A Life Defined in Black & White

I was asked
for the thousandth time,
like we’ve all been asked
at one time or another,
‘if you could be someone,
other than yourself,
who would you be?’
I asked, ‘living or dead?’
living was the reply
I thought…
took some time…
remembered the 999 other times
I was asked…
couldn’t remember what I’d said
but this time
a name came to mind
popping into my head
like a shadow from the fog
‘Johnny Donnels,’ I answered
‘who?’
my credulous friend frowned,
‘an artist-photographer
I knew in New Orleans’
‘oh,’ was the muted affirmation…

later I had to grin…
after all these years
why not Ghandi,
Mother Teresa,
or someone of major
social significance?…
hell, why not Hugh Hefner
or Sean Connery?…
just what possessed me
to think of John?…

I wondered
how old would he be today?
I was 17 and 18 in the summers
of 1967 and 1968…
both long hot Louisiana summers…
summers that I stayed with my dad
in the landmark Skyscraper Building
in a large single room with a bath
on the third floor
overlooking Rue Royale…
the mortar fell from between
the red brick unpainted walls,
which shook loose
with the passing
of each city bus…
I was attending
McCready School of Art
in the French Quarter
learning his technique
for charcoal, chalk,
and acrylic paintings…
the French Quarter
was an eye opener for a teen
from a small Florida town…

I’d seen Johnny once since then
when my wife and I
had vacationed
in the Vieux Carre’…
it was in the late 70’s, if I recall,
I wanted to show her a place
that I had fallen
helplessly in love with…

we went by the gallery
at 634 St. Peters…
Starving Artists Gallery;
I always loved that…
in the Skyscraper Building
next to Maggie Hartnet’s gallery…

Maggie was one of those artists
who painted those big eyed kids
that were the thing at the time….

John had been there
In the same gallery
since when…1963?
delightfully,
he was still there
upstairs, in his studio…
I’d guess John never really needs
to wander very far…

a surprise awaited…
black and white photos
of the Quarter
filled the walls of the gallery
upstairs prints were filed in bins
waiting
to join the others in the gallery
downstairs…
they had replaced
the vibrant colors of his earlier life…
paintings in acrylics
I’d first found fascinating…
pieces with street scenes
boats, buildings,
trees against sky,
shapes shouting
for the eye’s attention
the pieces Vincent Price bought
for his Sears print collection
[met Mr. Price at the gallery; a thrill]
and the pieces carried home by visitors
to occupy a place
over the family sofa
or a dining room sideboard…

the photos
were a welcome surprise…
I love the contrast of black and white
to me more revealing of life than color
I was drawn in by the familiar images
of Jackson Square, the river,
Jax brewery,
the French Market,
Pirate’s Alley…

John signed
a copy of his book for us
something I go through on occasion
to conjure up spirits of the French Quarter
a delicious sensory overload
that lies at that particular bend in the river…
and John captures wonderfully
in his unique vision
of this historical old Queen…

I imagine there is a bit of gray
through the wavy hair on John’s head
but I’d bet the smile is still there
and that gentle New Orleans
hospitality to ‘come on up’
greets you whether
you’ve known John a lifetime
or met him for the first time…

that’s why Johnny came to mind…
when you put his cheerful warmth
his creativity and imagination
together with an abundance
of friends and followers
from around the world…
add the laid back context
of the Vieux Carre
and The Big Easy;
a backdrop of history, art,
and decadence…
toss in a lifestyle that has allowed
for travel, family,
and a well rounded career…
one that has garnered him a respect
among critics, fans, and fellow artists…
giving him the presence for being
another valued page in the colorful
history of the French Quarter…
who else could a person want to be?

having said all that…
I guess it’s easy to understand
my answer to the question…
a name came to mind
popping into my head
like a shadow from the fog
‘Johnny Donnels,’ I answered
‘who?’ my credulous friend frowned,
‘an artist-photographer
I met in New Orleans’
‘oh,’ was the muted affirmation…

oh indeed!

someday
when they decide to erect
a statue to the ‘goodwill ambassador’
of the Vieux Carre…
right there,
next to Jackson and his stead,
on old Jackson Square…
will stand the smiling countenance
of one Johnny Donnels…

here’s to you John!…


R. C. Arquette
8/6/03

In My Library of Fears

Shelves stretch forever
in my library of fears
Rows of organized visions
Held in the bookends of my ears
Haunting thoughts of make-believe
Infectious plays spawned to deceive
A teetering ride
On the black edge of reality

I float naked in twilight
through a mock desertscape
above a stainless steel highway
Silently racing, unable to escape
Ahead the roadway is twisted razor teeth
I awaiting it's painful shredding of my feet
To awaken sweat soaked
Sticking fly-paper tight to the sheets

A Wizard of Oz tornado
Spinning in sickening slow motion
Eats up the ground as it rumbles my way
While I scramble to avoid the destruction
From my ditch shelter I watch bodies rain
The impact craters blossom in crimson stain
As the flattened figures
Stare skyward in lost expressions of pain

Intense light cuts the darkness
As a figure steps through a small door
and the vast length and height of the hangar
Is revealed from ceiling to floor
The figure yells, "Catch!" as it tosses a pin
Which grows larger with each approaching spin
Until it knocks me down
In mind-blowing special FX slow motion

In the darkening fog
Between huge southern oaks
The Spanish Moss hangs down
Unmoving, at the buckboard's approach
I ride, chased from mansion to mansion,
from room to room, filled with apprehension,
A damp, gray, dead-man's shroud
Suddenly engulfs me; a frightening vision

Shelves filled with bad dreams
In my library of fears
Cataloged rows of visions
Held prisoner between my own ears
Haunting thoughts of spirits and infinity
With a roller-coaster drop through fantasy
The constant teetering ride
On the thin black edge of my reality

R. C. Arquette
4/17/86

Geometry of the Living

If birth is point A
And death is point B
The lifeline between must be me
This line stretches out in one direction
Broken on occasion by an intersection
To a destination yet unseen

I’ve tried manipulation
And applied creative articulation
To what is seemingly fixed and mundane
An attempt to alter design by an active brain
Yet lifelines struggle to remain the same
In spite of my interpretation

I don’t care for vertical
It all seems so upright and imperial
Because vertical implies a lofty need
For me lofty is just another nosebleed
And therefore defined non-essential
Found to be inconsequential

I’m not much for horizontal
It’s all too lifelike and elemental
Common position for sleep, sex and death
Only difference being a variance of breath
And in the end all too damn incidental
A wise mans image of contemporary hell

It’s these angles that I’m drawn to
Angles that define my world anew
On desktops, roadmaps, and daydreams
In art work, playgrounds, and street scenes
It’s tranquility and peace they’re giving
The angles in the geometry of the living

To a destination still yet unseen
Broken on occasion by an intersection
The lifeline stretches out in one direction
This angle filled line must be me
Since my birth is point A
And death is point B

R. C. Arquette
9/20/00