestyle. Yes, my heritage is Native American - but my culture is simply as an American living among many nationalities and races from my perspective. I am simply an artist, where I create my art from my experiences, my imagination and the world around me. I hope this blog explains my perspective on this heated discussion.

Star Wallowing Bull receives Bush Fellowship Award

2010-08-04T11:04:00.000-07:00

By Eric Daeuber & The Arts Partnership

“I’ve been applying for arts grants for nine years. I never received one until now. When I was younger, I used to get disappointed a lot. Lately, though, I just sort of got used to it. So when I got the call, I was really surprised.” Star Wallowing Bull is talking about becoming one of the 15 artists from Minnesota, North Dakota and South Dakota to be named 2010 Bush Artists Fellows. He applied for a Bush Fellowship twice before, and he’s been an unsuccessful applicant in other grants as well. It raises the question of why it has taken so long for an accomplished artist like Star Wallowing Bull to be recognized. “Everyone seems to want me to be a Native American Indian artist and I don’t want to be thought of that way,” he said. Call it a struggle with one’s public identity. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk about his Arapaho and Chippewa background. He’s more than happy to discuss his heritage and its influence on his work. It’s certainly not because his art doesn’t touch on Native American themes. General George Armstrong Custer shares the canvas with the Red Owl grocery store owl in one painting. Mickey Mouse wears a Plains Indian headdress in another. But this is exactly the point. There are just too many things to talk about in any one painting to make the only point of reference the ethnicity of the painter. At least this is the way Star Wallowing Bull see it. Looking at the world through one lens and expressing one idea is just a little too restrictive for Star. His sometimes complex, sometimes abstract and sometimes stark paintings suggest a man who wants people to ask questions about his art, not simply get the message. “I want people to look at my paintings and wonder why I did that.” From Star’s perspective, you can’t do that if the answer is always “Because he’s an American Indian.”

Still, some can’t quite see past his heritage as the only defining element in his art. “I was talking to someone a while ago about not wanting to be labeled a Native American artist. She said, 'Well, you should stop making Indian art.’ That just didn’t make any sense to me,” he said. He’s pretty clear on that point and still it seems to get in the way. “I want to be known as an artist, not as a Native American Indian artist. You don’t see other artists labeled as Norwegian, Swedish or any other nationalities when they are American born like I am. I just want to be an artist just like everyone else. I’m not a museum specimen,” he said. Even pressure from granting agencies, including the Bush Fellowship, haven’t moved him and that may be why we in the Midwest have appreciated his work long before the rest of the country has been able to see it.

That’s about the change. “I’m really grateful to the Bush Foundation and honored to receive this recognition and funding. My Fellowship plan is to travel to Florida and paint with James Rosenquist who’s been kind enough to take me under his wing for a while. Then I plan to travel up the East Coast to get a feel for art in another part of the country, including New York City.” Star Wallowing Bull’s work precedes him. His art hangs in the Smithsonian in Washington DC, in the British Museum of Art in London, England and in museums around the Midwest. The Bush Foundation Fellowship will make it possible for both Wallowing Bull and his art to find new places to go and new questions to ask.

My Grandmother

2010-02-07T04:07:00.000-08:00

My grandmother quietly passed away last June of 2009 during the White Earth pow-wow season. It came as a sudden surprise to us all. I personally took it hard. I didn't realize how close we were until she passed away, because she was more than my grandmother, she was also a mother figure as she helped raise my sister Fawn and I. The last time I saw her was Mother's Day, 2009. I drove to White Earth, Minnesota from Fargo, North Dakota to take her out to lunch at the Shooting Star Casino for their lunch buffet. My grandmother wasn't a gambler. She just really enjoyed socializing and smoking. I always got a kick out of her stories and gossip she told me. It was funny that people always believed her when she would make up stories about her kids and about people living on the reservation. I always knew she was exaggerating at times, but I enjoyed listening to my grandmother's stories and good humor. After our lunch we sat in her car and talked for an half hour. We started to talk about our relatives who passed away. She often talked about her grandson, my cousin Richard "Weasel" Norcross quite a lot. Weasel accidentally shot himself with a handgun back in 1991. He was my grandmother's favorite grandson. We all took it hard, especially Weasel's mother, my aunt Kathy Big Bear. My grandmother said that she was excited to see him and her other relatives when she would pass away. She also said she wanted to come and visit me after she passed away, just to let me know she was okay. I told her to "stop talking like that! You're not going to die anytime soon Grandma!" She seemed to be in good health and was only seventy eight years old. I went back to Fargo and I continued to keep in touch with her on the phone.

A month later, I was saddened by the news that my grandmother passed away due to her heart valve that gave out that was replaced ten years ago and the doctors told her at her age now, it was too big of a risk to replace it with a new valve. She was buried in Pine Point, Minnesota on the White Earth Reservation. Soon after the funeral, I started to sense my grandmother's presence on three occasions. The first time, I was at my drawing table and I felt like my grandmother was watching me draw and the following next week I sensed her again while painting. The last time, I was drawing and I smelled a strong odor of Aqua Net hair spray! I opened the door to my studio and smelled the hallway thinking it was one of the neighbors. I didn't smell anything, so I went back in and I could still smell it in my studio. My grandmother had used Aqua Net hair spray since I was a little boy. It's a smell that I'm very familiar with and I was really spooked out! The smell of hair spray soon disappeared.

I started to have dreams of my loved ones who passed away during my grandmother's passing. My best friend in grade school through Jr.High, Dale "Diggy" Butler, came to visit me in my dream. In the dream, Diggy was living in the woods by the Mississippi river in Minneapolis. He had squirrels, raccoons and rats living with him in a cardboard fort. Diggy was very happy to see me. My friend Diggy was fatally shot by gang members in Minneapolis in the early 1990's.

My cousin Marcel White Bird came to visit me in my dreams periodically after my grandmother passed away as well. In the dreams, Marcel seemed always happy to see me as I was to see him too. We would run through the woods of the Mississippi banks together only as children. Those were some of our most adventurous times in our lives growing up together.

My cousin Richard "Weasel" Norcross accidentally shot himself with a gunshot wound to the head in 1990. In my dream he was lying in bed in the hospital and as I was standing over his bed, he woke up and looked right at me. Weasel said, "I am alright" and slowly smiled at me. I was startled by his gaze and started to cry extremely hard because he was alive. Weasel wanted me to take him to a Pow-Wow so he could dance and he suddenly appeared with full dancing regalia, bells and feathers. I walked him out of the hospital but he seemed to be slow with his speech, body movement and barely made facial expression. I knew he was there but he was different like the gunshot wound to the head physically affected him in the after life.

The last and final dream of my grandmother came one month after she passed away. I was walking towards an old temple ruin with lush green vegetation. The temple looked like something you would see in Central America. As I came closer, I walked into the temple and saw torches on the wall that lit a long hallway. At the end of this hallway was my grandmother. She was sitting on a wooden chair. She stood up with her arms reaching out for me. I started to cry really hard. We hugged each other and she had told me she was alright and she loved me. My grandmother gave me a small gold bar (I still don't know what that small gold bar symbolized) and then she simply left.

These dreams felt so real to me.

I woke up crying extremely hard and I startled my girlfriend. I haven't cried like that since I was a boy. My heart was pounding hard and I was overwhelmed with love and the sad loss of losing my grandmother again. My girlfriend comforted me that morning and she said," Your grandmother was saying her final goodbye to you and she knew you would be o.k.". Since then, I haven't dreamed of my grandmother since then. I don't feel her presence anymore.

All the dreams I was having of my loved ones are gone as well. They seemed to have just vanished from my dreams and they have all moved on. I have been affected deeply by my grandmother's love throughout my years and the friendships of my other family and friends who have all passed away. I am told I have a gift to remember my dreams so distinctly, and I am honored that these and other people have come to visit me in my dreams. But most of all, it is my everlasting love that I have for my grandmother, that I know she is looking down on me, perhaps whispering in my ear words of encouragement as I would only know.

My Childhood

2009-05-24T08:12:00.000-07:00

Star Wallowing Bull 3rd Grade

Earlier this year, I took a trip to Minneapolis to visit my family and friends. I stopped by my cousin Ed's house. All of Ed's children were there. It was good to see everyone again. We started talking about old times and had a few laughs. Then Ed started to talk about a pressure washer I had apparently stole from a painting company, Super Painters, back in the early 1990's. I completely forgot about that. For years, Ed and some of the super painters accused me of stealing this pressure washer. They constantly laughed about it over the years as well. I told them right from the beginning, I did not steal it, and yet no one seems to believe me. It's like trying to tell a bunch of monkeys you didn't steal it. This story continues to change every time I hear it from someone. They should've figured it out by now that I didn't steal it. I'm not going to admit to something I didn't do. During my years of my recovery I have stepped up to the plate and confessed my wrong doings and lies but yet some people just don't believe me, even if you're family. This topic is annoying and down right stupid. They seem to be stuck in the some old conversation with me. Today,I like to engage in an intelligent conversation and have a few laughs. But I have to accept that they will never change even if the truth is looking right at them in the face.

