Another child art prodigy? Yawn. Wake me up when one of them paints the ‘Mona Lisa’

... But one thing I do know: Every few years, a child artist emerges from obscurity, hailed as a pint-sized Pollock or Picasso. Far too young to have attended art school or to have studied anything about the history of art or the development of abstract painting, the child emerges from diapers, allegedly, as a fully formed abstract artist.

Each origin story is similar to the next: The child started painting as a toddler, they need a step stool to reach the top of the canvas, their parents are perplexed by all the attention and worried it will be harmful to their emotional development. Until, that is, it becomes clear that people pay money, lots of it, for this sort of novelty. Then the parents reluctantly allow the child to keep working … and keep selling.

Read the opinion piece by Robin Abcarian here.

Cuban art is caliente!

Because I am an art dealer, and because I have several art collectors that retain me as an advisor, I try to figure out the art scene from a commodity perspective as well as an artistic one; a key marriage often eschewed by most art critics because of their natural antipathy at admitting their symbiotic relationship with every facet of the art world, including the fact that art is everything, including a commodity.

How long have I been shouting "buy Cuban art!"? A long time... and not just because I may be a prognosticating commercial art genius, but because of the two great recent examples in the worldwide industry of making a piece of art climb in price: Russia and China.

Not just me, by the way, but also the Wall Street Journal, which looks at all things from a money perspective.

And of course, being self-serving because I'd rather people buy the artwork produced by the artists that I represent, I am always glad when they continue to do well, as they are "discovered" by the greater American art public in these three forthcoming exhibitions, all featuring the work of Sandra Ramos, whose amazing work I've pushing for years now and whose American solo gallery debut took place at my former gallery several years ago!

Sandra Ramos, "Alumbramiento (Enlightment)" - Mixed Media Etching. 22 in. x 30 in. (56 cm x 76 cm). 2005.
The Lyman Allyn Art Museum in New London, Connecticut has just announced a new exhibition, Ajiaco: Stirrings of the Cuban Soul, opening September 12, 2009 and on view through February 21, 2010.

Lyman Allyn Art Museum’s partner, the Hispanic Alliance of New London, has provided support for this exhibition with its coordinating programs and events. Cuban culture has been characterized as an ajiaco or a rich stew consisting of a vast array of ingredients. It is this synthesis that is the essence of Cuban art and the subject of Ajiaco: Stirrings of the Cuban Soul. The exhibition seeks to interpret the diverse social dimensions of Cuban art in a global context through the exploration of its relationship with African, Asian, European, and indigenous influences and belief systems.

This art incorporates the tales of the Orisha of Africa, the calligraphy of Chinese Tao Te Ching, and the rituals of indigenous peoples. The formats change, the materials vary, but the mix remains constant in both Cuban and Cuban American art. Ajiaco: Stirrings of the Cuban Soul is not only about Cuban art; it explores diaspora. In broader terms, this project addresses both the immigrant experience and the expression of cultural identity in a new place.

The curator, Dr. Gail Gelburd, a professor of art history at Eastern Connecticut State University in Willimantic, Connecticut, writes,

“Isolated and yet educated, restricted and yet heralded, the Cuban artist embodies the angst of their situation and yet embraces the loftiest of goals. Their syncretist tradition and heritage allows them to go beyond the monotheistic traditions in order to find the origins of their soul, the geist or inner spirit of their art.”

Gelburd has been conducting research on Cuban art and artists for over fifteen years. She travels to Cuba regularly and has lectured there for the Havana Biennale, Havana University, and Casa Africa. Gelburd has received numerous grants and awards, including a Rockefeller Foundation grant to conduct research on Cuban art and she is publishing a book on Contemporary Cuban art. Her article “Cuba: The Art of Trading with the Enemy" was published in Art Journal in Spring 2009.

This exhibition consists of more than fifty objects, including paintings, works on paper, photographs, sculpture, installations, and audio works by twenty-two artists. Ajiaco: Stirrings of the Cuban Soul will feature such major figures in Cuban art as Wifredo Lam, Manuel Mendive, Jose Bedia and Sandra Ramos, among others.

Following its time on view in New London, Ajiaco: Stirrings of the Cuban Soul will travel to the Chelsea Art Museum in New York City and then on to the Hilliard Museum at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette, Louisiana.

And another one:

The Center for Contemporary Printmaking (CCP) in
Norwalk, CT heralds in the fall with an exhibition of Latin American prints, September 24, 2009 through November 07, 2009. The exhibition opens with a gallery reception on Thursday, September 24, 2009, 4 – PM, and is free to the public. Entitled “Creative Dialogues: Latin American Prints & Printmakers”, the exhibition focuses on the human figure and the interaction of different Latin American cultures to their environment and living conditions. Approximately 50 works of art are in the exhibition. Gallery talks and a workshop exploring contemporary Caribbean and Latin American prints and printmakers are planned to coincide with Hispanic Month, which takes place in October 2009.

Artists participating in the exhibition hale from many countries, and underscore the diversity of imagery presented at the exhibition. Gallery visitors will have the opportunity to review the work of two artists who create their images at a printmaking atelier in Cuba, images that are rarely exhibited in the United States; to review the work of Antonio Frasconi, an international artist who resides in Norwalk; or take in a lecture by Sandra Ramos, an internationally known installation artist, and Alicia Candiani, workshop owner and artist whose imagery emphasizes women and women’s issues. Sandra Ramos and Alicia Candiani are traveling stateside to create new prints at the CCP Helen Frankenthaler Printmaking Cottage and participate in the Artist-In-Residence program for several weeks during the “Creative Dialogues” exhibition.

On Friday, October 2, CCP is hosting a special gallery event, open to the public. Join guest Curator Ben Ortiz for a walk and talk of the “Creative Dialogues” exhibition at 6 PM, and listen to Sandra Ramos and Alicia Candiani talk about their images in the exhibition at 7 PM. Following the gallery talks, attendees will have the opportunity to view new works by Sandra Ramos and Alicia Candiani at the Helen Frankenthaler Printmaking Cottage.

