BOSTON STRONG

M O D E R N   A R T  G O N Z O   J O U R N A L I S M 

CHAPTER TWO - BOSTON STRONG 

Created by The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo

                                 

Boston Strong Created Live at the Opening Game of  Spring Training for the World Series Champions,  Boston Red Sox at Jet Blue Stadium, Fort Myers, Florida, March 2014

“All interesting artists are autodidacts.” – Massimiliano Gioni

In some Italian provinces, the word ‘artist’ is a synonym for dunce.  An artist must walk a tightrope between being perceived as  an  illustrious nobody or a famous intellectual by critics disguised as cultural sycophants in an arena filled with smoke and mirrors. Being a creator is not a career for fragile egos, so to be a virtuoso, one must have thick skin. 

I have been called all sorts of things by critics, not all of them complimentary, but I survive and my work will live on, long after my corporal being exits this plane of existence, in the expanding multi-universe.

In 2005, after performing a MAMM Jam with Rhythmm Epkins, drummer for “The English Beat”, and founder of  the R&B  funk  group, “Mind, Body & Soul”,  to  raise  money  for  the  mentally handicapped, at a sold-out show in Bakersfield, California, where the first five rows were reserved for the mentally challenged, who were the most appreciative audience I have ever had the pleasure of performing  in  front  of, I became known, by some critics, as, “Victor-Hugo: The Artist of Retards”.

When I performed MAMM Jams during 2009 Art Basel Week in Miami, Florida to sold-out, standing room only crowds attending the infamous, “Crackhead Jesus: The Second Coming Art Exhibition”, at the  “Buck 15 Gallery Lounge”  on  Lincoln Road,  a large group of women from Weight Watchers joined me onstage while I painted the unique moment on canvas, at which point, I became known, by some critics, as, “Victor-Hugo: The Artist of Fat Chicks and Retards”.

Some  call  me,  “The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo” others  call  me,  “The Maverick Meatball”. Whatever  the  case,  I’m  happy.  However, as I am an artist/activist birthed from a business background,  I've  come  to  notice  that artists are often treated like “The-Retards-of-the-Business-World” instead of sober-entrepreneurs,  by  some  ignorant  top  brass. Though, thankfully, not all influence makers exploit an artists’ passion, those who choose to dim the light instead of fueling the soul, manifest dark energy that fills the multi-universe, all this, in spite of knowing that entertainment is, in fact, like any other business, an industry that must flow perpetually, in balance of soul currency, to exist infinitely.

Art is not cheap to create.  It  takes  effort,  ingenuity and time and since time is money, if I had a Bitcoin, for every time someone, like Mr. Bill, told me,  “Why don’t you perform for free, it’ll be good exposure?” or, “How about giving me one of your paintings, for free, to hang in my mansion, so all my filthy-rich friends can see your work, while smoking weed?”  I’d be a tycoon of Rothschild proportions.

Do these unenlightened moguls ask Doctors to perform surgery for free or ask lawyers to satisfy their legal issues, free of charge, because it’s good practice?

I  don’t  think  so.  An  artist  must  always  risk  failure,  for failure  is  part  of  the  process  but that doesn't mean creators should accept the status quo of double-dealing in business matters or any other affairs. An artist has class mobility, for that reason, particularly in a disturbed society, a virtuoso must ask the right questions, open consciousness, raise awareness and elevate minds.

An artist should serve mankind, for that reason, humanity should not become complacent with the profiteering of an artist because a true artist can be childlike forever and the exploitation of children is  detrimental  to  any  culture  pursuing  Enlightenment.  Some muddled  people  feel  the world doesn't need artists because art doesn't meet our basic needs to survive but that’s bogus; art fuels the soul currency of human capital that trumps any banknote or material treasure.

These thoughts raced through my aching head, as I prepared to meet my audience of special children at The Able Academy in Naples, Florida, hours before my gig with the All Stars at the Boston Red Sox Spring Training Opener in Fort Myers, Florida, to honor victims of the Boston Marathon bombing. As if taunting my choice of career, the outstretched, blank canvas, measuring 36 x 71, clipped to the front of a long table turned on it’s side, resting atop another elongated table, stared back at me, screaming, “Fail! Fail! Fail!”