After leaving my cousin's house, I started to look back into my childhood. I was an easy target since I was a little boy. As far back as I can remember, it all started in grade school. I was picked on by bullies and girls. I was small for my age and I was an easy target. These bullies would perform wrestling moves on me, push me, spit on me, lie to the teacher to get me in trouble and later laugh about it. Most of the time, the teacher would believe them over my sworn honesty. I would have to take a time-out for something I didn't do. These bullies would take turns on who would steal my lunch. I often went hungry during my grade school years. Crying at school was normal for me. When I got home I would often cry alone. I didn't tell my teachers, father or grandmother about my problems. I didn't want to get in trouble by the bullies so I stayed silent.

The girls on the other hand hated me, so I thought. When a group of girls were together they would look at me and giggle. I thought they were making fun of me or of something bad about me and this really made me feel bad. Some of the girls would chase me screaming like a crazy person and sometimes when they caught me, they would pull my hair, slap me and scream and then proceed to runaway. I cried a few times due to this insane behavior. I tried to stay away from the girls as much as possible but I do admit, I became girl crazy ever since. I really did look forward to art class because the girls would want to sit by me during times of creation. They really loved my art! Even the bullies I hated, loved my art. I found peace and serenity in my art class & that's were I met my first girlfriend. She was such a sweet girl and became very protective of me. She was attracted to the flowers I would draw for her. I have always wondered about her whereabouts to this day. Few of the boys didn't like the attention I was receiving so they took advantage of my talent and threatened to beat me up if I didn't draw them something. I mostly drew cars and guns for them just so they would stop threatening me. During this time, I met a Chinese boy and we became friends. I asked him to teach me karate to get back at the bullies in exchange for a drawing. But here I was racial profiling him expecting that all Chinese people knew karate. Now that I think about it, he didn't know karate, but I gave him a drawing anyway. I can recall one boy punching me in the face because I didn't draw the right tires on his car. I was too scared to tell on him or even to defend myself. I often imagined myself coming to school with a green light-saber and killing these bullies. This went on during my grade school years. I had gotten to a point were I didn't want to attend school at all! So I started to skip school at an early age of seven.

When I skipped school, I often went to the Mississippi River on the west bank of Minneapolis between the Franklin Avenue and the Lake Street bridges. I loved to explore the wooded areas and walk on the cat-walks underneath the bridges which were very dangerous. I would also explore the sewer systems against the Mississippi west bank cliffs with a flash light and a home-made spear just in case the rats got too close. I was fascinated with how big these rats were until I saw a rat as big as a house cat! I ran out of the tunnels crying and I never went back. I would often catch a city bus to the Minneapolis Art Institute which had free admission. I loved looking at the wide variety of art on display. I was more drawn to the abstract paintings. It was around that time I was often confused about what I wanted to be when I grew up. It was either a taxi cab driver and artist like my father, or an ice cream truck driver. I walked all over the Minneapolis/ St.Paul area looking to explore with all of my curiosity. I would often check out the local art stores and wish for art supplies. I started to steal color pencils, pens and other supplies from the art stores. I became a little thief. I knew it was wrong, but I thought if nobody knew, it was okay. I didn't have very much parental guidance. My father was too busy working and my grandmother was busy as well. After a week or two had gone by after skipping school, the school called my grandmother. They asked where I was because I wasn't in school. So with the "strong" guidance of my grandma, I went back to school. But skipping school continued to go on during the rest of the school year until summer came and I became more out going and adventurous again.

As I mentioned in a previous blog, Fawn and I were pretty much raised by our grandmother in the Southeast projects of Minneapolis. My grandmother volunteered at a thrift store called the Free Store. I was often complimented on how well I dressed by my teachers and often asked me where I shopped for my clothing.
I hesitated..... and said K-mart, which I was too embarrassed to admit where I really got my clothes. Unfortunately, my school bus drove past the Free Store five days a week. I tried not to look at the Free Store while we drove by until my grandmother was standing outside the store and she was blowing kisses at me. All the kids finally knew where I got my clothes. I was continually teased throughout the rest of the school years. Now I really didn't want to go to school. I know now, my grandmother meant no wrong. She was just happy to see me. I can laugh about it now.

Around the same time, I lived right by my cousin Marcel. We were best friends, brothers and cousins. We hung out everyday and got into mischief. We threw eggs and rocks over the fence at my father's taxi company right across the street from where we lived. We stole Star Wars, He-Men and GI Joe action figures at the local Target store. We dangerously ran along and hung onto the steel ladders of trains while in motion, until the police chased us away. We rode our bikes all over Minneapolis/St.Paul in search of other bikes to steal. The cat walks underneath the Franklin Avenue bridge were our favorite place to have fun. Walking along the cat walks and hanging off of them with our bare hands was a lot of fun. I'm relieved none of us got hurt or killed. Marcel was more of a risk taker. He was always willing to test out something dangerous before I did. It was quite a rush for us. Throwing rocks at cars from the bridges onto I-94 was an almost daily routine for us. We damaged a lot of cars and trucks during this insane time of our lives. We were eventually chased away by the police. My first encounter with the law was when I was eight years old and I was caught throwing rocks at cars by a police woman. She applied the handcuffs behind my back and sat me in the back seat of her squad car. I was crying so hard I started to hiccup. I thought I was going to jail for a very long time. I promised to the police woman I would never do it again. She took pity on me and gave me a hug, but I could tell she was still upset with me. She told me never to do it again or she would really take me to jail. That was the last time I ever threw a rock at a car.

Marcel and I were obsessed with fire so we became fire bugs. We loved to start garbage cans on fire. Some of the fires were so big that the fire department was called numerous times. We thought watching the firemen were so cool, we just had to start more! I loved the attention we were receiving. We were even starting fires in our own houses! Marcel started a small portion of his own basement on fire. I almost burnt down my grandmother's garage as well as my father's house! So here we were, grade school boys who started fires and stole things. Our parents at the time, had no idea what kind of mischief we were up to. We had no parental guidance at all. They were oblivious to what was really going on. Our destructive and dangerous behaviours were not normal. We just ran wild throughout the Minneapolis/St.Paul area.

Looking back at all of my shenanigans, I was a lost boy. Having poor parental guidance in addition to being teased and bullied at school, I literally was a boy of the streets. I had fun, but I didn't go to school very much, which has haunted me to this day. Education is the key for everyone, but unfortunately, it wasn't instilled in me growing up. It's amazing I am still alive with all of the craziness I endured from my childhood up until the start of my sobriety at the age of 27 years old.
I don't want to live in the past. I must move forward.

Star Wallowing Bull: Born with a Gift

2009-04-29T04:38:00.000-07:00

When one artist writes about another artist, they often look for the common ground between them. This gives a place to begin. No one can fathom the depths of the artist's soul, nor cover the whole of their intent; nor would we want to, especially given that these post-modern times frown on that.

But there is a place that resides in the air between artists, from one artist to another, in that intellectual private space that bonds one artist to another, in which we artists want to know more. We want to know the whys and wherefores. We want to know what took that artist on their private journey.
Maybe this is part of the fourth dimension. For, surely, the artist enters another space or world in the act of creating. S/he draws on all past experience from birth to the present, all memory, sights, sounds, and smells become part of the creation process. Any artist, worth their salt, must concentrate with the outer limits of their being and thus in this act, the infinite world succumbs to a low level fringe of the artist's realm.
In what seems a narrowing of focus, abandonment of responsibility and perhaps free fall of consciousness, becomes a space of infinite possibilities and limited construct depending on the artist's mindset.
The rigorous artist who follows this path becomes a subset of mainstream cultures, a marginalized human in today's industrialized, corporate world, but in reality a subset of culture that is as old as time.

In old times, the artists were the keepers of memory, the recorders of events, the markmakers of prayers, and the shamen who brought the unseen world into view.
The artist receives this gift through their DNA. It is there at birth. Circumstances either encourage this gift or deny it's possibilities. If unrealized, this artist can search through life for a sustainable construct elsewhere and continually be rootless, never satisfied, never fulfilled, and always off balance.
In private discussions and continuous email correspondence, Star Wallowing Bull and I have discussed this topic backwards and forwards. We both understand this is a gift, we're both deeply thankful, and we both see that this is larger then we are.

Finally, I will say there are artists and then there are artists. One follows their calling, gets the proper education, and manages a career. The other artist is not only gifted, but they are a gift to their tribe, to society. They are visionaries; they create on another plane, having nothing to do with the fundamentals of design, having nothing to do with the Canon. This comes from a space of soaring dreams, a charted DNA descended from time immemorial, an unconscious, intuitive gift of enormous proportions. This, then is Star's legacy and I pray he continues to gift us all.

-Jaune Quick-to-See Smith
Corrales, NM
August 2005

Between Two Cultures: A Muscial Interpretation of the Art of Star Wallowing Bull

2009-04-27T06:30:00.000-07:00

Star Wallowing Bull, Once Upon a Time.... 2004

I was commissioned by the Fargo-Moorhead Symphony to compose a work for the 2005/06 season-opening concert. When the Plains Art Museum and the Fargo-Moorhead Symphony decided to make a collaborative evening of the art and music, I was introduced to Star Wallowing Bull. As I have worked with him, It has been a real thrill to study his work and to get a glimpse into a variety of cultures that have shaped his life.

Initially, Star had reservations about how the orchestra and music might reconcile with his art, but as we worked together, the realm of possibilities opened up, and we both gained enthusiasm for the project.

