Modigliani portrait of Picasso is ‘badly painted forgery’

An art historian has claimed a painting by Modigliani in Vienna is fake, fuelling a row over an alleged proliferation of forged works by the Italian artist.

Read the article here.

He stays, she said...

"He stays," she said - An Homage to Betty White", Charcoal and Conte on unfired Bisque, c. 2022. 

This work will be part of the Betty White United exhibition coming up later this month at Zenith Gallery in Washington,  DC.  

Arthur Duncan, was a Black dancer who was featured on “The Betty White Show” that aired in the 1950s. When she was requested to remove him from the show because of the color of his skin, she replied, "He stays."

"He stays," she said - An Homage to Betty White"
Charcoal and Conte on unfired Bisque, c. 2022

On the anniversary of a superhero's death

Seven years ago my father died on this day... here's my eulogy from that date:

"Hoy se ha caido otro roble en la selva del amargo exilio" is how I always thought that my father's eulogy would begin once he died.

"Today another oak falls in the jungle of bitter exile," began the eulogy for the man whose bloodlines my children and I carry on.

Florencio Campello Alonso died today at age 90 in Miami, the heart of the bitter Cuban Diaspora. Like many Cubans of his generation, he was the son of European immigrants to Cuba. His Galician parents left the scraggy mountains of northern Spain's ancient Celtic kingdom and in the first decade of the 1900s migrated to the new nation of Cuba upon its liberation from Spain.

Galicians have always been uneasy subjects of the Spanish crown, stubbornly hanging on to their ancient Celtic traditions, to their own language and to their bagpipes, so it is no historical surprise that they left their mountain homelands en-masse and headed to the new tropical paradise of Cuba, free from the heavy hand of the Spanish monarchy.

And thus it was never a surprise to me that my father was both a fighter against heavy-handed rulers, a lover of freedom, and one who was never afraid to re-start a life for the better, even if it involved discarding the old. 

My father could have been one of the privileged few who currently rule  atop the food chain of Cuba's Workers' Paradise. But instead of accepting the benefits of oppression, this most valiant of men chose the harsh path of right over wrong.

And he paid for it dearly (he spent years in Concentration Camps), but when he died, his soul was clean.

In his youth, my dad worked the brutal hours of the son of an immigrant who was slowly building a small financial empire in eastern Cuba. My father was pulled from school as soon as he learned to read and write, and like his two other brothers and eight sisters, he was expected to work and contribute to building a familial empire.

And he did, as my mother relates the stories of my father's childhood in the fields of eastern Cuba, a blond creole in a land of jingoist natives... he trying to out-Cuban the "real Cubans"... how he organized a labor union of the exploited Haitians who worked almost as slaves at the Los Canos Sugar Mill, how he joined a group of bearded rebels in the mountains of the Sierra Maestra in the fight against a tyrant, how he ran for the leadership of the Sugar Workers' Union and beat the Communists to the post, and how he spent years in a Castro Concentration Camp, jailed for the crime of refusing to join the Party, because he believed in Democracy and not Communism. 

And because of that stubbornness, in the 1960s he was offered the bitter pill of exile, and this brave man decided to choose family... and left his birth place, and thus became another immigrant within two familial generations and brought his wife and child to another new land.

And it is to him that I owe the greatest gift that a father can give a son: the opportunity to grow in freedom in the greatest nation in the history of this planet.

It is because of my father's courage that I was raised in this country and not in a land bloodied by brutality and oppression.

It is because of my father's teachings that I was raised with the conviction that freedom is not free and never to be taken for granted; after all, he fought for freedom and then Castro, the man who inspired  the fight, ended up being a worse dictator, eventually destroying all notions of freedom for all of his people.

It is because of my father that I was taught that every citizen owes his  nation some form of service, and that's the main reason that I signed (at age 17) to serve in the US Navy.

It is because of my father that I despise anyone who hides behind the mask of victimism to excuse failures and shortcomings.

When our family arrived in New York in the 1960s, my father began to work in a factory three days after he landed at the airport; my mother (who came from a privileged Cuban family and had never worked a day in her life) found a job as a seamstress five days later. That pattern was repeated for decades as they worked their way in a new nation.

"We thought we'd be back within a few years," was the answer given to me when I once asked the question about leaving their birthplace. When that didn't materialize, they became fierce Americans in the "United States of Americans" sense... these were the "America None Better!" set of immigrants, and in my Dad's case, you better be ready to fight if you dissed the USA.