I’ve heard people say that animals can sense fear and weakness. I don’t know what experts say about children with autism but I can tell you this, the moment the Able Academy director opened the door, to let kids into the room where I stood vulnerable, feeling helpless and alone in a cruel world, a beautiful boy ran to me, clasped my knees lovingly and looked up at me like a cherub in a chapel. I felt such overwhelming affection from the pint-sized angel holding a tight grip on me that, in an instant, all the negativity and cynicism inside of me washed away like the Great Flood. I fought back tears in that abstract moment that seemed to last a lifetime because I did not want to break down in front of the celestial beings surrounding me.

One by one, frail angels entered the room, coalescing in the ecstasy of colors, dancing freely with paint and brushes in their tiny hands as they guided me through the purity of love being expressed on canvas without shame, guilt or remorse.  I noticed one child slumped in the corner with his face in his hands. He beckoned me with magnificent eyes that stared at me through the cracks in his fingers.

“”Would you like to paint with us?” I asked, as I knelt down before him.

“Art has power.” He said, letting his guard down.

“Yes, it does.” I said as I placed a brush in his hand. “Show me what you can do.”

“Believe in your greatness and it will be the death of your creativity.” He said, taking my hand in his and leading me to the canvas where we melted into the void of color alongside the other offspring.

The joy was so intense, time flew by the way magic moments do and before I knew it the unique experience was over. I said goodbye to the kids, packed my equipment, called Todd, who was patiently waiting outside the hotel after having checked out and assured him I was on my way to get him for the hour-long journey to Fort Myers.

He reminded me that we were running late.

Before leaving, the stunned school director asked me how I had managed to get the catatonic child to speak.  She  said  it  was  a  miracle  because  the  juvenile  never  spoke  to  anyone.  I  told  her  I communicated with respect and dignity. The innocent confided in me that the adults didn't understand them and didn't pay attention, which frankly, was no surprise to me, since out of the mouth of babes comes truth and most adults can’t handle the truth, which is why some adolescents choose to stay silent.

Traffic was at a crawl, leading up to the stadium in Fort Myers.  It seemed all of creation had come to cheer for the World Series Champions at the Spring Training Opener. My manager had coordinated for the Boston Red Sox to sign the painting created with the Able Academy children, for the artwork to be auctioned off in their benefit but when I got to the stadium,  Mr.  Bill  chastised  me  for  my manager doing so, claiming she had overstepped her bounds, “It’s my show, damn it!”  He stated indefatigably before adding, “Hurry up, you’re late! The band goes on stage in 10 minutes.”

“This is your friend?” Todd said, looking at Mr. Bill with disgust and me with sympathy, as Mr. Bill’s girlfriend Melissa approached me with open arms and a huge smile.

“Oh my God! I heard you got my son to speak, I wish I could have been there.” She said holding back tears.

“Why weren't you?” I thought to myself, sinking into her warm embrace while Mr. Bill stared back at me with contempt that I could not explain.

One by one, the All Stars embraced me before going on stage. I was reunited with members of Bon Jovi, Boston, The Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan, The Wailers, Third World, The James Brown Band and Foster Child, none of which were aware of the harrowing experience that had preceded our moment in time before the Boston Red Sox fans in Fort Myers. Like the victims of the Boston bombing, I was determined to carry on, undaunted by adversity, and so I did, creating “Boston Strong” alongside music industry titans, in front of a live audience on February 28, 2014.

The painting, “Boston Strong”, is signed by Bon Jovi’s bass player, Hugh McDonald; Fran Sheehan, the former bassist and original member of the band Boston; Barry Goudreau, guitarist and original member of the band Boston; Leroy Romans, former keyboard player for Third World and The Wailers; Robert “Mousey” Thompson, drummer for the late James Brown; Danny Beissel of the band Foster Child; B.A.M. (Bad Ass Musician) and Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo.