I first met Star at his studio. He showed me several pieces that would be in the exhibition. After a few minutes of talking with Star and seeing his work, I knew what I was going to do with the Symphony's piece. I decided to name my symphonic work after Star's exhibition Between Two Cultures. I would score for full orchestra: with two flutes, both doubling on piccolo; two oboes, with the second doubling on English horn; two B flat clarinets; one bass clarinet; one alto saxophone; three bassoons, with the third doubling on contra; four French horns; two trumpets; three trombones; one tuba; timpani; and four percussionists-all playing a variety of instruments, harp, and strings.

The pieces is based on three of Star's drawings. The first movement is based on the work Unknown Territory. It begins with our principal flutist playing a traditional, wooden, Native American flute. The movement explores the dark and distant look on the man's face in the drawing, as well as his contemplation and rage. To me, the loss of his arms signifies the loss of something deeper: his culture? his land? his family?

The second movement is based on Windigo versus the Cannibal Man. This drawing depicts a fight between two evil spirits. The music is driving and dark. This movement evokes my understanding of the sounds at a pow wow, where the alto saxophone is the leader and the rest of the orchestra answers the chant. As the piece builds to climax with the fight, the Thunderboyz, the Native American drum group from the Sisseton-Wahpeton tribe, enters the stage and performs a short work, ending this movement.

The last movement is based on Once Upon a Time. This drawing seems very significant to Star, as it represents a new beginning in his life. From out of a very troubled past he's reaching for a star-success, a new life (thanks to a grant from the Smithsonian Institution's National Museum of the American Indian). The Movement begins with the full string section playing rather a somber, intense music. The pensive mood turns heroic with the brass section entering and the piece's end is uplifting and positive.

I'm thankful to the Fargo-Moorhead Symphony and the Plains Art Museum for making this collaboration possible. I'm also grateful to Star for sharing his culture and his personal stories.

-Russell Peterson
Fargo, ND
August 2005

The Plains Art Museum

2009-01-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

Between Two Cultures: The Art of Star Wallowing Bull. The Plains Art Museum, Fargo, North Dakota 2005

When I first heard of the Plains Art Museum, I just started living at a treatment facility back in 2001. I was browsing through the newspaper and I came upon a classified ad which read,"The Plains Art Museum looking for local artists to show their artwork on the second floor hallway". I wasn't too sure of myself and my self-esteem was quite low at that time. I was still in my early recovery process of sobriety. None the less, a week later I responded with an application along with some slides of my work. I soon secured a small exhibition in the hallway. Two years later,I participated in The Art on the Plains (AOP)where my prisma color pencil drawing, "Black Elks Little Sandman" won the People's Choice Award. Where the museum soon purchased that piece for their permanent collection and is also one of the learning posters for their education department. I soon became good friends with Rusty Freeman, Sandy Ben-Haim,Pam Jacobson,Sue Petry,Joni Janz,Mark Ryan and Frank McDaniels. The entire Plains Art Museum Staff has been a great support for my work and have always been there for me.

Later in 2005, I was honored with having the "Between Two Cultures" exhibition which was in collaboration with the Fargo/Moorhead Symphony. Close to five hundred people attended my exhibition! It was very overwhelming and exciting. I just couldn't believe this was really happening to me. Months before this event, I worked with Russell Peterson who composed the music for the "Between Two Cultures" portion of the symphony's performance. Russell really captured the essence and reality of my artwork. There were three prisma color pencil drawings of mine that were projected on the wall behind the symphony. The last work shown was entitled "Once Upon a Time". It was about the re-birth of my recovery process. The drawing was a self-portrait of me as a baby reaching for a "Star". The music captivated me and brought tears of happiness to my eyes. I will forever remember this event and I'm very grateful for all the hard work that the Plains Art Museum staff, Russell Peterson and the entire Fargo/ Moorhead Symphony and the Thunderboyz had done during this collaboration.

A Blessing in Disguise

2008-08-24T16:50:00.000-07:00

My First Day of Sobriety. April 2001

He was a Starbaby who fell to earth, to New York City in particular, for a day or two. We beheld him, he who inspires and creates worlds on paper. He had a story to share with us. Those who too perhaps originated in the heavens, brave and honest. His words, as his drawings impacted us. In ways we may never know, as would a falling star, supernova, don't stop.

- Dorene Elizabeth Red Cloud

March 2 2001 - Somewhere in the White Earth Indian Reservation, I was awakened by a highway patrol officer, who found me passed out in the ditch partially covered with snow and dirt. As he was helping me to my feet, I could tell it was in the early morning, because of the fading stars and the sun was slowly rising. The highway patrol officer asked me how I ended up out here. I told him, "I don't know" and I still don't know to this day. The last thing I remembered, I was drinking at the Northside Bar in Detroit Lakes,Minnesota. I then blacked out and I awoke in the ditch. As the officer was escorting me to the back seat of his squad car, he looked at me and said, "you're a mess, you need treatment". I became ignorant of his statement and advice. I thought to myself, "never mind your own fuckin business"! But deep down inside I knew I needed help. My mind was just too clouded to see the other side. I remember nodding in and out while the officer was preaching to me about recovery. He went on and on and I just felt like saying,"why don't you just shut the fuck up"! I just wanted to get to Detroit Lakes. I really didn't want to hear his "bull shit". Now that I think about it, he was just trying to help me. I was so stubborn and ungrateful at the time. As we approached Detroit Lakes, he asked me were I lived and I told him that house, (which wasn't my place of residence).I just wanted out of his car. Before he let me go, he said, "remember what I said, 'recovery is the only way". I totally ignored him and walked away. As I walked to this so called house of mine, I went around the back until the officer drove away. I then proceeded to find my next drink. I walked all over town and was going into bars trying to find a free drink from someone I knew. I was kicked out of one bar and I knew no one at another. So I staggered to a near by park and found a sand box and I simply fell in. I became very sick and I started to throw up. I felt my life wasn't worth living and I wanted to die right there. I then crawled into the bushes and slept there all day.

I woke up that night in the bushes and decided to go to my grandmother's house. As I was walking, some girls that I knew walked by me and said "Gross Star!" and they started to laugh at me. I always wondered why I never had a girlfriend. Women didn't want anything to do with me because of the way I looked and my addiction. I arrived at my grandmother's house and I knocked on her door. She opened it and took one look at me and said,"where have you been"! I hesitated to tell her where I came from. Before I could say another word, she gave me the "evil eye" and told me to jump in the shower and to put some clean clothes on. Of all the times I couldn't fend for myself during my drunkenness, my grandmother was always there for me. (I now know that she had unconditional love for me, no matter what I did, she was there for me.) As I jumped out of the shower, I saw that the bath tub was filthy. I then looked in the mirror at myself and I quickly looked away because I didn't like the reflection I was seeing. I felt very ugly. It felt great to be clean and to be fed. I started to make my bed on the couch, my grandmother said,"you better have your act together Star! You'll be going to New York City soon". I completely forgot about the Smithsonian Fellowship Award from the National Museum of the American Indian that I received in early 2000. I was to start my fellowship April 2001. The fellowship entailed visiting the collections and to complete a research during my visits. What I didn't know was this trip was about to change my life.

April was approaching and I packed up my bags and caught the Greyhound to Minneapolis. When I arrived, I went to my art dealers house, Todd Bockley. Todd and my father, Frank Big Bear, actually helped me get into the art scene back in 1998. I always wanted to be an artist since I was a small boy but I lost interest when I started to use mind altering drugs and alcohol at the age of 14 years old. I haven't created my art ever since until the age of twenty five. For three years, Todd and my father put up with my alcoholism. But they still stuck with me. I was quite a talented artist during my brief times being sober. Todd financially took care of me with my prismacolor pencil drawings. He helped me, I helped him. We have been working together ever since. He is also my good friend. My father called me at Todd's to wish me luck and to preach to me about my drinking problem. "Don't mess this up star!" My father just kept talking and talking,nothing but negative preaching. I just wanted him to "shut the fuck up and leave me alone"! Of course, I didn't say that to him. I just didn't listen to him. My trip to New York City was to just get away from my problems. But I later realized through recovery I brought the problem with me.

April 2001 - I was very excited about the National Museum of the American Indian Fellowship that I was awarded. I arrived in NYC late in the afternoon intoxicated due to my drinking during my wait at the Minneapolis International Airport. I caught a cab to the Club Quarters Hotel in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan. During my ride there, I was fascinated with the "Big Apple". All walks of life, different venues, restaurants and tons of liquor stores. I was filled with wonder and astonishment with all the intricate buildings they had there. I couldn't understand the cab driver very well. Her English was all broken up. I finally arrived at the Hotel. The cab ride was 30 dollars. The plan was to meet two other artists there the next day. They were Nadema Agard and Marianne Nicolson. I was curious about them. I didn't even take the time to study who these artists were. I was too busy drinking my life away. I finally settled into my room. But I soon became restless sitting in my room that night so I decided to venture out into the night and have a few drinks with the little money I had. At first, I was scared to go out into the city but I really wanted a drink to calm my nerves. When I got outside into the night, I notice there weren't hardly any people around. I was right in the middle of the Financial District. I found a bar right in front of the World Trade Centers. I proceeded to walk in and ordered a beer with a rum shot and sat in front of a window looking at these two tall buildings. I was amazed! After my drinks. I wanted to see the World Trade Centers close up so I ordered another beer and left the bar. The bartender ran out after me and said "You can't leave the premises with that beer". I told him to "Fuck Off"! He just went quietly back into the bar. I was very disrespectful towards people at the time. I didn't even have respect for myself. So I continued to walk towards the two towers with wonder and disbelief.