And lastly, Wake Forest University is presenting "Cuban Artists, Books and Prints, 1985-2008." The exhibition gathers over 120 books, maquettes for unpublished projects, related prints, and printed objects. The books were designed for Ediciones Vigía, a collaborative artists’ press founded in 1985 in Matanzas. The only press of its kind in Cuba or perhaps anywhere, it began with a mimeograph machine and a borrowed typewriter. The show includes 120 works (handmade books, prints, sculptures, film about artists, digital frames, and mixed media) and it is curated by Linda S. Howe, curator and Professor at Wake Forest University, in conjunction with Paul Bright, Assistant Director of WFU Fine Arts Gallery.

Prints by Ibrahim Miranda and Sandra Ramos offer romantic, nostalgic views of the island or ironic interpretations of patriotism. Miranda superimposes fantastic beasts on old maps of Cuba. For her book Jabberwocky, Ramos mixes excerpts from Lewis Carroll’s text and John Tenniel’s images for Through the Looking Glass with her own on pages facing foldout mirrors (where they must be read). Other prints combine photographs of herself as a child with her illustrations of contemporary Cuban life, suggesting its fairytale quality, sardonically sketching the quotidian, and voicing her sense of loss.

The exhibition goes from August 26 - October 6.

And, remind me later to blog my mother's most excellent Ajiaco recipe!

Bruce McKaig on CHAW's 4th Annual Photography Exhibition

By Bruce McKaig

Why have an exhibition of contemporary photography? Why send out a call-for-entries, review submissions, select some to hang on the walls of a gallery? Why have an opening reception, attended mostly by the participating artists and their social circles, then return most of the work to the artists a few weeks later? How did such a ritual begin and why does it persist?

Exhibitions at art galleries are a fairly modern practice. As submitted by Ethan Robey in The Utility of Art: Mechanic’s Institute Fairs in New York City 1828-1876, they are an offshoot of state or national fairs, where booths are set up and visitors can look at mechanical gadgets, scientific discoveries, jellies, pies, and well-bred livestock. By the late 19th century, some artists were hosting public receptions in their studios.

Eventually, some entrepreneurs – like Steiglitz and his Gallery 291 – decided to propose a year-round place where art and public could meet. As I looked at submissions for CHAW’s fourth annual photography exhibition, and as I gear up for my next solo exhibit at the Orlando Museum of Art, I find myself asking: Why not open year-round places for public and livestock to meet? Who doesn’t love beautiful sheep, especially a young one? Would a galerie des moutons be more preposterous than an art gallery?

Photography became public property in 1839 when Daguerre read his process out loud to the French senate. Photography was democratized in the 1880s when Thomas Edison invented 35mm film and George Eastman invented the word Kodak. In the mid-to-late 19th century, both the making and the viewing of photographs were not so much a daily bombardment as they were occasions. In most cases, if several people were to look at a photograph, they would usually be in the same room at the same time.

Clearly, that has changed.

According to The Camera and Imaging Products Association (CIPA), the number of digital cameras shipped in 2008 was 119,757,000, not including cell phones. As of October 2009, there were four billion images on Flickr. With over 300,000 images uploaded to Facebook every second, there are over 850 million images added every month. Last summer, I photographed a wedding and had to edit out numerous images that were overexposed because of how many other flashes kept firing. It seemed like most guests were also photographers.

On a recent field trip to the US Botanical Gardens, the number of people taking pictures was truly phenomenal. From cell phones to cumbersome SLRs with hefty attached flash units, people were lining up to photograph or be photographed in front of various floral arrangements amidst the holiday decor. Such colossal production rates beg the question, how much time do people spend looking at photographs? Has the priority, the principle activity, become making, not viewing?

The persistence of exhibitions and the excitement over the Internet coexist because one confronts confusion with a semblance of order; the other confronts the semblance of order with confusion. The gallery’s elitist approach strives to select and organize works in a momentary setting, as much an event or performance as a body of work, all in an effort to provide ground for discovery, debate, and direction.

The Internet’s democratic approach strives to neither select nor organize images, and the 24/7 open call-for-entries results in a bubble that can never burst because it has no dates, deadlines, or locale. The perception that the Internet is everywhere and always open implies both a trust in its availability and a lack of urgency, or even preciousness, when it comes to discovery, debate, or direction.

I suggest that people go to exhibitions because sometimes there is a precious urgency to discovery, debate, and direction.

The Fourth Annual Photography Exhibition at Capital Hill Arts Workshop is, once again, a sampling, an across-the-board look at diverse ways artists chose to approach the medium of photography, produce a piece, and connect with a viewer. By no means exhaustive, the diversity of the works conjures thoughts on defining what is an artist and what is a successful photograph. The diversity, however, does not succeed in masking the various themes that appear across the works when compared and contrasted.

Several of the images are formal studies, exploring shape and color. Red Deck, by Mark Walter Braswell, is a color image of the side of a building. Not an architectural study, with a confusing rather than informative perspective, the geometry and color are all that is left, is needed, to contemplate. Sue Weisenburger’s works are also formal studies. Foundation is more rigid, V&A in December is more organic, but both brush up against the narrative with their poetic use of geometry. In Vickie Fruehauf’s black and white scenes of water, the formal qualities have been wedded to an almost spiritual presence, in her words, “the silent observers within the natural world.” Judy Searles’ images are close-up looks at elemental materials. The materials, initially man-made, have been shaped and colored by the battering of weather and time. The temporal aspect to her work is explored in different ways by several other artists in the show.