“The Rock & Roll Legend of American Vinyl All Star Band Rep. Bill Johnson, His Girlfriend Melissa And Her Son From The Able Academy For Handicapped Children”

M O D E R N    A R T   G O N Z O    J O U R N A L I S M

Created by The Maverick Artist Victor-Hugo

“The Rock & Roll Legend of American Vinyl All Star Band Rep. Bill Johnson, His Girlfriend Melissa And Her Son From The Able Academy For Handicapped Children”

PROLOGUE

Mr. Bill was a friend of mine. When he needed shelter, I housed him. When he needed food, I fed him. One day, Mr. Bill called to ask a favor of me.

“The All Stars are getting together again, would you like to be part of the reunion?” He asked.

I recalled the thrill of being on stage, in front of thousands of cheering fans in Fort Myers, Florida, using my gift of synesthesia to interpret wavelengths and frequencies of music in color on canvas, with rock & roll legends, who collectively, sold over half a billion records worldwide. 

“Is it going to be like the first time?” I asked.  

(http://www.examiner.com/article/maverick-artist-victor-hugo-vaca-jr-joining-all-star-jam-at-davis-art-center)

(http://naples.floridaweekly.com/news/2012-02-23/Arts_(and)_Entertainment_News/All_Star_Jam_brings_big_names_in_music_to_downtown.html )

(http://www.vigoremag.com/VigoreChicagoMarch2014/index.html#/50/zoomed)

 “Yes.” He answered. “Only this time, it will be to benefit handicapped children. My girlfriend’s son has autism. He attends the Able Academy in Naples. I wondered if you wouldn't mind working with them the day before the show at the school. The band is going to be there and so is FOX News. At the concert, I’ll make sure the stage is set up properly. If you don’t mind, we’ll bring the kids up and let them paint with you during one of the songs. You can stay with the band at the beachfront mansion I rented and I’ll cover your travel expenses. What do you say, can you do it?”

“Sure.” I answered.

“Oh, and after we perform for the children in Naples, we’re scheduled for a gig in Fort Myers, at the opening game of spring training for the World Series champions, the Boston Red Sox.” Mr. Bill paused before continuing. “So, you’ll be there too, right?  You can create three Modern Art Music Movement paintings to commemorate the All Star weekend.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem. I’ll be there for all three MAMM Jams”

After hanging up with Mr. Bill, I got a phone call from my best friend Todd in New York, a huge Orthodox Jew that looks like an albino gorilla wearing a yamaka. He’s a wrestling champion, nicknamed, “The Hebrew Hammer”, who plays the harmonica with chutzpa and soul.

“My friend just invited me to a VH1 Fashion Week Party full of notable celebrities, he’s one of the performing artists, so it’s going to be VIP all the way, you want to come? VH1 gave him a suite at the Times Square Marriott, there’s plenty of room, you can be my guest.” Todd said.

“I would love to.” I answered, before realizing that the dates conflicted with the bond I had given to my friend Mr. Bill for sake of the children at the Able Academy. “Why don’t you join me in Fort Myers for an All-Star MAMM Jam with former members of Boston, Steely Dan, The Doobie Brothers, Third World, The Wailers and The James Brown Band, to benefit mentally handicapped children? I’ll tell Mr. Bill I’m bringing you as my guest and you can stay with me at the beachfront mansion he’s renting for the band.”

“You sure it’s going to be alright, remember, I’m Kosher, what about Shabbat?”

“ Dude, they’re rock legends, not anti-semites.”

“Alright, I’ll buy my ticket to fly down to your Labyrinth of Creativity on the beach near Miami. I’ll rent a big car for us to drive across Alligator Alley together, as long as you make sure I can celebrate my Weekly Holy Day.”

“You got it, Todd. I promise.”

So began my covenant with the Able Academy kids and my friends, never realizing that my commitment would lead to a series of events that left me afraid of charity and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

CHAPTER ONE: THE SPECIAL ARTIST FROM NYC

The day before meeting the Able Academy kids in Naples, I was scheduled to appear on WRPBI-TV, which broadcasts out of Boca Raton, Florida, to promote the All Star event in Fort Myers. Prior to my interview, on a show titled, “Out Of The Haze with Bryan Hayes”, I was introduced to Snow, a Canadian Reggae Musician, whose song, “Informer”, has been recorded twice in the “Guinness Book Of World Records” as the best selling reggae single in U.S. History, as well as the highest charting reggae single in history, after spending seven consecutive weeks at Number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1993.