"Americans"!

Always a fighter he was... and always for the right reasons.

Cubans are archaic immigrants... we love this great nation because we  recognize its singular and unique greatness; perhaps it is because our forebears had the same chance at greatness and blew it.

And my Dad loved this nation even more than he once loved Cuba... perhaps it is the genetic disposition of the serial immigrant. After all, his father had left his own ancient Celtic lands and kin for a new land... which he learned to love dearly.

My father always wanted to make sure that I knew that I was an "Americano" and not another forced-on label.

"Labels," he'd say, "are just a way to separate people."

By labels he meant "Hispanic" or "Latino" or anything with a "-" between two ethnic words.

I also remember as a kid in New York, when he bought a huge Hi-Fi record player-color-TV console... that thing was huge. He bought it "lay-away" and he'd pay $10 a week to the store and him and I would walk all the way from our house on Sackman Street to the store on Pitkin Avenue to make the payments every Saturday - he never missed a single payment, and that taught me a lesson.

It was soon playing my Dad's favorite music, which oddly enough was Mexican music (Cuban music was a close second)... and he knew all the words to every charro song.

Guadalajara en un llano, Mejico en una laguna... 

Guadalajara en un llano, Mejico en una laguna...Me he de comer esa tuna 

Me he de comer esa tuna.... aunque me espine la mano.

That Jorge Negrete song... being shouted often on weekends at the top of his lungs from our apartment in a mostly Italian neighborhood in East New York in Brooklyn must have raised some eyebrows.

My dad and I watched Neil Armstrong land on the moon on that TV set... we also watched loads of Mets games... and in 1969 and 1972 went to Shea Stadium to see the Mets win in '69 and lose in '72. He really loved baseball and he really loved those Mets!

When I joined the Navy at age 17, my first duty station was USS SARATOGA, which at the time was stationed in Mayport in Florida, so my Dad decided to migrate south to Florida and moved to Miami... just to be close to me.

He and my mother spent the next 40 years in the same apartment while I was stationed all over the world.

When I visited him today in Miami, he looked good and freshly shaven... this is a good thing, as my father was a freak about hygiene... and that's a common "creole" trait.

The Hospice nurse almost teared up when I told her that my parents have been married for 60 years.

I looked at this old "gallego"... his skin as white as paper, his eyes as blue as the sky, and his head (once full of blond hair) as bald and shiny as the old Cuban sing song ("Mira la Luna, mira al Sol... mira la calva de ese.....") and I saw the generations of Neanderthals, Denisovans and Gallego Homo Sapiens that led to my bloodlines... the generations of fighters, of strugglers, and of tough guys who didn't take no for an answer and who made a better place for others. 

And I felt at peace and grateful.

And as my father died tonight, after an extubation,  all that I can think  to say to him is "Thank you for your courage... from me, and from my children... and soon from their children. You opened a whole new world for them."

I love you Dad... Un Abrazo Fuerte! Thank you for your gifts to me and my children and it is no coincidence that you died on El Dia de Los Reyes.

Art Scam

 Beware of this asswipe trying to scam artists:

From: James Reginald jreginald570@gmail.com

Subject: ART INQUIRY

 Hello Lennox!

How are you doing? I am James Reginald from Medford, OR. I have been on the lookout for artworks in regards to my wife's and my wedding anniversary which is just around the corner. I stormed on to some of your works which I find quite impressive and intriguing. I must admit you are doing quite an amazing job. You are undoubtedly good at what you do.

That being said, I would like to purchase one or two of your works as a surprise gift to my wife. It would be of great help if you could send me pictures of your piece of work, with their respective prices and sizes, ready for immediate (or close to immediate) sales. My budget for this is within the price range of $1000 to $5000.

I look forward to reading from you in view to knowing more about your piece of inventory. As a matter of importance, I would also like to know if you accept checks as a means of payment?

Best Regards.

Asshole of the month

It's only the second day of the month but @DallasNews, @RobertTGarrett, @MorrisReports have already won the "Asshole of the Month" award - sharing it in equal parts for this sorry piece of mierda.

Bettie White

 “Why do people say "grow some balls"? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.”