Time as an element in photography is explored in several artists’ works, through the blurry stretching of time, or the juxtaposition of images side-by-side or sequentially in a slideshow format. Tom Pullin layers the fourth dimension of time into Fussa-Tokyo33107 thanks to a slow exposure. Similarly, Jim Blackie’s Down depicts an isolated traveler descending a quivering escalator. In the Motion Studies portfolio by Mark Issac, temporality is explored through, in Issac’s words, “the manner in which solid objects break apart and dematerialize.” Patricia Goslee and Siobhan Hanna both work with multiple images and the juxtaposition of different angles or objects has an element of time travel. In the back-and-forth observation for a viewer, the passage of time becomes a part of the experience. Leland Bryant also uses multiple images, but strings them out in a slide show. In this format, the images move by at the author’s chosen pace, not the viewers, and they run from first to last per author’s selection. Goslee, Hanna and Leland all use somewhat cumbersome titles or text that the viewer is left to appreciate or ignore.

Photo documentary works are also part of the exhibition. Gabriela Bulisova exhibits three images of anonymous Iraqi refugees. Heads cut off – by the picture frame – or eyes banded – by a wooden railing – or the human body replaced by its shadow, these images speak both of the individual and the collective. Kristoffer Tripplaar exhibits five images from Galveston Texas in the wake of a natural disaster. There are no people in Tripplaar’s images, just man-made structures with signs of nature’s rage. The absence of people succeeds in broadening the images’ story to a more universal struggle between urban humanity and nature. Another image in the show that uses absence to create atmosphere is Christopher Schwartz’s Off Duty, a shot of a deserted lifeguard station. Without people or activity, the strong colors come across bleak and doll-like. People are full-face present in Michael Stargill’s documentary sports images in a somewhat comical, somewhat iconic mixture of reportage and theater.

Photo by Jared Ragland
Several other artists in this exhibition turn directly to iconic elements and theatrical approaches. Jared Ragland’s socio-political commentary uses iconic items to construct blunt social commentaries. Ragland’s artist statement says, “While not always adhering to the traditional structure of narrative I seek nonetheless to open relationships between fragments of content and combine images to form loose associations and representations of the subconscious.” Whereas Raglan constructs his choreography with photomontage, Carolina Mayorga goes directly to theatrics in her exploration of religious ritual and rhetoric. Mayorga’s artwork addresses issues of social and political content and are produced as a mixture of drawings, sculptures, videos, or performances.

This exhibition fails to answer my questions about photography but succeeds in furthering the discovery and debate. I still don’t know how much time people spend looking at photographs. I still don’t know if a gallery of sheep would be more or less preposterous than a gallery of art.

What: CHAW”S 4th Annual Photography Exhibition
When: Jan 9th – Feb 4th 2010, opening reception Sat Jan 9th 5-7pm
Where: Capitol Hill Arts Workshop 545 7th Street SE WDC 20003
202 547 6839
www.chaw.org

On the first anniversary of a cancer victory

Today is the first anniversary of the first major battle with cancer... below and together, you'll find the record of that event - it makes for an interesting read, and some good lessons in there as well...

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February  16, 2016, 4:00AM

I'll be out of commission today, going under the knife for a major, somewhat urgent and quite unexpected surgery procedure with a substantial recovery period. Surgery starts at 0730; as I type this the main worry in my mind is getting from my house to the hospital (arrival time 0530) with all the ice still all over my neighborhood's twisty and windy streets.

Not looking forward to the next 2-3 weeks. But like Clint Eastwood once famously said: "Hog's breath is better than no breath at all..."

There are lots of things that I am afraid of, but weirdly enough, death is not one of them. I think that the fact that if I were to croak today I'd still be leaving behind around ten thousand pieces of artwork which have been sold, traded, given away, left in hotel rooms, inserted into Goodwill stores and/or otherwise left to leave an artistic footprint, is rather a calming feeling.

This is a major, multi-hour, robot-not-a-human-in-charge operation, which I am told has an 80% success rate where the John Doe doesn't bite the bucket (and frankly, I picked the robot over the human, because of something called "tremors" when it comes to a surgical scalpel), soooooooooo.... If I do bite the bucket, I'd like a tombstone that looks like a Pictish Stone, sort of like this one that I did in Scotland in 1989:

Clach Biorach Pictish Standing Stone
Edderton, Ross, Scotland
circa 1989 by F. Lennox Campello
Pen and Ink wash on paper, 9.5 x 6.5 inches

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February 16, 3:03PM 

Nothing is ever easy! Last night's ice rain made for an interesting drive to the hospital this morning.  Since I knew that the ice rainfall was coming, I put my van inside the garage and laid out plenty of salt. Around 4am I got up, sprinkled more salt and pulled the van out and warmed it up.

The walk from the van back to the house was quite an event, as I hugged the walls to try to make it back in one piece, slipping and sliding all over the place.

The drive out of my neighborhood was almost surreal. To start, the start itself took two tries to get the van pointed in the right direction. I then crunched my way out via an interesting new path that avoided most hilly streets in my very hilly neighborhood.... I slid a few times, but made it out and eventually to the hospital.

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February 19, 2016, 12:14PM

Going home today! This is my hospital allegory to Frida Kahlo's "What the water gave me."

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February 26, 11:58AM


I've debated over and over about documenting my recent and brutal prostate biopsy (the brutality comes in the bloody evidence after the biopsy), the subsequent cancer diagnosis by a very aggressive form of cancer, the recent hospitalization for radical prostrate surgery, and the current harsh recovery. 

And I'm still not really sure why I started to do it here, because this is an art blog, not Lenny's diary or whine-blog, but here it goes.

Why? There are some excellent lessons learned in the process which maybe can help someone; who knows. If I had read this ahead of my own surgery, it would have made some things a lot easier. I also plan to print this and mail it to the hospital, as there is some good feedback in here for them.

It has been over a week since the surgery, which was done on Tuesday, February 16, and things are not all 100% good, but we're moving forwards (I hope).