I soon went to my hotel room and went to bed. I was awakened with an early morning phone call. It was Nadema Agard. She was there to assist Marianne Nicolson and I with our NMAI fellowship and to show us around the city. She said, "Good Morning Star time to get up. I'll be waiting for you downstairs". OK, I said. I was a little hung over and very tired. When I stepped out of the elevator. There she was waiting for me. Nadema Agard, such a beautiful woman. The weird thing was I felt like I knew her before, from someplace or another. I just couldn't grasp it. I felt very safe and comfortable with her. As we spoke, Marianne Nicolson walked off the elevator. She was also a beautiful woman. She was from Victoria, British Columbia, Canada.
We all had a pleasant first conversation. I was very intrigued with both Nadema and Marianne's accents. We stopped at a coffee shop and they bought coffee to go. I really never cared for coffee so I didn't buy any. All I wanted was something with alcohol in it. How pathetic was I! As we walked together to the NMAI Museum, I was still astounded at our surroundings here in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan. These buildings were so close together they seemed to suck out the sunlight everywhere. I started to isolate myself from them at that time. I didn't want them to get to know the real me. I was ashamed of myself and my life. I wasn't completely developed mentally due to my years of drug and alcohol abuse. I felt I was immature and not very bright. Deep down inside, I was this scared little boy. Nadema introduced us to the director of the NMAI. After our brief introduction, we were asked to write an artist statement. I hesitated at first due to my lack of education. I was very ashamed. I quickly made up an excuse for not writing it. I told them my artist statement was back at the Hotel. Marianne wrote hers very easily. I admired her intelligence and as an artist after that. Marianne and I left NMAI to become tourists. The city was so big, we didn't know which way to go, so we took the subway. I was comfortable being with Marianne. She was quite an intelligent woman. I really didn't want to tell her anything about me. I wanted to impress her as an artist and to make a friend. But, being a chronic alcoholic, immature and having a lack of an education caused me to close my doors to her so she wouldn't get to know the real me. She probably already knew. Unfortunately, I don't really know anything about what we did together or where we went. I was so focused on my drinking. I really didn't want to do anything with Nadema and Marianne and I do regret that. I couldn't focus or communicate with them or people in general. Being under the influence would help me because alcohol became my balance and my reality. I couldn't function without it. I really was a chronic mess.

During my fellowship, on the fourth day or so, I ventured out into the night looking to get wasted. I took a cab to Time Square and I started to hop from one bar to another. Talking to a variety of people. I seemed to be attracted to the dysfunctional people. I was starting to become very intoxicated. Now my night was becoming a foggy blur. I vaguely remember being in some strip bar talking with women. Buying them drinks, lap dances and flirting. When I left the bar, I was in Queens! I had no idea how I got there. So I made my way back to Time Square in a cab. I was walking around blacking in and out looking at the bright lights. Everything started to spin and I got sick. This homeless black guy helped me off the street and waved for a cab for me. I thanked him and gave him some money. When I got back to my hotel, I ordered a bottle of rum and food. It was early in the morning. Black outs were common for me. During my binges, sometimes I would wake up out of it and found myself crying or breaking things. I was a very sick young man. Later that day the NYPD was pounding on my door. I hesitated to answer the door because I didn't do anything. They soon came in. It turns out I was throwing stuff out of my window and swearing at people below. I still don't remember that incident to this day. The police were wearing civilian clothes with their badges hung around their necks. Two white men and a black woman. I was crying when they came in. My room was trashed. My slides of my art were scattered on my bed. They started to look at my slides and was asking me what was going on? I told them I was sorry and that I was drunk. I told them I was from Minneapolis and I received a fellowship award through Smithsonian NMAI for my artwork. All three were looking at my art. They were impressed but disappointed I was throwing my life away with alcohol. The black woman said I have a gift and I'm very talented. I shouldn't throw my life away like this. She was very positive and nice to me but I could also see the disappointment in her. She turned to the other officers and asked them if they should take me to jail? They both nodded "No". They also encouraged me as they were looking at my slides. They wanted me to check into a treatment facility when I got back. They made me promise them. Then the black woman tucked me into bed and said "it's time for you to change".

I awoke the next day hung over. I started to realize what had happened. I started to worry. So I called the front desk of the hotel I was staying at. I apologized and begged them not to tell anyone or NMAI. I soon found out later someone did report the incident. Nadema Agard had me come to her office that morning at NMAI. I was then contacted by Keevin Lewis who worked at NMAI in Maryland. He had told me a Fellow shouldn't act like that and he had also informed me that my fellowship has been terminated. I was devastated. NMAI gave me a choice to stay for a week as it was already paid for or go home that day. I stayed and continued to drink for a whole week wandering aimlessly throughout the city. I left the NMAI crying. I felt like I was hopeless and lost. During that week I had lunch with Marianne. We discussed how alcoholism affects our families and friends. I was then more aware of my own alcoholism after talking with Marianne. The next day, I called a Treatment Facility in Fargo, North Dakota for help. It didn't work out at the time because I was supposed to get an evaluation first, but I couldn't do that now, so I did that when I got back to Minneapolis.

I experienced my first day of sobriety while I was still in New York City during my last few days. Reality was starting to sink in of what I did wrong in my life. I then walked throughout the city thinking of this devastation. I came upon the Brooklyn Bridge that day. I happened to have a camera with me where I had a passerby take a picture of me and I only smiled for the picture, but deep down inside I was hurting.

When I returned to Minneapolis, I was evaluated and sent to Fargo, North Dakota to a Treatment Center. I am proud to say that I have been sober for seven years now!

At the time, I thought this was the worst thing that could of happened in my life, but it was actually the best thing that has ever happened to me...... It changed my life.

My Dream - Fast Food & The Cookie Monster

2008-07-19T05:35:00.000-07:00

I recently had a dream. The dream showed me as this extremely fat little boy walking down the street carrying all kinds of fast food. Cheeseburgers, french fries, pizzas, frosted cakes, candy and so on. I wobbled down the street with chocolate smeared all over my face. I was a very happy little boy. This street was bright with all kinds of fast food places. I could see Burger King, McDonald's, Taco Bell, and a variety of Candy Factories. Then the sky suddenly became grey and all the fast food stores started to close one by one. I became upset. While I was standing there, someone threw a cookie in my face and I started to cry. I looked to see who it was and it was the "Cookie Monster". He started to throw more cookies at me. So I tried to runaway from him. The Cookie Monster's laugh was very deep and disturbing. It really scared me. It was also hard for me to run due to all the fast food I was carrying and being over weight. I cried and cried as these cookies were being hurdled at me. He was just too fast for me to lose him. I started to hear someone call my name so I looked in that direction and it was "Oscar the Grouch". He was waving for me to come his way. So I ran towards him. He was living in a garbage can on top of a heap of garbage, as they were mostly black garbage bags. As I started to climb the garbage towards the top, "Oscar the Grouch" was holding a garbage can lid for a shield deflecting the cookies away from me. I was still crying and gripping my fast food. I couldn't fit inside the garbage can so I had to get rid of some of my food. I finally made it inside his home and I was safe. Oscar the Grouch's interior home was dark and full of black garbage bags. As I cried he started to comfort me in his arms and said I will be alright, there, there...

What's really strange is when my girlfriend Jennifer showed me the newspaper two days after this dream. There was a picture of "Cookie Monster" standing in front of a large cheeseburger in the Valley R&R section of The Forum Newspaper. The hair on the back of my neck stood up! The article was about junk food and childhood obesity.

I have been struggling with my weight this past year. Last winter I got up to around 190 pounds like every winter but I'm now down to 173 pounds. I'm still over weight. I should be 155 to 160 pounds for my height 5'7". I'm eating better and taking longer walks. Drinking a lot of water rather then sugar filled drinks which has made a small impact on me. In today's society, fast food is everywhere we go. Children are the targets for most fast food target markets. Sometimes I give in and buy a cheeseburger or something full of sugar. I also have a fear of being extremely obese. This dream was very real to me. It was a wake up call to stop eating all of that crap and live a better healthier life.

The Michael Jackson Era

2008-05-17T04:25:00.000-07:00

In 1982,Michael Jackson had the number one top selling album, "Thriller". I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. That year I was in middle school. My grandmother bought me the red jacket that Michael Jackson wore including the sparkling white glove and all. I was so excited to wear it during school which was at Hans Christian Anderson Middle School in South Minneapolis. I wanted to impress my friends and all of the girls that I had crushes on. I believe my grandmother purchased the red jacket at K-mart. As soon as I received the jacket, I went to my bedroom and tried it on. I thought it was so cool! I was very thankful for my grandma to buy it for me. I just had to put on my Walkman head phones and play the "Beat It" song to complete the image. When I played the song, I ended up busting up my bedroom with a plastic bat and doing kung-fu kicks and chops. I think I was imagining I was beating up gangsters in the streets as seen in the music video. I even looked in the mirror and I thought I was pretty darn cool. I took walks to the parks and to the local stores just so I could show off my red jacket. I couldn't wait to wear it to school. I even slept with it on a few times.

