Hostages&
Negotiations


Images by El Chefe

Words by A. Razor



Disciples Of Desire Press, 2009


...coming soon...

Economy

"Look, just do as I say, I will do all the real work. I am an artisan at this trade. I have not done this for hire for some time, but I am very experienced and skilled at this. If you don't follow my instructions to the letter, you're fucked. Let's get that straight and let that sink in, you are fucked, not me, I am not gonna be fucked over you not doing your part. I refuse and you need to now that before we go any further."

He drew in a breath and kept his gaze into the younger man's eyes. The young man didn't flinch, didn't break his composure. He was trying to be solid, but Sal could smell the fear, feel it in the air between them. It was all right, fear at this point was a sincere reaction. He needed the kid to be as sincere as possible. He needed the kid. This was a desperation move on his part. It had all gone too far. The world economy was off its axis and the tumbly spin that had been going on had started to upset the balance off his fragile world and the collapse was faster than anything he had ever seen. He had not done a job like this since 1984, when there were less cameras and forensics and movies on DVD. And now the DVD's were losing ground to the Blue-Ray's every day, the new taking bigger and bigger bites out of the old. Nothing is like it was in the 70's and 80's. People were more malleable then, the whole world seemed batshit now, and it was at a jumping off point, armed to the teeth, broke and desperate not to go back to what it was like before.

"Hey, Sal, I know you are the man. This is your bag, not mine, but I want to know every detail, every trick. I can't fuck this up. Everything is riding on it. Honestly, I don't want to be involved in anything like this, but I can't lose anymore, it's gone too far. I want to be at work, making money, earning my union card, moving up in the business. Its been screwed in the ass since the writer's went on strike and it has only gotten worse. Every fucking film school and skateboard video making hack and their fucking mother has decided to work in production in the last 10 years and there is hardly any work for a guy from L.A. anyway, let alone the new actor's strike that never happened and now the fucking economy. There is nothing, I fucked around and I didn't get in with a good union crew and did all those worthless music videos and webisode shit jobs and now there is nothing but a few dry bones and trucks are getting spider webs underneath them and I got to keep it moving, I can't go back to getting loaded and this hanging out with people from the program and feeling uncomfortable and all twisted has me wanting to eat a fucking bullet. I am so serious about this shit, I have never been so committed in my life. I want to get this shit done and over in the most professional way and get my bread and go. I can't afford to lose. I am done losing, man. No more short fucking ends for me. Period."

Sal likes what he hears, but doesn't say it or show it. He figures the kid has to know because he didn't get his rant regarding what-the-fuck-ever-is-wrong-with-showbiz ass interrupted. He looks out the window across the parking lot, across Bronson, to a blonde with a few extra miles loading her groceries into an 85 Mercedes SL and struggling to keep the shopping cart from hitting the faded paint. An emo hipster couple walk by with their little dog on a leash. The dog cops a squat and takes a dump. They pause in their movement, but then keep walking and talking as if they didn't even notice the dogs transgression. Fucking futility. He hated futility.

"I guess a little shit doesn't matter anymore." Sal says, still looking at the window. He looks back down at his espresso and pinches the lemon rind and rubs the thumb and forefinger together. He looks back in the kids eyes. They appear more pushed out, puffy even, as if the kid might cry real tears. The kid's eyebrow arches and his face twists a little. Sal likes it.

"I have thought it over. Weighed the consequences. I am not gonna lie, this shit is scary, but I am not weak. I have got the intention of doing what you say I gotta do to get this done. I do trust that you are not going to go into this like some yahoo. You are real about what you do and what you say and you do shit with principle and conviction. I would never have considered it with anyone else. You have me convinced one hundred percent that you are experienced and professional. I want to learn what I have to learn and do what has to be done."
Sal squares and leans forward. There is no one within earshot, as their booth is near the window in the corner of Victor's Deli, but he wants to be direct and to the point without looking like an aging mobster taking on a new recruit, which was what he was at the moment.
"All right, first thing, we have to be in control of every aspect of the situation and you are the eyes in the back of my head and the sense for everything around the situation that I can't see. I handle the talking and the action. You don't say a word. You need to be the big presence behind me, you don't make any demand on anyone. I know exactly what I want from everyone and I don't want to waste any time having people trying to figure out who to listen to. This is all about being in and out as quickly as possible. I am going to make the situation agreeable to them as well. They need to want us out of there as quickly as we want to go. I got no time for any bullshit. I make the demand and they meet it, we go. Got that?"