As noted in an earlier post, I arrived at Suburban Hospital last Tuesday around 5:30AM for a scheduled robotic assisted prostate surgery. The road that led there was accented by multiple pokes, biopsies, meetings with doctors, nurses, and deciding between chemo or the knife.

I decided to get rid of the little fucker outright and quickly, rather than cook it to death. The end results are the same: your prostate is history, but with surgery at least it is out of your body, unable to spread, and they can also biopsy the surrounding areas so that they can verify that it hasn't spread. Surgery, especially the robot assisted surgery which eliminates surgeon's tremors, also has a decent chance that after recovery you'll be able to still get your crank up.


That's one giant-assed issue, know what I mean.

So, after arrival at the hospital, I was prepared for the surgery, which is done by a team of doctors and nurses and a robot. 

I'm imagining this guy from Star Wars, but I know that it must be something quite simpler looking; later on I discovered that I was pretty close! At least the top half.

To the left is what the DaVinci Robot looks like (note the artistic name).

My surgery was to be directed and done by a genial Mexican-born doctor who has loads of experience in this area.

The staff at Suburban is like Whole Foods, there are people from all over the planet, and the accents reveals Americans who were once Russians, Ethiopians, Filipinas, Jamaicans, Asians, Indians, Central Americans, Nigerians, and the Gulf States.

A smiling tech wearing a hijab puts the intravenous needle kit into my left arm, while a nurse reviews the pre-operative protocol for the 100th time at different stages.

At some point the anesthesiologist comes in and walks me through his part of the operation. Soon after, my doctor comes in and we converse in Spanish. He tells me that all will be OK.

As I am rolled to the operation room, all that is in my head is the fact that I will have to wear a catheter for 10 to 14 days. The thought makes me shudder, but the mind (and the gurney) rattles on. But at least I have been told by most people that I should be heading home the next day, if everything goes well.

At the operation room a smiling nurse puts a hair net on my hair and that's the last that I remember.

I wake up to a smiling and efficient Asian nurse who checks me out. I'm not feeling any pain or discomfort, but have a very sore throat. She explains that I had a tube going down my throat into my lungs. I am also very thirsty and start drinking lots of water.  I'm also beginning to cough, the familiar feeling of phlegm in my lungs ticking my throat.

Each cough feels like someone is stabbing my guts in five different places, the result of the multiple robotic probes and the macabre tube coming out of my stomach. I also know that it's there, but don't want to think about the catheter tube up my crank and reaching into my bladder.

My wife looks under the sheets and grimaces. "What?," I ask alarmed. She describes the multiple angry incisions in my belly, the stomach tube, etc. She also notes that I have been "manscaped down there."

Much later, when I've had a chance to get a mirror, I inspect the manscaping, which goes all the way from below my nipples to my testicles. Curiously, whoever did all the shaving stopped halfway through my balls, so the top of them are shaved, but the bottoms are still covered in pubic hair, somewhat making them look like balls with beards, or one of those Japanese haircuts where they shave your forehead all the way up to half of the top of your head.
Eventually I'm released from the recuperation ward and I'm taken to my room; and I'm pleased to see that I'm the only person there. When I was a teen and got whacked by a car running a red light in Brooklyn, I spent months in a giant ward at Kings County Hospital; not pretty.

My wife is there by my side with a bag of essentials, such as my iPad. I use it to snap this photo and Facebook the image. She notices that my eyes are watery, and I tell her that they feel very odd.

With the exception of my colleagues that were at Context Art Miami with me in December, my wife's immediate family, and my two daughters, no one knew that I had been diagnosed with cancer, much less that I was to undergo major surgery.

And thus, after the Facebook posting makes the rounds, the Cuban side of my family is surprised that I kept them in the dark. My reasoning for that is clear, as I explain it to them.

My mother is in her 90s and doing OK in her apartment of 40+ years in Florida; she doesn't need to worry about me, cancer, operations, etc.

My plan was to tell her after the operation (I did); had I told one of my relatives before the operation, I was afraid of the effects of Radio Bemba ahead of the operation

Radio Bemba is a Cuban expression that literally means Lip Radio. It's news, gossip, rumors, conjectures, etc. spread by word of mouth. In the Navy an equal expression is RUMORINT (Rumor Intelligence).

As soon as the Facebook news spread, I get emails from DMV artists Tim Tate and Elissa Farrow-Savos: "Avoid the Percocet!," they warn. "It will really mess up your bowels!".

The tone of their alarms gets to me and I insist to the nurses that I want to stay off that particular painkiller, even though they tell me that I'm on a stool softener. I also continue to drink a lot of water.

Considering the trauma of the event, the pain is mostly manageable. As recommended, I even get up a couple of times and do some walking zombie 15 minute strolls through the ward. A couple of other patients are already out there, and a nice nurse ties my hospital gown properly so that I can stop showing the crack of my ass.

We walk around in zombie patterns around the ward, rolling out the IV tower for support, and holding the urine and stomach fluids bags in the other hand.

I'm not hungry, but I know that I must eat, so I consume some clear liquids: chicken broth, lemonade, green tea and (as directed by the nurse) some most excellent lemon ice. The food delivery people from the hospital kitchens, both the tiny East Asian woman and the clean-cut, elegant, young African-American youngster, are friendly and vivacious. In fact, nearly everyone that I came across while at Suburban, starting with the Central American and the Dominican ladies at the check-in station, to the always-friendly, talkative and smiley (and pretty) African-American cleaning lady who cleaned my room everyday, were an unexpected joy at the kind of workplace that usually yields jaded, glum workers.

So far, the only thing that it really bothersome, and pain inducing when it happens, is the constant coughing to try to get rid of phlegm in my lungs. It is mostly futile and my throat is really sore. Each cough hurts my gut with multiple deep lances of pain, and a nice nurse brings me a HUG ME pillow.