Monday morning finally came around and it was time to go to school. I was extremely excited to wear my red jacket to school. I woke up and immediately washed up and ate my breakfast. I quickly packed up my red jacket in a brown paper bag and out the door I went without saying good-bye to anyone. I waited at the school bus stop and all I could imagine was what I will look like when I walked into my class room while the "Beat It" song was playing. As soon as I got to school, I went around the back of the school instead of entering in through the front doors in order to put on my red jacket and walkman head phones. I decided to go without the sparkling white glove because I thought it was too much, so I threw it away. I was ready! I started the "Beat It" song and walked into the school. I was warmly greeted by my teacher and fellow students. I could see the expression on some of the students with a awe and amazement. But soon everything came down to a grinding stop. There were three other students wearing the same red jacket! Then my teacher got a look at my coolness and confiscated my walkman. The students with the other jackets thought it was cool that we all had the same red jacket. I sat down at my desk and started working on my school work with feelings of anger and disappointment. I remember I was so mad that I had pushed my pencil down so hard I broke the lead and pencil. When I returned home after school, I rolled up my red jacket and threw it in the back of my closet to never see the light of day again.

Now that I think about that time I was this "Bushy Headed Short Little Boy" who just wanted to be cool and unique. I'm somewhat embarrassed about that time but I can still laugh about it.

Perfectionist

2008-05-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

As far back as I can remember when I was a small boy, I've always been a perfectionist. When I made a mess or a mistake with household chores, homework and my artwork, I became very upset and frustrated. It bothered me a lot. Everything had to be perfect from what I did or what I made. I didn't expect people around me to be perfect. It was myself who I had to tend with. It was especially hard for me to play in the sand box with my friends. The sand made me feel dirty. So I stayed away from it. In grade school, my spelling was very good. Every word was perfectly within the graph lines. My writing and reading was also very exceptional. My teachers would often ask me if I wrote my homework as my father or grandmother would receive calls from the school to ask if I really did my homework. As time went by, my teachers knew I really was the one doing the spelling and writing my homework. They thought my spelling was too perfect and told me to loosen up and my school work would get done faster. I did and it frustrated me. My spelling and writing had to be perfect! When it was time for art class, which was my favorite class of all, my art teacher, Mr.John Donia would encourage me to finish my artwork. I'd want to throw it away if I made a small mistake and I think he knew that. Most of the time I did very well with my artwork and school work.

Being a perfectionist still affects me to this day. In both a positive and negative way. I try to loosen up and be messing with my household as well as my artwork. Those moments only lasted a couple of days. My clothes in my closet and dresser drawers are perfectly folded or hung in order by color. My paint and color pencils are organized in color tones side by side. Some of my prisma color pencil drawings are very detailed and tedious to produce. When I complete a drawing, it's a feeling of satisfaction and a great euphoric pleasure when I complete my work. Most times, I'm amazed at my own work when I don't see it for awhile.

My Friend Jim Rosenquist has been supporting and mentoring my painting for the past two and a half years now. I started painting full-time back in June 2005. Again my perfection has been a major factor in my painting process. Making that transition from color pencils to paint has been hard. I really didn't start painting until 2003 for the first time and that was just off and on again. Teaching myself how to paint has been a slow process. Learning by trial and error has been a learning experience for me. I'm too stubborn to ask for help from any of my artist friends. Although, it would be great if Rosenquist was here to show me some techniques. So I called him last week and asked him If I could come down for a visit so I could learn how to be a proficient painter. He accepted my proposal. He has to look at his schedule first and he'll make time for me this summer or fall. He knows I'm a perfectionist and it's slowing me down. He will teach me how to paint fast and to learn some of his painting techniques. I'm really considering on giving my acrylic paints away and switching to oils. Acrylics are just too hard to blend and that's one of the reasons why it's slowing me down. I recently have been experimenting with oils and they are starting to become easy to blend with. I think oil painting will be promising for my future. I'm confident his teachings will expand my mind in painting. I really want to loosen up and be a faster painter.

I have eleven large paintings built. Three are done and Jim Rosenquist has already purchased two of them. Three more are almost completed. That leaves me with five paintings to go where they are all in different stages of completion. I'm pretty sure they will all be done towards the end of the year,maybe sooner. I look forward to showing them in New York City. Jim Rosenquist has all good intentions for me and keeping me safe. I appreciate all that he has done for me.

Friday Night Fights

2008-02-19T21:04:00.000-08:00

Star Wallowing Bull (1979).

Months before my sister and I moved in with our grandmother, my father was working a lot and making art. He would occasionally go out to the local bars. Which were, Commodores, Mr. Arthur's,and the Corral. Located on Franklyn Avenue in South Minneapolis. These places did not scare me at first until my father came back one night and he was full of blood and swollen up. Someone had beat him up pretty bad. Fawn and I were very hurt and sad to see him like this. Fawn,especially took it hard. I later felt very angry about this and I wanted to find this guy and teach him a lesson. I was only seven or eight years old at the time. One night I woke up and decided to go to the bar to find this guy. So I sneaked out the front door at 12:00 in the morning and I went to my friends houses in the neighborhood and knocked on their bedroom windows to wake them up. Sometimes three or four of us would go. One of them was Nate. He was around my age. He also was Native American. I just don't recall what tribe. Some of us had Big Wheels and some walked to the bars. Mr. Arthur's bar was commonly known as an Indian bar. Always some chaotic,dysfunctional event was going on after the bar closes. We didn't find that out until we got there that late morning when the bar started to close. We were right across the street and I'm surprised the police didn't say anything to us. We seemed to always know someone at the bar. I remember seeing my two auntie's there sometimes. Sandy and Kathy. I always hid behind cars because I didn't want them to see me. I knew they would get upset if they saw me. They were the two closest I had to a mother figure. They were and still am so loving and compassionate to me. I loved them just like I would a mother. I always worried about them being at those bars. I remember one night,seeing my auntie Kathy coming out of the bar. She was wearing a cowboy hat and sun glasses. I thought she looked pretty cool but it was also funny that it was 1:00 in the morning. I still tease my aunties to this day. There seems to be a fight every Friday and Saturday nights. We had made it a routine to go on some of those weekends. Fist fights, hair pulling,scratching which resulted in the police constantly breaking up those fights. There was blood everywhere! We even witnessed a stabbing. I just can't believe us kids were watching all of that. It was so uncivilized and dysfuntional for us. I am 34 years old now, and sadly I realize now how I grew up was not normal.

My Dream - Helping Hands

2008-02-06T16:54:00.000-08:00

I recently had a dream. I was among the stars floating in space above the earth. It was quite a spectacular,peaceful sight. I was in a glass bubble in the form of a baby. I could see other glass bubbles with other babies in them sleeping. I was bumped by another bubble and I went off course into the earth's atmosphere. I started to fall and it became more rapid as I started to descend more and more. I became engulfed in fire, like a falling metorite. I could see the top of the clouds with flashes of light all over. I think they where thunder storms. I started to cry in the form of a baby. My heart was throbbing with extreme fear. As I passed through the clouds, I did not see land. I only saw the sea. I was coming in too fast and I finally hit the water. As soon as I went under I became the person I'm today,an adult. I was also naked! I started to panic under water. I didn't know which way was up. I finally found my way above the water gasping for air. I couldn't swim. I felt very helpless and I was still panicking. I saw this soccer ball floating in the distant. It was "Wilson" the soccer ball I saw in this movie called "Cast Away" with Tom Hanks. I started to scream for his help, "Help me Wilson! help me!" Over and over. Wilson just floated there with that stupid blood red smile. As I took my last breath,I went under. As I was sinking I saw a bright light below me. This light were people, thousands of them! They grabbed me and took me to the surface. I had a such a sigh of relief and I felt safe. These people where still wearing their clothes and they were chest high out of the water. I felt like I knew these people. They passed me over their heads,above the water for quite awhile to an island of sand. They layed me down on the sandy beach. I managed to get up and I realized I was still naked so I quickly covered myself up with both hands. I was quite embarrassed. These kind people started to wave goodbye and slowly started to descend back into the sea.

My dreams are so entwined with my life. This dream is a recurring fear that I have which is falling and drowning. It may be something that I need to overcome in life.

My Real Job

2008-02-01T19:26:00.000-08:00

For the past seven years, I have been told by my friends to get a real job. Or they would just comment telling me that they have a real job and I don't. Well this is my job and it's not as easy as most people think it is. I work on my art six to seven days a week. I'm either sitting down drawing or standing up painting. I tend to take turns because if I sit down too long, my lower back starts to throb with pain so I stand up to paint. Painting is a lot easier on my body then drawing. But it tends to be hard on the feet and upper back after awhile. That's where walks come into play. It clears my mind, gives me fresh air with fresh ideas for upcoming work. Not so much in the cold winter months where I tend to put on weight. Being single and not having any children make it alot easier as well. I'm always under pressure and stressed out from my work or by someone else putting pressure on me regarding my work. My work is very tedious and detailed. I try to loosen up but I can't kick that habit of being a perfectionist. When I notice the slightist flaw in my work I can't seem to fix it. Erasing color pencil is impossible. I have to either cover it up with another color or just leave it and hope somebody doesn't notice it. My eyes are starting to become strained. Three weeks ago, my left eye started to twitch and became out of focused. When I looked in the mirror, my eye had became red and had swollen up. I became very concerned and I stopped making art for a few days. I took a trip to the optical center where they had informed me that I was straining my eyes! I need to wear glasses or my eyes will get worse. They had also advised me to see a doctor. I really don't want to wear glasses but I will in order to maintain my art career. The pain, stress and pressure is just like any other job maybe more or less. I don't punch a time clock. I make my own time. No matter how much it stresses me or how painful it is. I love and hate it at the same time. But mostly I love it. It's my passion. This is my real job.