I signed an autograph for Snow’s daughter talked to his manager, invited them all to the event in Fort Myers and next thing I knew, I was being asked intimate questions about my career as a “maverick artist” on a soundstage, in front of a television camera. According to Todd, who watched the show on a monitor backstage, the half-hour interview was “perfect”.

Outside, the weather was beyond nasty, torrential downpours and lightning strikes peppered the day and were forecast deep into the night. My trip across Alligator Alley to Fort Myers would be a dangerous journey. Thunder struck as Todd and I exited the television station, making a mad dash for the rental car, through deep puddles, under umbrellas that failed to keep us dry. Soaked, we began our adventure to the west coast of Florida, in the name of charity.

Halfway over the treacherous road that cuts through the Everglades, I received a text message from Mr. Bill advising me that Skunk Baxter, formerly of the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan, had arrived at the Fort Myers beachfront mansion with his grandchildren, which meant there was no room for Todd and I.

There are no U-turns or exits on Alligator Alley, it’s one- way in and one-way out so, we had no choice but to stay the course. The weather was grave, as we drove cautiously through the darkness of night with little road visibility, in spite of glaring high beams, that only shined light on our immediate predicament. I could not respond to Mr. Bill’s untimely message in the midst of such severe weather because of our remote location, in the middle of the Everglades, which offered no cell phone reception.

After a grueling five and a half-hour road trip, Todd and I made it to Mr. Bill’s home near the Henry Ford and Thomas Edison estates in Fort Myers. My cell phone battery was dead, so I knocked on the door and asked Mr. Bill’s housekeeper to notify him of our arrival. I smiled at Todd, when I noticed the framed painting of, “Cristomujer”, which I had personally signed and gifted to Mr. Bill when he last stayed at my home as a houseguest, hanging prominently on his living room wall. Todd and I looked at framed photographs of Mr. Bill standing side by side with every single United States President since Richard Nixon and other notables in the music and entertainment world, as his voice carried over the cell phone speaker of his house-keeper.

“Don’t send them over to the beach house.” Mr. Bill said, unaware that he was on speakerphone.

“Shall I set them up here?” The housekeeper asked, with an embarrassed look on his face.

“No! Let them sleep in the fixer-upper.”

“But, there’s no beds or furniture, there’s no hot water or locks on the doors. Are you sure? There’s plenty of room here.”

“I don’t want them staying at the house, do what I tell you.” Mr. Bill said firmly before ending the call abruptly.

“I thought you said this guy was your friend?” Todd asked.

“He is.” I said, with a confused look on my face, as I dripped onto Mr. Bill’s wooden floor in front of his housekeeper, who looked back at me with pity.

“There’s a mattress in the garage. The garage is full of junk. If you guys help me, we can take the mattress out, put it in my truck, and you both can sleep on it over at the fixer-upper.”

An hour later, after wiping cobwebs and spiders off a stained mattress in the middle of a thunderstorm, we arrived at what appeared to be a crack house near the Edison Estate in Fort Myers. There were no blinds, shades or window treatments for privacy. Puddles riddled rooms in fluid Rorschach shapes from leaks in the ceiling. A blood red stain covered the kitchen floor in the manner of a human body drawn by Keith Haring, which made the place appear like a crime scene. 

"You'll have to climb through the window." Mr. Bill's housekeeper announced before exiting through the dank garage.

"I thought I heard you say there was no locks on the doors." Todd interjected.

"Well, I don't have keys for the padlocks used to secure the front and back exits, so, you'll have to climb through the window if you really got to get out, otherwise, just come and go through the garage." Mr. Bill's housekeeper said in visible breaths that sliced through the pungent smell of mildew permeating the carport. "Doors broke, so it's always open."

"Are you serious?" Todd asked, looking at me sternly.