"Hug it against your stomach when you cough," she advises.

I cough a lot; it hurts a lot. Otherwise, everything else is manageable.

My eyes have been feeling odd since I woke up, as if they were full of eyelashes inside your eyelids. After dinner I zombie-up to the bathroom to brush my teeth and look at my eyes.

What I see scares the crap out of me. A jell like substance, looking like the vitreous, jelly like substance that fills the center of the eye accumulates at the edges of my eye lids. As I tilt my head, it quickly slides around the eye ball to whatever direction gravity pulls it, but never spills out of the eyeball.

I am convinced that my eye vitreous has detached during surgery and is now floating around my eyeball. I bring my alarm to my nice Nigerian male nurse, a smiling, kind man always willing to help. He looks at my eyes and is also somewhat alarmed, although he tries to hide it.

"I will get the Physician's Assistant to look at it," he tells me.

A couple of hours pass, and I'm now obsessed with my eyes; even the coughing fits take second place to my concern about them. I get out of bed again, run into my nurse and ask about the PA. He assures me that she's on the floor and will soon see me.

Around midnight she shows up. She sits next to me and asks me if I get grossed out easy. From her friendly and smiley approach, I am somewhat relieved.

She describes the operating procedures that took place, including the fact that my eyes were filled with a thick lubricant, and taped up during the operation; that's what's in my eyes. She cleans them with a warm wash cloth, and tell me to do that gently over the next few days.

It sounds from her talk that she was actually part of the operating team that morning. She describes how my body is put into a 45 degree angle, with my head lowered, and how my pelvic and intestinal area is inflated with balloons to allow the robot arms access to the prostate, the seminal vessels, and the lymph nodes.

The main driver, in this case, my Mexican Doctor, sits at a console and does the cutting, re-attachment of the urethra to the bladder, and the stitching. I mention to her that the doctor had mentioned that the robot does "beautiful stitches."

She clarifies that it is the doctor, using the robot arms, who actually does the stitching. "Baseball stitches actually," she mentions. She adds that prior to the robotic advance, a surgeon could only do six stitches; now he or she gets to go all the way around and baseball-stitch that connection.

I'm curious as to how the prostate itself and other internal body parts are removed from the body, and I ask her. Her eyes light up. Apparently, that's her job at the operation; she "runs" the robot hand that contains a expansible bag that accepts the prostate as it is clipped off by another robotic arm. The bag is then closed and extracted from inside the body.

I go into a coughing fit and she looks alarmed at my pain. She asks me where my Incentive Spirometer is; my puzzled look is her answer, and she rushes out of the room and comes back with one of the devices.

"They were supposed to give you one of these when you came out of the operating room," she frowns as she teaches me how to use it. "It will re-start your lungs and help you get rid of the phlegm a lot easier."

I'm directed to exercise my lungs ten times an hour. As I do it, I wonder who fucked up the check list of what I'm supposed to do after a major operation. 

Within a couple of hours, my lungs are a lot better and a lot of gunk has been spit out. However, after ten hours of constant coughing, my throat has been abused and it is sore and the occasional cough from that issue still bugs me, but it's a million times better.


When my wife comes by the next morning, she's pretty upset that I had been Spirometer-less most of the day. Because she runs everyday, she actually runs from our home to the hospital (and back) everyday as part of her exercise routine; who knows how many miles this uberathlete logs on each round trip!

I'm expecting to be released later that day, but there's a problem.

It seems that something called a Jackson-Pratt (or JP drain); which is a soft, round plastic bulb that looks like a grenade and is attached to the end of my stomach tube, and "sucks" the fluid out of my body (from around the operated area), has been sucking too much fluid - there's a lot of fluid in that area.

Tests also indicate that there's elevated creatinine in that stomach tube liquid, higher than the creatinine levels in my blood. That essentially means that there's urine in the fluid. It doesn't take a medical degree to realize that the bladder (or something) is leaking piss inside my body.

I'm to be kept overnight and monitored; no one has mentioned the word "leak" yet - as in urine leaking from your bladder into your body. Later that night, the smiling female doctor from my doctor's practice assures me that things will be OK and that they just want to monitor the creatinine to see if it goes down.

Day two arrives, and the wasps make their first appearance... right after lunch.

DMV artist Tim Vermeulen has had a brutal couple of decades where his body has been wracked by pain due to side effects of some medical issues a couple of decades ago. He depicted this is pain in this chilling painting:

 The Seat of the Soul, Mixed media on panel by Tim Vermeulen

When I first saw it at Context Art Miami last December, it scared and chilled me to the bone. Little was I to know, that in a weird way, it would help me a tiny bit from Wednesday to Friday of last week. That's Tim at the bottom of the painting, hugging his stomach in quiet agony while the wasps go to town in his innards.

For me, it started as a little crampy sensation in my right pelvic area; suddenly one of my balls was in pain hell quickly and out of nowhere. It happened fast, so fast that it floored my senses, but soon the worst pain that I have ever felt was coursing through my pelvic region and my stomach. It was so unexpected, intense, fiery and full of living movement, that it surprised me and astounded me with the violence and level of the pain.

It felt like a million points of pain, each one a little needle poking into the meaty parts of your insides, drilling into your pelvic bone, and then moving quickly to a new spot to poke a hole inside your gut; it felt like a million wasps, and I remembered and recalled the Vermeulen painting.

The first time, after an agonizing 15 minutes, it was gone.

"Probably gas," said the nice nurse when I told her about it. "Call me if it comes back and I will give you some Percocet."

"Fuck that," I thought to myself, "I don't want to trade up to chunks of cement in my bowels."

The wasps came back three times or so that day. I cussed them out, begged them to leave, whined like an animal, and in my mind's eyes killed each little motherfucker one at a time inside my bowels. But there were so many! The clock became my friend, as I looked at the advance minute hand expecting the end of the agony. Within 12-15 minutes the wasps were usually gone and I was back to "normal."