Forgetful

2007-12-09T17:17:00.000-08:00

Lately,I haven't been recognizing some of my old friends or people I have met during art exhibitions or simply in the public in general. Some of them I have not seen in a year or so. It takes awhile to process my memory in order to remember them. I do feel bad when people walk up to me to say "Hello" and I can't remember who they are or where I had met them. I have been making a lot of friends and socializing with people quite a bit. At times, it's overwhelming, but I always look forward to making conversation. I just don't remember everyone that I have met. I'm sure as my art career grows I will continue to meet a lot more people as well as making more friends on top of that.

Living in Fargo has been a sanctuary for me. But, there are times that my "old life" collides with my current life. By that I mean I will run into my old drinking buddies, from the Rez or Minneapolis, and quite frankly I purposely don't remember and or acknowledge them. I'd rather keep my relatives and my friends closer then my former alcoholic friends.

I am consumed in my art that I may be up almost 24 hours straight. So of course I am not cognisant of the day of the week.

I hope people won't be offended and will understand if I can't remember them. You have all touched my life in one way or another. I thank you for that.

My Father's Love

2007-11-12T18:47:00.000-08:00

My Father,sister Fawn and me (1978).

As far as I can remember, my father "Frank Big Bear" was a great inspiration for me growing up. I thought the world of him. Giving us unconditional love no matter how rough it got. We always had our father's attention with love and moral support. Making sure we ate three meals a day. Making sure we were clean along with our clothes. Keeping our visits with the Doctor and dentist. Taking us to the zoos and letting us on some of the rides, such as the Merry- Go -Around. Reading us bedtime stories and being a clown with humor. I believe my father was about twenty-five years old or so. It was very hard on him because he was a single father. To me, he was "Super Dad"

Watching him draw and paint was fascinating to me. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. I wanted to be a great artist and a cab driver. I took to being an artist very well. I decided not to be a cab driver as I saw how much my father was drained and fatigued coming home each night from driving cab. Unfortunately, he was robbed multiple times while on duty. It scared me to lose my father and I was scared away from ever driving cab. Driving cab was a everyday situation just so he could take care of us. I'm still scared to this day for his life and safety. I think he's been driving for thirty years or so. Minneapolis is just too dangerous these days.

He introduced me to the Twin Cities Art Museums. I really took a liking to the Arts right away. I first went to the Institute of Arts in Minneapolis. There was an exhibition going on with knights in beautiful intricate shining armour on fake horses which were also dressed up with armour. I really got scared and ran out of the room the fist time. They reminded me of humanoid robots ready for battle from another planet. I eventually got the courage to go in. After that exhibition, we went home and I made weapons out of scrap wood from the garbage, along with a garbage can lid for a shield. I took some of my father's paint and painted a "Star" on my shield. I was very creative with the little stuff I had. My father was the driving force behind my imagination. He always encouraged my art. Being a good father was very important to him. He knew Fawn and I went through a lot during our times with our mother and foster homes. He wasn't going to let that happen to us again.

My learning disability was a cause for concern when I was in grade school. My father worked with me on my home work and a teacher from school would come in to help me twice a week. My father and teacher were wonderful but both were distracting to me.
Every time I was with my father, all I wanted to do is make art and the teacher was beautiful. She made me blush and giggle when I looked at her. I took a liking to beautiful women ever since. I think the biggest problem was my speech. It was hard for me to say certain words. It bothered me when my teachers didn't understand me.
I believed this went on during grade school and through my early year of high school.

My father struggled to take care of us as a single father for three years. It was when I was eight years old that his alcoholism got the best of him. He was starting to go out to the bars and bring back some of the parties to our home. It reminded me of my mother as she did the same. Fawn and I would wake up two or three in the morning and join the party. Playing and teasing my father's drunk friends. Again, I thought this was a way of life for us. Growing up with alcoholism around us was a typical way of life for us Native American Indians. There were some early mornings when we woke up and saw my father passed out on the couch. I thought it was disturbing and at times funny. I remember one morning I started to sketch him with my color crayons as he was passed out. I would color with my darker crayons and draw flies on him. Fawn was so worried about him all the time. I didn't know what to think. We would carry on with our lives when these days came. Fawn and I pretty much started to take care of ourselves when my father's alcoholism began to get worse. My father was a loving, caring and passionate person. When he was drunk he was even nicer. We rather see him sober. He never abused us. Always being a goof-ball and making sure we were well fed. We just didn't go anywhere fun as much as we used too. My teacher would send notes back with me for my father, stating I needed a bath and some clean clothes. I would never give the notes to my father because I didn't want him to be upset at me. We were starting to become neglected. I believe his parenting skills were starting to fade away with his addiction.

My father eventually gave us up to our grandmother. My father just couldn't take care of us anymore. It was heart breaking at first but the feeling soon faded away with my grandmother's love and attention. I'm sure my father was devastated by this decision, but it was the best for us and he was only three miles away. The cab company where he worked was just one block away from my grandmother's. Which was very convenient. Fawn and I would go wait for him after work so we can see him. My father was still the greatest. He really never went anywhere. I think he just needed some time to deal with himself.

Although my home life growing up with my dad would be considered unconventional, and to some perhaps neglect. To me he is my dad, he fought to get Fawn and I back from our terrible life with our mom and foster homes. We lived on love and survival. Most importantly, love. I'm very thankful and fortunate to have him as my father. He will always be the greatest mentor of all.

Artistic Distraction

2007-11-10T15:30:00.000-08:00

I attended pre-school at the age of five years old. This was very traumatic at first for me when my father was dropping Fawn and I off while he went off to work as a cab driver to support our family. This really broke my heart when he left us each day. I thought I wasn't going to see him ever again. Of course he always came back to get us everyday. Fawn was somewhat okay being left alone, she always stared at me when I would cry. I eventually got over it during my pre-school days.

I believe I started kindergarten at age six. I was very shy yet always smiling. My teacher was a very nice woman. I still think of her to this day. We would sing in groups, which we all loved. My favorite was "Twinkle,Twinkle Little Star". I also enjoyed drawing with crayons on paper. I really loved to color. The children would sometimes gather around the table and watch me draw. They thought I was quite the artist. During these times, the kids would argue who would sit next to me. Most of them wanted to color with me. We were so innocent.

It wasn't until the next year during the first grade where I had trouble understanding. Because my artistic imagination was affecting my school work, everything I looked at became a piece of art. The color and designs on my teachers clothing became art. The children's clothing were interesting as well. My school work became art. The letters and numbers were becoming figures and robots. My imagination became out of control. I couldn't focus on my school work. When the teachers were talking to me,all I could hear were mumbles,like the parents on the cartoon "Charlie Brown". My father was called into the school a few times due to this problem. They questioned me of this issue but I was silenced because I couldn't explain what was going on within myself. I was too busy thinking of what to draw and color. This issue went on during my year as a first grader.

When my second year came around. I was still the same but I was a much better artist. My teachers started to notice that I had a gift. But my school work was still being affected. They started to pull me out of class once a day just so I can attend this class for "gifted students". I really don't remember a whole lot about this class,just that we were all considered equal. They were such nice teachers. I made everyone color pencil drawings, even for the other students.

I was held back in the third grade, due to this artistic intuition of mine. I became obsessed with my art. I started to draw on the back page of my school work from different classes. My teachers were concerned and some were upset I was making art instead of learning. Again,I became distracted with the environment around me. Everything was turning into works of art around me. Robots were the main characters of my imagination. Robots shooting each other. Tanks and airplanes. Sometimes, psychedelic colors would come down the wall or shoot across the class with cartoon characters. I could visually see them. I could have been hallucinating, but I know this was my imagination running wild and I couldn't stop it. Due to this process,I became verbally silent. I wouldn't talk to anyone. My grandmother had to come to school and get me to talk. This went on for the rest of the year. My grandmother and teachers could not understand what was going on with me. They thought maybe it was the traumatic situation that Fawn and I had endured during our times with our mother and foster homes, but it wasn't. My imagination went out of control.

That was just the beginning of my artistic imagination.

Meeting James Rosenquist

2007-10-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

James Rosenquist & Star Wallowing Bull (2005).

My friend Sandy Ben-Haim had told me an artist by the name of "James Rosenquist" was coming to the Plains Art Museum. She recommended that I come and meet him, which was about a couple of months away. I had never heard of James Rosenquist before.
I thought at first he was an artist from the area. I really didn't give it much thought soon after. I just planned on being there if I wasn't too busy.