“Oh, and the toilets don’t work.” Mr. Bill’s housekeeper paused before adding, “And, I wouldn't drink the water either, it’s brown.”

Todd and I were out of there, back into the storm, without a place to rest, hours before I was supposed to perform for handicapped children in Naples and thousands of classic rock and Boston Red Sox fans in Fort Myers.

After Midnight, we showed up at the beachfront mansion, where we were initially supposed to stay. I called Mr. Bill, to let him know we were outside but he didn't answer the phone. Minutes later, he responded with a text message that read, “You can’t stay here. Don’t ring the bell, you’ll wake the band”.

Todd and I stared in disbelief, through buckets of rain being scattered by windshield wipers, at a huge RV that could easily sleep a dozen people, parked outside the beachfront mansion, while I contacted my manager to explain the situation.

“Can you find us a hotel?” I pleaded.

Half an hour later, my manager called back to say that all hotels in the Fort Myers area were booked. She said she would try to find us a hotel within a hundred mile radius and call back once she had secured a room for us.

In that time, Todd received a call from his friend, who had just finished performing at the VH1 fashion show in New York City, he was on speakerphone, so I could hear every detail of how awesome the event was and how amazing the star-studded after-party was going. I slumped into the seat as Todd stared down at me. I felt like such a shmuck.

“Why don’t you guys fly over on the red eye? There are hot models everywhere! I’ve got a suite at the Marriott Times Square for the weekend, the party’s just begun!”

Finally, around 2 a.m., my manager called with reservations for a hotel in Naples, not far from the Able Academy, where I was supposed to arrive at 8 a.m. to rehearse for my 9 o’clock performance with the All Stars in front of FOX News cameras and a roomful of handicapped children. The hotel was about two hours away, according to the GPS. It would cost me $287.00 to rest my head for a few hours, or I could hop on a flight with Todd and be in Manhattan, cavorting with A-list celebrities and models all weekend.

“It’s up to you.” Todd said. “I can drive us to the airport or to the hotel. Mr. Bill doesn’t sound like a very good friend and I don’t think he’s going to honor his word. Let’s cut our losses and get out of here.”

“Yeah, but I promised these kids. My manager says they’ve been studying my work for weeks and are looking forward to meeting me.” I answered, not sure why I cared, since, I don’t have children of my own and I much prefer partying with women than I do playing with kids. My instinct told me to get on a plane to New York and live like a party animal for the weekend but my heart told me to do the right thing and stay for the youngsters at the Able Academy.

Darkness shifted from crimson to amethyst before turning azure in the heaven above, shining a bright light in my eyes through the window shades, as the alarm went off, two hours after falling asleep. Todd stayed in bed; there was no waking him up. My brain was mush from lack of rest and my body ached from being trapped in a car for over ten hours. When I arrived at the Able Academy, the director of the school told me that Mr. Bill had just called to inform her that the All Star Band was not coming and since the band had cancelled, FOX News decided to abort the affair as well.

I had never worked with handicapped children before in my life. Without a clue, I told the director of the school to follow my lead and we would make something special happen for the rising generation. I determined the disabled kids would get a MAMM Jam, with or without Mr. Bill and his All Star Band.

“The show must go on”, I thought, through all the confusion. So, I grabbed some canvas, paints and brushes, out of the trunk of my car; found a radio and some strobe lights and hustled into the Able Academy as a text message from my manager came in, reminding me not to be late for the “Boston Strong MAMM Jam” , honoring victims of the Boston bombing at the Boston Red Sox Spring Training opener in Fort Myers at noon.

I told the school director that I only had two hours before having to rush over to the stadium. She said it wasn’t enough time to spend with all the kids and that they would be disappointed because they had spent weeks examining my work in anticipation of my arrival.

I suggested doubling the number of youngsters I would work with at a time and she said that would be impossible because mentally handicapped children could be uncomfortable and unpredictable in large groups. She warned me that even with the most experienced of teachers and professional counselors, they could get violent or unruly. I told her we didn’t have a choice and so my spontaneous adventure in art therapy with the special kids at the Able Academy began.

COMING SOON: CHAPTER TWO – BOSTON STRONG