The kid bites his bottom lip and nods in agreement. "I'm just coverage. I got it.", he replies.

Sal draws another deep breath and interlocks his fingers while resting his elbows on the table. For a minute the kid remembers back when he was little and he got the fork in his forearm for doing that from his step-dad. Sal would have probably killed his step-dad had it been him. He didn't seem like he had ever backed down from anybody. He seemed like the world was constantly changing in a way he didn't agree with and he just waited for an opportunity to eject as many of the world's interlopers as he could. It was obvious that there had been plenty of compromises made in recent years, but Sal had had it lately as well. That was the obvious reason he had reached out to the kid.

"I just want to be clear, no misunderstandings. We proceed from here and only you and I speak of this and only when I bring it up first, capice? I don't ever want to even hear you say "Hi" first, got it?"
"Yeah, Sal, I understand." the kid nods again as he exhales through his nose. The air seems hotter than usual as it brushes across his upper lip.
"If any of them panic and run or move away from my area of control you have to lay them out. And I don't mean any of that octagon shit, I got no time for choking them and rolling around on the floor. They move and you give them a shot in the face with the barrel of the piece. Right next to the eye is the best. They lose vision and balance and they become easy to guide back to the area of control. You sit them back down exactly where they were told to sit by me. They seem to get a stiff spine at any point, immediately give them another shot. They have to know it is futile. There has to be no compromise to them. We get control and they don't get it back until they comply to the letter of what I demand and there is no bargaining. There is absolutely no discharge of a weapon unless I shoot first or someone is about to shoot me that I am unaware of, which will be highly unlikely if we execute this step by step and eliminate any possibility of that. We are using wheel guns with these rounds that penetrate and disintegrate, no ballistics. Standard Smith and Wesson .357 Magnums but the loads are .38 Special. I don't want to do any more harm than is necessary, but I will not take any chance. It goes south we finish them and walk away. Nothing should tie us to them but my guy, and he is solid. I got the vehicle, the gats, the info. If at any point we are compromised you do not cooperate with anyone. You keep quiet and you will be taken care off. I only cover this area because I don't want there to be any question in your mind how you should react to any occurrence, even the most fucked up scenario imaginable."

"So, you are saying you got this covered any way it unravels? I just have to lay down if it goes south." The kid thinks this the craziest conversation he has ever had, this shit is insane, but somehow it seems ridiculous to do anything but remain calm and talk it out. He wishes this guy wasn't so honest, all of a sudden, but he can't help feeling indignant about someone telling him to lay his life down. Then he realizes that is why the stakes are so fucking high.
That is why this is gonna get him through this fucked up recession. Fuck it. He already decided not to try to second guess it. He needs to pay attention to this aging ginny.

"Look, kid, you gotta know that I don't ever fuck these up, but the world works in strange ways. A lot a guys fuck these jobs cause they don't think it all the way through. Personally, I know this won't happen, but I never did a job with you and I got to give it to you the way I see and not soft peddle or sugar coat the real fucking deal, man." Sal juts his lower jaw in and out and the kid could see he was as serious as fuck.
"All right, I'm all the way in. I completely understand what you are talking about.", the kid draws a breath and looks up from the table, "I'll do my part, I want the half up front you promised. I get that and I am committed all the way, no turning back. I am not bullshitting."
He says "bullshitting" with an imperative force that almost sends a slight spray of spit toward the big Sicilian across the table. Sal smiles and leans back.
"I'm gonna slide out and you check my seat. Call me in an hour and we'll meet at a location I give you. Don't be too soon or too late with the call. One hour exactly."
Sal taps his Rolex and slides out as casually as a 6'4" heavyweight can. He strolls across the Deli to the cashier. Everyone seems to know him well. The kid gets up slow and looks over at Sal's side of the booth. He sees an envelope and picks it up and casually opens it and lays a crisp 20 down as a tip while estimating the stack and then quickly and smoothly slipping it in his back pocket. He easily walks out of the Deli and nods to the waitress and cashier as he passes them on the way to the door. They smile and the waitress adds, "Have a nice day, sonny."
Sonny is getting paid today, lady, he thinks to himself.

"Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow."

He dons his Persol's as he steps into the persistent L.A. afternoon sunshine.

Sheperd vs. The Phantom


First of all, I am inspired by both the Phantom and Shepard in different ways. I have crossed paths with both and know a bit about both artist backgrounds.

Second, I, too, am an artist, and this is from a broad perspective in this lifetime that I have experienced art. It runs through every fiber of my life, but humbly, no more than any other persons, and proudly, no less either.

I would not condemn nor defend either artist or approach or perspective. I don’t feel that this debate is new or unique to these two and it deals with the greater human struggle at large, which is why I am sounding off on it.

The world of advertising has been using the free form of human expression almost immediately after the former was concepted. I took a stand at an early age in my use of public property as a “canvas” to express myself that I would adhere to certain principles encoded in my psyche by the behavior of those in my surroundings that I looked up to and were mentored by. This codification of my behavior is commonly considered “rebel” or “outlaw” to use general terms on a societal level.

Specifically, I would remain anonymous, for mainly legal reasons, but also to drive the mystique that we are everywhere, cannot be silenced by silencing one, and are part of an ancient struggle to fight a yolk of domination and what I personally considered oppression. And, above all, it heightened my senses to participate in this behavior and to know that there were others who had come before me that I would not know, but I would be mimicking nonetheless. So, it was clear that I was generally unoriginal and anonymous, but, in my own head and close circle I was merciless and proficient.
I began painting and writing and traveling and networking and learning. Almost immediately I came upon artists who had a sense of art that was more academically developed and supported than mine. I chose crime over patronage, because crime was available first, and because patronage seemed like another form of domination. I was never certain of the latter, it was just a personal feeling and it was strong enough so as I never sought it. Since it was a feeling and not a fact, I was able to not hate on others for seeking recompense in the open art world. I would meet others who not only sought it, but, excelled at its advantages. In other words, profited.
And this was a source of many mixed feelings over the years. The term “sell out” can come easily to people in my situation, but after a while, I got to wonder, how much of it is envy and a feeling of helplessness that I had caste myself forever on a losing side.

In the world of the art student, there is the teacher and the critic. It is a world of constant flux, student becomes critic according to, or influenced by, his teachers and the critics that agree with his outlook at the time. They then become aligned with lineages of thought on what is moral, ethical, qualitative and decent in terms of quality of expression. We are all familiar with this struggle, it is what is proffered here, in this blog, and in this debate which has led to a symbolic challenge of one credibility over another. Both artists have demonstrated a sense of connection to people who are contemporary and sometimes even marginal in their past approaches to art, both in its execution and its appreciation. Shepard has been diligent in his campaigns, and although when I first saw them I rolled my eyes and figured it was an art student with a screen press making stickers and posters, I did like the image and its general tone. That he has blossomed so profoundly and so successfully I have to admit is admirable and somewhat contentious with my personal belief and perspective, but more because it is a different approach, and not because it lacked credibility, or that there was a corporate payoff at the end of its rainbow, which it would most definitely seem there is.
Instead, it simply isn’t my personal perspective which is tainted by the fact that I have never received or audited a grant, school, museum, patron, rock band, politician, or even corporation or trust, there of, for sponsorship.
An astute observer would immediately surmise that my approach has cut me off from the connection to the masses that these two artists enjoy and command by selectively receiving and using to their advantage this offered support which has garnered an immediate and profound social effect in their art being culturally incorporated. My approach would seem minimal and flawed in its attempt to make any difference at all in comparison.

The New York scene that offered Basquiat and Haring, as well as Seen and Crash, easily affected both these artists in a very conscious and direct way. And all sorts of “street” artists are part of this lineage that comes into this modern day now and frames this debate. These are all people that we know and can reference, as well as many others who have crossed from anonymity and into a promotional stance for the sake of artistic credence or profit or both. But, untold and unnoticed, are the artists who never stepped into the limelight, never made a deal, never “showed” and never took a class or put their “name” on their work. In my humble opinion, these artists are a much a part of this debate and as relevant by their absence from it as these two are by being at the center of this storm.
Is it legal to infringe on copyrights? No. Is it ethical to take tribal, social and anonymous artistic expressions and make websites, commercials, album covers, clothing lines, profits from them? Well, it gets murky, because its all about can you prove I did what to who cannot be counted, is no longer here and fuck them anyway cause I got mine and every nut for himself. I mean to bask in this modern false swagger mentality about who is more street, when it seems once you accept patronage of any sort you are, accepting, on some level, help from the instrument of your domination and your message about promoting rights and recognition of the “street” you are supposedly “from” becomes somewhat incredulous and you are essentially just a student who has learned from a teacher and become critic.