As May 2005 came around, so did James. My live-in studio was just across the parking lot from the Museum. I looked out my window as I usually do every morning and saw something going on at the Museum. I didn't pay to much attention to what was going on,so I went upon my regular routine with my color pencil drawings and coffee. Later that morning,I was starting to become hungry. All I had was rice and water. I had a bad habit of eating fast food everyday and not buying groceries. So unhealthy. I had very little money at the time but enough to make it until I get paid again. As I looked out my window again,I remembered,the artist James Rosenquist is at the Museum. This was my chance to meet him and socialize.

I made my way to the museum and walked in. The gathering was on the first floor and they had his art hanging on the back wall of the atrium. Before I approached his work I loaded up my fleece pockets with food, then I walked over to the artwork and was fascinated with his colors and cross hatching lines. I also remembered seeing his work growing up. I just didn't know the name. Another good friend of mine, Rusty Freeman had came over to me and said,"you should meet James". Rusty introduced me to him. He was pleasant to talk with and I could tell right away he had a great knowledge in the arts. We started to talk about art in New York City. I had told him about a documentary I saw of naked people who roll in paint and jump against canvas nailed to the wall. I chuckled about that. James was talking about Pop Art being over with and time for a new art form. He also told me about George Morrison and that they were friends. Rusty had told James I used to run around him when I was a kid. In fact,I use to steal some of George's artistic ideas when I was younger but I didn't tell James that. Before I left,I told him he should come by my studio next door when he's in town again. He wasn't waiting around, he wanted to go now. I felt guilty for a few minutes because he would be leaving everyone behind for awhile because he was the guest of honor. You see James is a native of North Dakota. He was in town to receive his honorary doctorate degree from North Dakota State University.

James and I walked over to my small live-in studio. I noticed he was a fast walker. He walked faster then I did, especially walking up the stairs. I could tell he took great care of his health. I also thought at the time, "What street corner or farm did the Museum find this guy"? At this time, I still didn't know who this guy was. My studio wasn't much at all. It was converted into a studio from a efficiency apartment. As soon as James walked in. He really liked my paintings. He was asking me how much I wanted for the large painting? I said,that painting is not done. James said,it looks done to me! He then proceeded to look at my smaller painting's. How much do you want for that one? I said,that's not done either. The only painting that was completed was an abstract painting of a dog, entitled "Rez Dog". He really wanted it. So I sold it to him. It's strange that nobody liked that painting but me,then James came along and he liked it as well. He also went through my drawing's which were not done but they were very colorful. I told James,I'm not doing too well with my art and I'm struggling. He told me he was once in my shoes and that we have to start somewhere. He told me not to give up and to work hard. My self-esteem greatly increased as a person and as an artist after talking with James.

I wrapped up his "Rez Dog" painting with plastic and walked him back to the Museum. I think we were gone for quite sometime. Sandy was waiting for us with a camera and she took a picture of us. I then faced James shook his hand and said "it was nice to meet you and take care". As I walked away,all I could think about was buying myself a steak dinner and buying more color pencils. James was all but forgotten until later that week when I started to find out from my friends who "James Rosenquist" was. I had no idea of his history and his stature in the art world. A legend on top of all that.

I see Jim Rosenquist the same way I do as I would any other artists. I can't see the famous person he is nor the influence he has in the art world. I see Jim for who he is. Jim has given me hope and he has helped me with so much. Jim has became an inspiration in my life, especially my friend.

I'll never forget Jim for what he has done for me...... Thank you so much Jim.

The Wooden Boy

2007-10-05T23:05:00.000-07:00

After reuniting with our father in Minneapolis. We were slow to adjust to our new environment. Fawn and I had moved a lot during our young years. It was not good for a child, especially because of the chaos and pain we had endured.

My father was very happy to have us back. It meant the world to him. I was very emotionally scarred and highly sensitive as well. I thought the worst was still yet to come. I was afraid of being taken away or abandoned. I latched on to my father for comfort and safety. I practically smothered my father. I think it bothered him at times. It took awhile for me to adjust to my new life. I was such a quiet little boy. My father had started me drawing on paper at that time. My training had begun in the arts. It was a good outlet for me to express myself or just to doodle.

Fawn was just a happy little girl who was so sweet and innocent. To this day she doesn't remember what had happened to us during our time with our mother or that particular foster home mentioned in a previous blog. In a way,I'm thankful for that. Too much to bare for my little sis. She does remember the elderly couple with great love and respect. For that, I'm thankful.

Around that time, my father had introduced us to a lot of Walt Disney books. I really grew fond of Pinocchio. It was my favorite book. My father would read it to us and I always imagined myself as the wooden Pinocchio. I wanted to be a real boy when I grew up. This story was so real to me, I can somewhat identify with it with my own personal life. I became obsessed with this Pinocchio character. Always talking about him to my father,my relatives and my little friends from the neighborhood. Talking about him as if he was a real live person. Pinocchio became my mentor and my friend.

Foster Homes

2007-09-06T17:45:00.000-07:00

My Loving Foster Mother and our First Real Christmas (1977).

Approximately around the year 1976,my sister Fawn and I were taken away from our mother. We were placed in foster care for the next two years. The first foster home was so bad, they might as well thrown us in a prison. We were placed with an African-American family which consisted of a single mother of two and a boy and girl about the same age as us. At first, I didn't know what to think about them. I had never seen a black person before. I stared at them with a curious expression. I kept touching their skin and looking at my fingers to see if the color would rub off. Later these kids became our friends. They were such good kids. The mother on the other hand, was such a terrible mean woman. She didn't want us playing with her children too long so she kept us separate from each other. We were also kept in our rooms most of the time. Our room never had any sun light coming in,just darkness and lit with a bare lightbulb. If we got out of bed or did any little thing wrong, we would get spanked with a ping-pong paddle. That would hurt us so much. We pretty much got hit with it everyday. Fawn and I were very scared of this woman. We endured eight months of isolation and child abuse. The only time we were able to be outside was when the social worker came over to see us. The woman had dressed and cleaned us up.(Obviously just for show for the social worker.) I wanted to say something but I was deadly afraid of this woman. My pleas for help went unheard.

After eight months, we were finally taken to another foster home. This foster home was the best ever! When we first arrived, we were greeted by an elderly man and woman. They were so happy to see us.Of course Fawn and I were silenced by the traumatic situation we had endured. They assured us it was okay. The older man brought me to their back yard and had shown me a lot of toys,especially the plastic indian and cowboy figurines. Inside my little heart, I was a happy little boy again. Fawn was happy too. It was hard to adjust to such a loving family,it took awhile. They gave us three square meals a day, toys,and clean clothes. They took us to church,road trips,fishing,carnivals,zoos and of course they gave us chores to do as well. The one thing I had a big problem with was asking them to use their bathroom. I was so shy and scared to ask them that I would poop and pee in my pants. I think being traumatized by my past experience had something to do with it. They were never mad at me for doing such things. They always encouraged me to ask. I think my foster mother took it very hard and seem to cry at times. I miss and love them very much. It was very hard for us to leave them.

After a year and four months with them. We were taken again,but this time my father, Frank Big Bear, won custody of us to which we were flown back to Minneapolis from Denver. I was five years old and Fawn was three.I remember Fawn and I were looking out the airplane window over Minneapolis and the social worker was telling us,"Your daddy is waiting for you down there". We were so happy! As we were walking down the hallway. We could see our father and we both ran towards him and gave him a big hug at the same time. We became a family again.

No Smoking!

2007-09-05T18:52:00.000-07:00

I quit smoking again for the third time. I had been a smoker since I was 17 years old. I pretty much smoked because my friends were smoking. I wanted to fit in and be cool. I really do regret smoking now. It's such a terrible, unhealthy addiction. I want to breathe deep within my lungs, be active and be healthy.
A smoker loses one's sense of smell. I want to smell the environment around me and I don't want to smell like an ashtray. Unfortunately, I'm putting on weight because I'm replacing junk food for cigarettes. Although, I'm getting better about my eating habits. I'm trying to cook more at home rather than going out to a fast food restaurant. I should try to walk more. Most of the time, walking is a forgetful thought with me due to my artwork. In fact there are times that I don't even know what day of the week it is. I'm either standing up painting or sitting down drawing. Staying busy is good but I need to exercise and not smoke!

I want to live a long healthy life.

Dream - September 11, 2001

2007-09-02T21:17:00.000-07:00

Back in May of 2001, I had a very bad dream. The dream took me on a trip to New York City where the skies were covered with the darkest clouds I had ever seen. There were a lot of people running away from something. Some were crying, sad, angry and some were just standing there with no emotion. As I came closer to the source of this chaos, I realized it was the World Trade Centers. They were both on fire with an image of a skull on both towers. The towers were bending like rubber,wobbling from side to side. There was a crazy giant evil monkey jumping from one tower to another repeatedly with human bones falling from the towers. I noticed at the bottom of the towers, there were four black wolves pacing back in forth looking at me with their white glowing eyes. I didn't know if the wolves had something to do with it or if they were guarding it. What ever it was, it wasn't good at all. I soon found myself alone in front of the towers, looking up at them.

That's all I can remember from the dream. I awoke that morning with such deep sadness and grief. It really bothered me for quite sometime. I decided to make a few drawings based upon that awful dream. I finished both pieces in July 2001. These pieces are titled, "The Tears of a Broken Hearted Ojibwe Shaman" and "Untitled" (drawn on black paper). Both are great pieces but disturbing.