That Wednesday night the JP Drain is out of control, filling up about once an hour. At one point it turns from the reddish, bloody discharge that it is supposed to be, to the same color as urine. I'm alarmed by that and mention it to the nurse. He tells me that it is not urine.

As Thursday arrives, the decision is made to keep me overnight once again, and my doctor comes in to visit. He explains that there's probably a leak, but that this is not uncommon. He also changes my stomach dressing and directs that the JP ball be changed to a gravity bag to hold the body fluids coming out of the stomach tube. He mentions that since the JP ball works with suction, it's filling out so quickly because of that.

Nature abhors a vacuum.

By now everyone is telling me not to worry that urine is leaking inside my body, because "urine is sterile."

"People even drink it," someone says grossing me out. 

At lunch, for the first time I sit down to eat. When I get up I notice that I am leaking fluid on the floor. It is coming from the stomach hole where the tube goes into my body. The nurse comes in, put me to bed and changes the dressing; as soon as she leaves the wasps make an appearance. 

I fight them with my own mental violence as I imagine pulling them off my insides one at the time, their stingers stretching my stomach walls as it refuses to release its penetration, and then the meat slapping back as the insect, angrily buzzing in my hand, is crushed between my fingers. But there are so many...

A couple of hours later, a nice PA comes in to check on me, and while he's checking me, the wasps make another appearance. He listens to my bowels as I'm whimpering in pain and talking to the little bastards. The nurse is called and she injects some pain killer into my IV; it is no of use, the pain is not affected by anything but time. Everyone has been telling me that the wasps are either gas or bladder spasms. I am told to be proactive, and that as soon as I feel the spasms begin to call for painkiller.

These wasps do not listen to painkillers.

There's a double nurse team on duty today. One nurse is young and pretty, the other is much older and wearing a formidable tool belt of medical supplies, sort of like a Medical Bat-belt for nurses. They are both efficient, friendly and concerned.

Bat Nurse is especially active. As I zombie around in my ward walks, I see her all over the place helping patients; she never seemed to rest.

Later the young nurse comes in with the PA to switch my stomach bag and there's some jury-rigging involved in switching the bags, and much tape is employed in the process. By now I've noticed that my stomach dressing is soaked because the hole in my belly, where the tube enters my body, is leaking again.

Bat Nurse switches my dressing efficiently; she's a nice lady on top of being a very dedicated nurse; she tells me that she's only been a nurse for six months.

Later that day, my doctor returns and quickly disassembles what the nurse and the PA had done and makes an efficient water-tight connection to the new bag. He also changes my belly dressing, as it is soaked again. He re-assures me that the leak will heal itself.

I sleep fitfully and then it's Friday; the wasps are not nocturnal.

On Friday I am to be discharged and sent home with the body bag. "Make an appointment for Monday to evaluate the situation and see if we can remove the stomach bag," my doctor advises.

I'm feeling fairly decent, and that day I walk around a lot. The wasps make an appearance after lunch, and then just a few minutes after they had left, as if they knew that I'm thinking of going home, while I'm standing in the room, they come back with the whole hive.

This time the pain is not only outside the pain scale, but the wasps have even conquered the clock! An hour passes and I'm still being attacked; these are extra-terrestial wasps from the planet Waspathron; this pain are a million Janices from 1959's The Wasp Woman; maybe I should not have insulted them earlier; for every one that I kill, a dozen more show up, their long stingers dripping with pain venom.

They are joined by hornets, not just any hornets but those giant Chinese motherfuckers called Vespa Mandarinia. "Is there a difference between hornets and wasps?," I ask them as I fight them.

My wife calls and detects the pain in my voice; she's alarmed. I try my best to sound OK, but she knows better and she heads to the hospital. This time she drives.

By now I'm nauseous with pain and lay down; it's no use, the pain won't leave me. I call the nurse and ask her to bring me the puke basin. She's alarmed at the level of my pain, but reacts to the nausea as well. She injects me with something and the nausea goes away, while I battle the wasps and the Mandarin hornets.

A new PA walks by and hears me talking to the wasps, begging them to leave me alone, and she comes in and listens to my belly. "The pain is because of bladder spasms," she notes, "It's very common when you have a catheter." This is the hundredth time that I've heard that diagnosis.

"I'll order some muscle relaxer to treat the spasms."

Wait, what?

This is the first time that anyone has mentioned something specific to treat the spasms; so far it has been painkillers to treat the pain. A fucking light goes on in my head and I warn the wasps that payback time is coming. I also wonder why nobody has suggested this treatment the entire three fucking days that the wasps have been attacking me.

She orders something called Oxybutynin which according to the Mayo Clinic: "Oxybutynin belongs to the group of medicines called antispasmodics. It helps decrease muscle spasms of the bladder." 

Memories of the Wasps Attacking at Suburban Hospital
2016 F. Lennox Campello
Ink and conte on paper 11x8 inches

I get it into my system and the wasps and hornets die. This is Raid to these fuckers; it's over... technology and modern medicine have won.

But, why on Friday? How come none of the other medical professionals realized that bladder spasms are very common when a catheter is first introduced? Why didn't anyone came to my aid to fight the wasps?

I'm discharged later that day and sent home with two tubes in my body. An awesome Filipina nurse trains my wife and I on the process of keeping track of the fluids coming out of my stomach and my penis, and also the process of switching the bags around as needed. She then walks us to the exit and hugs me, and wishes us good luck.

I read somewhere that over 97% of the men who go through this operation go home the next day and it's very rare when anyone has to go home with a stomach tube.

Welcome to rarity.

Next: This is what a Borg feels like at home.

---

March 4, 11:22AM

At the time that I checked into the hospital for my surgery, I was told that I would be discharged the next day, at least 97% of the men who undergo this type of surgery, get discharged within 24 hours of the operation. However, as fluids continued to come out of my body in prodigious quantities and the wasps continued to attack, I realized that I was part of the 3%.

