Sunday, 27 May 2012

Tobacco Road

Road to Feltzen South, oil on board, 18"x24", Steven Rhude, Argyle Fine Art

 Nothing else in Wyoming or South Dakota caught his eye and by July 17 Edward was "glad to be back to the familiar" crossing Wisconsin: he had missed the rapport he felt with the usual architectural subjects and found the Western deserts and canyons "to impersonal." Curious, however, to see Lake Michigan, Edward imposed a detour through Gary, Indiana, where his slow driving on the way to the beach irritated two carloads of young men. As one honked at him from behind, he tried to pull over, almost colliding with the other, which was trying to pass him on the right. "Bastard!" he yelled, to Jo's consternation: "A man with his fine discriminations in the use of English has no business to talk Tobacco Road whenever he gets annoyed." The "hicks" in the restaurant where they stopped for lunch also offended Edward, so they made "short work" of Indiana, only to find Columbus, Ohio, "utterly depressing" and Cleveland "a dingy dump".

From Edward Hopper, an Intimate Biography, Gail Levin

Marin's Letter

Road to Halfway Cove, oil on board,18"x24", Steven Rhude, Argyle Fine Art

'If you will grab the place up and give her a haircut - wash her face - hang her upon the line to dry - and such things as should be done for her I'll be - ever and plenty - obliged so here's to you - your dearly beloved - the Spirit of the Cape -'
                                                  John Marin, July 7th, 1948

Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Rescue; Hound of the Cavale (Rosie 2004 - 2014)

Rescue; Greyhound of the Cavale, oil on canvas, 40"x 90", Steven Rhude 

Perfection - ghost rames on pistons - the dykeland was a two hundred and thirty five year old track all her own; Acadian style.

Hard to isolate her when in full stride. Well maybe Eadweard Muybridge could have with stop action photography, but not the human eye.

It's like the way a bullet is judged by sound.
Not velocity - she shot by you before you could turn to defend yourself.

Not that you could, even if you tried - you felt her ribs graze your hip. Saw her face cut through the fog.

Or you thought you did...

Particles of moisture scurrying to collect themselves.
Serves them right for not paying attention to the speed of soul.
Moisture left behind in a wake of necessity.

An escapee - ears up and saved by the bell.


Last seen at Rayham/Taunton in Massachussets - AKA - Mohican Dimple; a gambler's tribal ritual, she turned tricks seventy nine times before being put out to pasture.

 Track rats in sear-sucker suits probably cashed in. Guys who chewed on unlit cigars, spit before betting, and then went to church on Sunday.
Meat - the circuit - meat - the circuit... and so it goes for the Greyhound.


Must have been like death row and waiting for a pardon while wheelbarrow loads headed for the bone yard.
A connection made with a bee keeper - of all people.
 Who once cared for a Whippet -  and knew the turf.
And gave her the coat, knowing the north.

Trained that way, designed that way,
 speed always burns its fuel fast.

Her head down and an elegant gait in obeisance to space.
An object of humility mentally recharging, physically adroit with every sinew;
with every vein.

With every breath.

Steven Rhude, Wolfville, NS.

Friday, 4 May 2012

Night Before a Hurricane

Night Before a Hurricane, oil on board, 23"x31", Steven Rhude

A long way from Chinatown and bok choy, she still remembered the market noise and that vendor's high pitched voice. Produce, dirt and the art of humanity everywhere.

It's where she saved him, took life drawing and heard that the figure was really a landscape - or a suit of skin; not to be rendered with facility only. Finding the rest of the equation would be the mission.

Solving it would be impossible.

 She was a parabolist - jettisoned by modernism.

The cove was a different market of sorts. Invisible vendors of Periwinkles and Urchins;
 with Rock Weed keeping the pulse of the tide.

'Why did we come to the end of the earth... did you ever wonder?' he asked.
 'How do you know it's the end? The locals say it's where it all starts.'

It was also their studio without walls.

A place to retreat and let the place change them, just the way the coast changed in the smoky heat of storm season.

Sometimes they argued. Sometimes they were just one.

'There's a hurricane coming tomorrow you know.'
' How do you know?' he asked.
But she was usually one step ahead of him

'The signs are there... besides I still listen to the news.'

Steven Rhude, Wolfville, NS.