Tag: art

Glare

Glare (2012). Watercolor on paper. From my book, Opening Acts and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books.

Excerpt – Happens every year. That first sunny and warm day in February, that false spring, is the one that captivates enough to distract everyone from the reality that this thaw is fleeting. Office workers head to lunch in shirtsleeves.College boys run to class in shorts.Dapper men of ambiguous means, unwilling to disrobe, unbutton their topcoats as they make thier rounds.

Carlo turned from an alleyway onto the sidewalk.The sun coming from the west blinded him. This happens often when a city’s street grid lines up just so. But no one ever gets used to the several seconds of sightlessness and glare, all while moving with and against the flow of pedestrian traffic. Shoulders bounce off one another, folded umbrelas get caught in briefcase handles, packages get knocked to the pavement.Sunglesses might help, but Carlo won’t wear them because they hide his green eyes. Of ambiguous utility is the shield of the gloved hand, which just exposes the elbow, and a strangers head, to damage. Still, the sun is welcomed in winter by everyone, and some tempt fate by closing their eyes and tilting their heads up, as if to catch a quick walking tan.

Carlo had only taken a few steps from the alley, so he was still blind when he heard the POP!

It was a backfire, some old car, but Carlo was jumpy. He’d had threats all week from the family of his ex. Now he remembered how one of her brothers used to make a sound like that backfire in grade school, by stomping on a closed but empty carton of cafeteria milk.

Carlo had started up with her for the same reason he chased the others – blinded by beauty. She was a stunner. He disregarded the instant notion that the exit from this one might be a little sticky. In addition to her clinginess, he has been shilling for the legit side of a guy that was opposed to her family, and her brothers knew this. Could get ugly.

–Danny Grosso

Instagram @artipolitics and @altoegovintage

Amazon author’s page: amazon.com/author/dannygrosso

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Mud People, No. 24

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Hardie Boy- Mud People, No. 24 (2020). House paint mixed with mud, on paper. From my book, 37 Mud People, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

The Hardie boy is waiting for me. It is 9:14 am and I am already late. The Hardie boy is waiting for me in a place he is sure will allow him to be the first to see me. Leaning against the wooden display case, he has an unobstructed view of the double front doors as I swing them both open and scurry into the foyer. He sort of slides, like a skinny snake, up to me, really up to me, his face a few inches from mine. “Um hmm!” he says, accenting the second syllable with vigor. I try to say “What!” but nothing comes out – my voice is hiding itself – I haven’t spoken since the night before, or rather a few hours before, when it was still dark, and I ran home from the clubs to change clothes.

He is staring at me, only for a second, so I will look at him – he needs me to look at him so he can complete the gag. I do look up, laboriously – I’m bloodshot from the smoke, the drink, the lack of sleep. His crows’ feet spread into his temples. “Close your eyes or you’ll bleed to death,” he says, and then turns on his heel to go fetch me some coffee.

His time on a Mekong River gunboat made him hate tardiness. His time with me made him more accepting of those whose lives sometimes overwhelmed the need for punctuality. He was regimented about everything but me, sort of, but then, he seemed to accept it as his duty to make me laugh, constantly, Reveille to Taps.

He left too early, like a lot of people back then, chasing some demon he had seen before, one that woke him up on that gunboat in the middle of dark and hot jungle night.

-Danny Grosso

Instagram@artispolitics

Author’s page: amazon.com/author/dannygrosso

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Moda VIII

Whites (2022). Cut paper and acrylic paint. From the book Barefoot and Other Stories, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

People in the city started to use the word “fresh” to describe stylish clothing long after he associated the word with with a certain outfit. The “Whites”, or specifically, a white linen suit, were something he craved to feel on his body just after the first of the year, when the velvets of the holidays had passed, and he was beginning to grow weary of his heavy tweeds. The climate was too cold to jump start the fashion season, pre-Easter Glamour Don’ts column aside, so he’d wait in anticipation for the first really warm day, even if that day landed in June. As a bonus for waiting, perhaps he’d have a bit of color on his face by then as well. When the day came, sunny and bright, the prospect of the glory of the lightness of it all sometimes interfered with his sleep the night before. That aside, there were some practical problems that popped up during the first wearing each year. The streets were often still dirty from a winter of snow and ice abatement, mixed with the oily droppings of vehicular traffic. Salt was often still present at corners, and without a hard and warm rain, the grey dust of the pavements could puff up with each footfall. The Armani break of trouser legs sometimes allowed the hems to brush too close to the gunk underfoot. The need for scrubbing was evident with disrobing. Also, the weather was especially unreliable in spring, where a sunny day could devolve into rain, melting the form of his Whites into a pasty cling. With that often came a terrible cold front, against which the light as air garments provided little defense.

Still, he soldiered on with this ritual of first wearing, sometimes making small compensations, like an umbrella in the car, or a raincoat at the ready, but mostly he took his chances, as one does with the things one loves.

The lightness and freedom of it all, the breezy billow of it, the feeling of release after the invernal bundling, all of this, in a simplistic, but practical way, made him feel a bit hopeful, and sometimes that is enough for a late April morning.

–Danny Grosso

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Another Political Bestiary, No. XXXVII

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The Spinner (2020). Acrylic and ink on paper. From my book Another Political Bestiary, available at Amazon Books. Artwork and text copyright Danny Grosso.

Continuing the expeditions of Jeff MacNelly, James Kilpatrick, and Eugene McCarthy, with apologies.

The Spinner

This spindle-shaped creature has adapted its mind and body to achieve maximum efficiency in sycophancy. Its tapered footing allows for the speedy spinning needed for policy changes. Its large head and 360 degree vision allow it to spot from afar new trends for which to forsake its former beliefs. Another adaptation: hidden in its underside is a gauge to anticipate the prevailing wind, and a gland attached to it to measure the selfish value of the gale. The Spinner’s design lets it orbit a bigger star like a planet, or rather orbit a planet like a dead rock, endlessly circling in admiration and attachment until the bigger body implodes from rot,  leaving the Spinner discharged and on the hunt for another object of attraction. Sometimes known by other names, such as Lindsey, look for the Spinner in legislative districts where the poll numbers of a candidate for the highest office are better than those running on the undercard. The creature is also found haunting the executive branch, working short days and employing its knack for ridiculously shallow unsolicited praise to keep its cushy position.

– Danny Grosso

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