I was released from the hospital on that Friday, three days after the surgery and two tubes sticking out of my body and uncomfortably sending chills of discomfort and pain every time that I moved. From there we headed out to the drugstore to pick up all of the different drugs that they had assigned for my return to home, including the anti-spasm medicine for my bladder that the medical system has so miserably failed to give me when the wasps first came at the hospital.

When we got to the drugstore, after the drive, made uncomfortable by two tubes sticking out of your body while you're sitting inside a car, I decided to take a small walk to the drugstore. As soon as I stepped inside, the tube from the catheter began to pull, making me really miserable.  

I looked around to make sure no one was looking at me, reached into my pants, adjusted my penis, and of course, as soon as I did that, an elderly lady wearing a yellow turban give me a long look as she came out from one of the aisles. 

She was quite a sight actually, only in Potomac do you get to see a 70-something older lady wearing a yellow turban, large loop earrings, full make up on, Daisy Duke shorts, a black leather jacket, giant Jackie Onassis sunglasses, and black Converse sneakers. 

Daisy Dukes in February! I actually smiled at her thinking "More power to you! But I best get the heck out of here before I get arrested." I could feel her eyes on me as I zombied out of Rite Aid.

As soon as I got home I took a hot shower. This was quite an exercise in controlled motion under the shower, as not only are there two tubes sticking out of one's body, but also they're very sensitive to any tugging and pulling. It also involves switching the large urine bag for the smaller one, and tying them around your leg. But the hot shower felt good, it was the first time since Tuesday that I had taken a shower. I wonder if Borgs shower.

There's a certain fascinating horror that comes with seeing the human body in extremis. There is a perverse sense of visual pain in seeing things that are wrong with one's body reflected in a full-size mirror for the first time in front of you: The angry scars left by the robot entry points into the body, the tube sticking out of your penis with a large bag at the end of it, and the tube sticking out of your stomach with a smaller bag at its own end. Each movement could be a disaster, each step a coordinated dance to avoid or minimize the movement of the tubes. Sleeping with tubes in your body is an art form in itself, but exhaustion always wins in the end.

For the next several days, I perfected the routine of switching the bandages around the stomach tube entry point into the belly, emptying and measuring bag after bag of fluids coming out of your body, and performing the delicate dance shower in order to to avoid hurting yourself.

At some point during the week, a nice nurse from Suburban Hospital called. She wants feedback on the stay, and as I relate the events detailed in my earlier blog post, she is horrified by the fact that no one gave me a Spirometer, that no one gave me medicine for the bladder spasms, and that no one helped me to combat the wasps.

And today, more than two weeks and three visits to the doctor later, I prepared for another visit to the doctor to evaluate pulling the tubes out and returning me to the human race, like Picard did from his time amongst the Borg as Locutus..

As the doctor pulls the stomach tube out, my wife's eyes widen as he does. Later on she tells me that she could not believe how long that tube was; it must have been coiled inside me.

The process didn't hurt as much as it was rather noticeable to my alarm senses, but quick. My doctor tells me that I need to return on Monday to see about pulling off the catheter.

Will that hurt? You bet, but still I look forward to that day; Borg no more!

Bad glass juju?

I ask the question because I got some bad juju going on today...

My day started at 0545 with my Blackberry (yes, I still use a Blackberry, and I believe that President Obama and I are the last two users left on the planet) vibrating in its alarm mode to wake me up gently without waking up the other sleeping members of the Campello household.

I reached over rather quickly, as I always do, in order to attenuate the device, as the vibrations eventually shift into a rapidly escalating "Sunrise" music if the person being woken does not pick it up and turns the alarm off.

As I did, I accidentally hit the glass of water that I always have by my bedside, and which is usually a plastic glass, in case I knock it off in my groggy state, and it falls on the floor. The problem is or was, that last night I had a glass made out of real glass.

The fall from the night table to the wood floor usually wouldn't break a tempered glass like this solid one was, but the laws of Murphy took over and the glass, full of water to the brim, took a trajectory between the night table and the bed itself, and its edge managed to hit the metal edge of the undercarriage of the bed itself.

Luckily, it a good tempered glass, and it only broke into 347 pieces instead of a million shards, while at the same time, and in defiance of nearly every physics laws of any planet with significant gravitational pull, soaked the side of the mattress.

It also made a lot of noise.

"Mom?", came Anderson's concerned voice from his nearby room, now awoken by the noise and slightly alarmed. He has been well trained, and only calls on Mom if there are any issues during lights out operations in the Campello household.

"It's OK honey," responds my wife's fully awake voice, not the usual early morning, vocal-fry voice, "Daddy dropped his glass of water... go back to sleep."

"Good luck with that," I say softly (very softly) to myself softly as I wander into the bathroom to grab a towel to soak up the water off the wooden floors and scoop up the broken glass before anyone steps on that. Ten minutes later the floor has been taken care of, and in somewhat of a miracle, not a single shard of glass has made its way to my hands.

A quick shower and I'm ready to head out. 

As today is the day that I pick up Anderson from school, and take him to his swim practice. Since while I'm there I usually spend that hour surfing the net on my iPad, I grab my iPad, my WiFi device, my Blackberry, a bag of nuts, his giant-assed backpack full of his swimming gear, three slices of cheese, a little plastic container with some leftover chicken, my water bottle and my car keys.

Should have made two or three trips, because as soon as I get to the van and start unloading, I drop not the WiFi device, nor the Blackberry, or bag of nuts, or his giant-assed backpack full of his swimming gear, or any of the three slices of cheese, or the little plastic container with some leftover chicken, or the water bottle, or the car keys.

Nope, I dropped the iPad, which of course, and as designed by Apple, does a perfect corner landing which results in multiple cracks across the surface of the device.