This is where I live by my sword and die by it as well. If I had kept to myself, my credibility would be completely intact among what’s left of my “street” collective family. But since they are fewer and further between every day, lately, I find myself alone and on the internet. A student who chose a path that didn’t involve a lot of criticism, but more action. And while no one is wearing my logo on a shirt and a good amount of the last 20 years I spent in and out of prison and on the run for my efforts to practice my art outside of patronage and completely anonymous, upholding my personal code in the bargain, I have not had the immediate and profound impact that would spark debate as these two artists have had.
You see, at the end of the day, I can’t criticize no artist for robbery, cuz I have done what I had to do outside the law to get what I felt I needed. There is a price to be paid and I am grateful to be alive and have enough fingers to punch keys right now. A lot of fools that were rebellious outlaw artists outside the realm of schools and critics and debate and profit are not this lucky. So, I wince in pain and remember them, as I read about the travails of these “popular” artists, who I do admire and respect, because expression is valid to me in any form or level it comes in.

The man whose photo was co-opted for Obama has an axe to grind, but didn’t he get paid for his photo once already? And wasn’t it altered beyond the aspiration that he received that pay for? Did Warhol ever have to pay Campbell’s? I don’t know, but it seems there might be a legal precedent there, end of argument for me. If he’s got to pay, he’s got to pay, let the court sort it out. Why do you have to protest an artists show? Shepard did a nice gesture promoting a politician that I believe he truly felt was gonna make a difference. He does, however, represent a company that has branded his art and mass produces it for profit as well as posters for politicians that save the world. It’s a shrewd maneuver, and again, I find myself unable to fault him for that. And yes, I do seem to feel that its valid that his efforts get the attention in the arena that they are getting them in, vis a vie academically sanction gallery world exposure. Why not? It doesn’t seem any more unethical than any other presentation.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to be critical of those that want to express their feelings about it being unethical. Protest, sling insults, hurl bad sentiment. Blog, fuck girls that have Obey stickers in their bedroom and run piss over their toothbrushes while you use their bathroom afterwards if it makes you feel better. Make videos of burning, all Spit style, like you learned from watching Wild Style. Call people “toys” and puff out your chest. Claim you have more street cred for whatever reason, but, as a cautionary note, remember, there is a difference between criticism, teaching and action. I am not gonna say criticism is worthless, like I used to, because I am learning to be a little more accepting these days and be a participant at this late point in life, critical as it may seem. All I know for sure, if I am not being creative, I feel like a tool, worst feeling in the world, and, obviously, I am learning to express my criticism, somewhat, in run on sentences on the internet. Creative criticism, we’ll call it. For the youth out there getting involved in this debate, just a word of advice from an old outlaw, careful about giving yourself too completely to one side against another in war, they may truce it up one day and you’ll still be fighting for an ideal that has been compromised or abandoned, as it was someone else’s artistic point, not your own, and they used the reaction of your youth to prove it, sold a bunch of shirts and dvd’s and got a grant and spent it and moved on. And your still there, holding on to an ideal that would have been better served working it out on the walls and trains and modern canvas in your mind’s eye than on a blog spot or a protest line. I wouldn’t dare speak to silence, but don’t OBEY when you don’t have to. Creation. Through thievery or destruction if you feel it’s necessary in your gut, but not because any critic tells you to.

Sometimes its better to just make life beautiful and walk away, without a parade or fanfare. That carries more “cred” than anything I have come across in all the ghettos, squats, riots, train yards, tenements, prisons, internment camps, shanty towns, famines or torture chambers that I have been in.

When it comes to big “king” fights like this, I tend to retrovert to the old Godzilla-Rodan formula. Let em’ take each other out and maybe the humble one will win and bury themselves under the polar cap until the American remake.