It wasn't until that morning when that tragic day occurred on September 11, 2001 that I started to realize this was the evil image I drew just two months prior to this awful day. It was such a sad day for us all, especially to the ones who lost their loved ones. Were my drawings based upon these dreams? Was this dream trying to warn me, or was it just a coincidence of my dream?

I only wished I could have stopped it. What a terrible event that human beings can afflict such evil on other human beings. I have had other dreams relating to events or just people in general. My dreams were so real that they seem to become true in somewhat of a similar fashion or another.

Not long after September 11, a private collector purchased the smaller drawing ("Untitled" on black paper) and the Frederick Weisman Art Museum of Minneapolis purchased the larger drawing ("The Tears of a Broken Hearted Ojibwe Shaman") soon after. I'm blessed with a gift of being artistic but also the gift of sight within my dreams. I do wish at times, I could save or warn of these upcoming tragic events in peoples' lives, but I can't.

My Dream - Choice

2007-08-28T04:21:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night. I came upon two paths and I had to make a choice of which one to take. Each choice ended up at the same destination. As I observed them, I noticed the end of the paths were my accomplishments and old age. The path on the left was dark with rotted out old trees with having a protruding black shadow smile at me. At the entrance they were wolves of different dark colors eating and fighting over a dead deer carcass. Some were looking at me growling. The road was bright and yellow and it was a shortcut to my prominent destination. The path on the right was much brighter and full of beauty. The sun was shining with lush green grass. The birds were singing and the flowers were blooming. Yet this path was much longer to my destination. I could see the problems and sadness I would face if I chose to take this path. I could see the hard work in my recovery process, family values, negative people, happiness, sadness, death among my family and friends and other problems. Things and issues I would routinely experience in life as an normal human being. The darker path on the left was very tempting because it was a shortcut to my destination. I wouldn't have to deal with such problems at all. Thinking of what path to take, I chose the right path. I chose to deal with my problems and not to run away from them. I choose to live life to the fullest. It was the right choice.

Negative People Get Negative Results

2007-08-25T19:20:00.000-07:00

I have had negative people around me most of my life. As far back as I can remember,my father was probably the worst one along with my older cousins and friends. I seemed to have been picked on,no matter how I tried to fit in. This was a common practice ever since I was in grade school. Being around these people who tormented and teased me,created a world where I grew accustomed to it. I always put my head down when something positive came my way. I didn't know how to react to it. I always kept to myself. I was pretty much like that when my teenage years came as well. I started to drink and do drugs which greatly clouded my mind and especially my artistic abilities. I chose the wrong path,a path in which it made me seriously dysfunctional and helpless. I did not see the great potential I had with art. I was always high on drugs,I made no sense to others and especially to myself.I was called demeaning names,was constantly picked on, made into a slave and in turn knocked my morale down into the gutter. I pretended it did not emotionally hurt me but it really did hurt me. These were my own relatives and friends who did such things to me. It saddens me looking back and thinking of this awful time in my life. But now I choose not to be angry at these people. I choose not to hold such resentment towards them. If I do, I will become one of them and my spirit will become sick. This is something I don't or want in my life. I choose to be a good spirited and positive person. I am now starting to stand up for myself against negative people. I was once a part of their lives because I was too nice of a guy to verbaly defend myself. Now that I've changed with growth and understanding,I don't want them to be a part of my life anymore. I have put up with it most of my life and I refuse to put up with it anymore. Negative people are no good for anyone to be around. I want to be happy,positive and I want to succeed in life. We all deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.

First Years

2007-06-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

My first years of my life were quite faint. I do remember being as young as two years old. Unfortunately, I only remember the bad things my little sister Fawn and I endured. My father and mother argued a lot, but they also loved us a lot too. My father was 20 years old and my mother was 17 years old, when I was born. They were both too young to even raise children but they did the best they could. I was three years old when my parents finally separated. My father could not afford to take care of Fawn and I, so he gave us up to my mother. I remember crying for my father, yelling"Daddy" over and over. My bond was a lot more stronger with my father then it was with my mother. Fawn was just sitting there not knowing what was going on. I think she was too young to even know what was going on.

I do understand now why my father had to leave us. He did it because he was broke and also because he loved us. He thought our best interest was with our mother. The sense of abandonment had hit me hard. I did feel a little safe with my mother but I also felt safer being with Fawn. Fawn was my little "Teddy Bear". She gave me such love and comfort.

My mother's alcoholism came to light during our brief time with her. I awoke some nights and found my mother wasn't there. She locked us in a room while she went out to party. When those nights came I would run to the window, open it and cry for my mother over and over again.
We were terrified of being left alone. This went on for quite sometime. If she didn't go out she brought the party to the apartment. All kinds of people, and they were all drunk. I don't remember them hurting us, but it was very unhealthy for us to be around all of that chaos. I thought this was a way of life. It was at this time when I was only three years old that I took my first drink. The nearly empty beer can was laying on the floor one morning and I picked it up and drank it!

I know my mother was not a good mother but I knew she loved us and we loved her. It just wasn't a family that was meant to be. My mother locked us up again and someone finally called the police.

We ended up in foster care in Denver, Colorado. It was hard for us at first, but we got to be children again among the other kids. Three meals a day and lots of toys to play with. Fawn and I got to see our mother one last time, but we were too busy playing with our toys. My mother wept and cried. We had no idea what was going on. We were just happy. My mother's alcoholism got the best of her, but it was also a blessing for us. Although this time in my life has affected me deeply to this day, I have made peace with it and I have forgiven my mother for what she had put us through.

Late Bloomer

2007-05-25T19:11:00.000-07:00

Since 2001, I find myself maturing into an adult at the late age of 33 years. I felt like a lost child six years ago when I checked myself into a treatment facility. Not knowing what an adult should be or do? I was a very immature young man. If nothing went my way, I pouted like a little boy. When confronted with a problem I simply ran away from my problems. That was my way of dealing with such problems. Never confronting. Avoiding was such an easier solution. My past addiction to alcohol and drugs were more likely clouding my young mind and slowing my process of being a promising, productive, mature adult in life.

My father was somewhat there but it wasn't enough. The main issue with my father was his negativity towards me and life in general. It was his words that really made a bad impact on me. I always believed I wasn't good enough to be anyone or be anybody. My father probably meant well on his end, but it really knocked my moral down into the gutter. No matter how good I did in life, there was always something negative coming from him and I always believed him. All I wanted from my father was to be positive, no matter what! I wanted his encouragement, love, support and especially to show me how to be a man. He never showed his love for me but I knew he loved me.

Later in life I learned how to be a man. I have learned how to be good person to myself and to others. I learned how to love myself with respect and am truly able to love others. I'm positive to people no matter how bad it is for them. I seem to be doing the opposite of how my father was.

I just want to continue to be the best that I can be in life. I am 33 years old, sober, and a man.

Staying Busy

2007-05-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

My Students (2007).

I've been working on a painting project for my good friend Winona LaDuke. The project is located in Callaway, Minnesota at the new Native Harvest / White Earth Land Recovery Project building.
I painted a 260 foot long by 11 inch in width Ojibwe Floral Design. I seriously under bid myself and the project took a lot longer then I thought. But the positive side of it was, I got to make new friends which were very nice and considerate to me. I learned how to paint faster and build more experience as a painter. I even got to work with children through out the White Earth Indian Reservation as an artist. The kids were great to work with! Such great attention span and enthusiasm. Never a dull moment.
I'm now on track with my art. Making my large color pencil drawing's for an upcoming exhibition in London this coming September of 2007. Jim Rosenquist called me a couple of times yesterday regarding the painting's. He plans to buy a painting and he's got some buyer's lined up as well. I did tell him it's hard to make painting's when there is no money in it. Everytime I paint, I paint myself into a hole, broke! Jim saved me a couple of times due to this process. I think he knows by now, I'm having a hard time making that transition from color pencils to paint. So far, I'm really coming along well with painting! I just needed a little push in the right direction and Jim did so.

Born With a Gift

2007-02-22T19:33:00.000-08:00

My father tells me I became an artist at the early age of 8 months. Which, I did not believe until I saw my mother for the first time, six years ago. She was telling me the same story my father had been telling me all those years! I was drawing shapes and scribbles at 8 months! My father said I looked like a little fat troll baby with bright hazel eyes. My jet black hair just wouldn't sit down. It was like a bolt of lightning hit me. I must of looked pretty funny and weird at that time! Relatives and neighbors would come over and watch me draw. I'm sure some of them were surprised. I think it was around my first year that I drew my first figure, my father tells me. It was a full bodied person! I don't think my father will ever get tired of telling me that story.

Transition

2007-02-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

Currently, I am working on drawings and paintings. I am having a hard time working the two mediums together. There is quick money in drawings but there is no money in painting........yet. I really would love to paint more, but there is the money factor right now. I am sure I will laugh about this "starving artist" time in my life, later on. I am very thankful for Jim Rosenquist for his inspiration and help. I thank him for assisting me to see the endless possibilities of expanding my artistic mind. So far I have 7 large acrylic paintings. Rosenquist has expressed his good intentions for my paintings. I appreciate him helping me and not asking a penny from me. He just wants to help me succeed.