Hey! I'm still not mad - but now I'm aware that shit like this comes in threes... so Lenny is gonna be super alert this morning while driving on the beltway as I head north towards a Maryland fort named after a Union general, but I'm not naming names in case NBC alleges that I'm heading to someplace named after a Confederate general, if any of those still remain.

I get to my destination safely, and once in the nice office, I log into my computer, get distracted by something on TV about some lady with a lot of names who's been busted as a leaker at the Treasury Department, and my screen saver times out. Now fully distracted and not as wary as I was just 30 minutes earlier, I absent-mindedly, and for the first time that I can recall, ever... ever... type the wrong password into my system, which immediately locks me out, as I have it designed to allow only two tries, beacuse the Lenster never fucks up his password.

Until today, that is.

Now I need to go to the IT gods to get help, and thus I start that trek, now slightly wary once again of the way events are turning out this morning - it's not even 9 o'clock yet, but I'm back in DEFCON 3, just in case.

I get my computer unlocked rather easily by a nice IT guy who looks to be about 12, and breathe a sigh of relief - crap like this comes in threes, and in my mind the three bad things had already occurred and the kid is home free.

Not so fast - you see, there were two "glass" things (the glass of water and the iPad glass screen), so in reconstructing what happened next, it is clear that another "glass" thing was in storage.

Ready?

There is some kind of code in Montgomery County that dictates that floor levels between doors have to be even and have some sort of ramp if the floor descends on the side of the door that opens. This is clearly not the case (or it is not enforced) in Anne Arundel county. How do I know that? Because as I was leaving this building on a side door, on the other side of the exit door, there was a lower floor which descended a full human step.

As if that was not bad enough, as I stumbled upon the unexpected drop, there was a well-worn furniture dolly on the floor... right in front of where my foot, or anyone's fucking feet coming from the other side of the blind door, as it opened towards the lower level floor, would land.

 Notice that I described it as "well-worn", as this is important to the series of events which took place next. The dolly's protective carpet edging around the corners were all but gone after many years of service... nothing at all like the image to the left - but nothing but sharp wooden corners at the edges.

Someone was either moving in and out, and (I think) the dolly was being used to help carry some loads from the edge of the door to the sixteen milimiters to the double glass doors leading to the steps which descended to the street in front of this building's side entrance. And someone had left it right in front of a door that opens towards that area, with a blind drop of eight inches or so.

I accidentally stepped onto the empty dolly, which lurched forward as my momemtum was progressive (cough, cough), and I lost my balance. I managed to grab the door push-bar and did not fall, but the dolly shot forward towards the double glass doors.

Normally, those doors would have been closed, and normally, a carpet-edge-protected dolly would have just bounced off the thick glass doors, and normally - even if well worn and sharp as these dolly's corners apparently were -- chances are that the dolly would have struck the door on one of its sides, rather than a sharp corner - a 50% chance to be exact.

Even if a dolly's sharp corner struck the glass dors while the doors were closed, the incidence angle would most likely just cause the dolly to bounce off the doors... the double glass doors.

However, in this case, whoever was the Einstein who was moving in or out -- and whom had left the fucking dolly on the other side of a blind-opening door which descends onto a blind step -- was in the process of coming back into the building. And he had just pulled one of the glass doors towards him, so when the dolly (now at a perfect 45 degree angle of incidence), struck the glass door (also at a perfect and no longer perpendicular or horizontal angle, but perfectly angled to receive the sharp corner in the most destructive manner angle posible) was hit, it shattered into a perfect cobweb of fisures threatening to explode into a burst of broken glass.

I know it was him, because he was carring a medium sized box - certainly not dolly-worthy, but maybe he had more boxes coming, although it seemed to me (in retrospect) that this Einstein should have placed the dolly (if he was moving in) on the other side of the door and thus the higher step level!

And thus, in the precise timing sequence that I step on the dolly, and it goes flying forward, and Einstein opens the glass door, and the dolly smacks the glass door and shatters it, a third actor enters the stage, as another twenty-something gent is coming up the steps, absorbed in something important going on in his phone, and not looking at the Keystonian (reference to Keystone Cops for you Millenials - look it up) comedy developing in front of him.

And he was coming up the steps and the dolly was flying down the steps, having bounced off the glass door, and now looking for more victims.

And phone boy, of course, now steps on the descending dolly and goes lurching slightly forward -- and his phone goes flying south and lands (on its corner of course), not on the soft grass that cover 75% of the area in front of this entrance, but on the 25% cement sidewalk, which - as we'll find out soon - shatters the phone's glass screen... cough, cough.

Did you notice that I wrote that phone boy went "forward"? This is important to the story, because some part of phone boy - not sure which - then hits the shattered glass door, which, up to this point has valiantly been holding all the shattered glass within the frame of the door, as a good, well-tempered glass was designed do.

But upon being hit a second time, the glass door lost its temper and exploded into a trillion pieces, covering both Einstein and phone boy in glass shards.

"Are you guys OK?", I ask, truly concerned about these two young guys, and somewhat impressed that Einstein didn't drop the box that he was carrying during this whole sequence.

"My phone!!!!", screams phone boy in horror looking at his empty hand, apparently not caring that he's covered in glass. He looks around, sees the phone on the sidewalk and runs towards it.

"What happened?", asks Einstein slightly dazed, and certainly confused. "The door just exploded...", he adds.

"Somebody left a dolly on the other side of that door", I point out to him, and stop there. I can see that he's reconstructing the incident in his mind. "Are you OK?", I ask him. He nods - not offering any more contributions to the conversation.

I walk over to phone boy, and ask him the same question. "My phone!!!", he responds in agony.

Later on, it dawns on me that - technically, if you count his phone - four "glass" incidents have happened today.

I hope that the bad juju is over for the day... although my lower back is feeling a little tender after that "funny" step onto the dolly.

And it's still morning...