-- Betty White

Why do people say 'grow some balls'? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding - An Homage to Betty White
Graphite on Bisque, c. 2022

PO1 Mock

As most of my Navy buds know, I used to do a lot of cartoons while I was in the Navy... some were published in base newspapers,  Navy magazines,  Stars & Stripes, etc. I gave most of them away over the years... this one just showed up at an auction.

It depicts the legendary Seaman Schmuckatelli - first as a "boot" in bootcamp and then as a tough sailor a few years later - notice that the Seaman is screwing up the salute!

Seaman Schmuckatelli Navy cartoon from 1983 by Lenny Campello

He always hated when...

He Always Hated It When They Fought
2021 Charcoal on Bisque by F. Lennox Campello

 

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas! May your Christmas be one full of happy things and no Omicronizing of the family!

The Giving Season, by David FeBland, Oil on Canvas, 2007

Once he left...

Once he left, she regained her balance
6x4,1 inches
Graphite on repurposed broken Bisque by F. Lennox Campello 2021

Once he left, she regained her balance
6x4,1 inches
Graphite on repurposed broken Bisque by F. Lennox Campello 2021

 

Monroe's murderer

Monroe see her last visitor (the murder of Marylin Monroe)
Charcoal & Conte on reclaimed broken Bisque
c. 2021 by F. Lennox Campello

Monroe see her last visitor (the murder of Marylin Monroe)
Charcoal & Conte on reclaimed broken Bisque
c. 2021 by F. Lennox Campello

Jose Marti

Yo soy un hombre sincero - homage to Marti
Charcoal and Conte on reclaimed, broken Bisque
2021 by F. Lennox Campello

 

Yo soy un hombre sincero

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crece la palma,

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma.

 

Yo vengo de todas partes,

Y hacia todas partes voy:

Arte soy entre las artes,

En los montes, monte soy.

 

Yo sé los nombres extraños

De las yerbas y las flores,

Y de mortales engaños,

Y de sublimes dolores.

 

Yo he visto en la noche oscura

Llover sobre mi cabeza

Los rayos de lumbre pura

De la divina belleza.

 

Alas nacer vi en los hombros

De las mujeres hermosas:

Y salir de los escombros,

Volando las mariposas.

 

He visto vivir a un hombre

Con el puñal al costado,

Sin decir jamás el nombre

De aquella que lo ha matado.

 

Rápida, como un reflejo,

Dos veces vi el alma, dos:

Cuando murió el pobre viejo1,

Cuando ella me dijo adiós2.

 

Temblé una vez —en la reja,

A la entrada de la viña,—

Cuando la bárbara abeja

Picó en la frente a mi niña.

 

Gocé una vez, de tal suerte

Que gocé cual nunca:—cuando

La sentencia de mi muerte

Leyó el alcalde llorando.

 

Oigo un suspiro, a través

De las tierras y la mar,

Y no es un suspiro,—es

Que mi hijo va a despertar.

 

Si dicen que del joyero

Tome la joya mejor,

Tomo a un amigo sincero

Y pongo a un lado el amor.

 

Yo he visto al águila herida

Volar al azul sereno,

Y morir en su guarida

La vibora del veneno.

 

Yo sé bien que cuando el mundo

Cede, lívido, al descanso,

Sobre el silencio profundo

Murmura el arroyo manso.

 

Yo he puesto la mano osada,

De horror y júbilo yerta,

Sobre la estrella apagada

Que cayó frente a mi puerta.

 

Oculto en mi pecho bravo

La pena que me lo hiere:

El hijo de un pueblo esclavo

Vive por él, calla y muere.

 

Todo es hermoso y constante,

Todo es música y razón,

Y todo, como el diamante,

Antes que luz es carbón.

 

Yo sé que el necio se entierra

Con gran lujo y con gran llanto.

Y que no hay fruta en la tierra

Como la del camposanto.

 

Callo, y entiendo, y me quito

La pompa del rimador:

Cuelgo de un árbol marchito

Mi muceta de doctor.

A Sincere Man Am I

A sincere man am I

From the land where palm trees grow,

And I want before I die

My soul's verses to bestow.

 

I'm a traveller to all parts,

And a newcomer to none:

I am art among the arts,

With the country I am one.

 

I know how to name and class

All the strange flowers that grow;

I know every blade of grass,

Fatal lie and sublime woe.

 

I have seen through dead of night

Upon my head softly fall,

Rays formed of the purest light

From beauty celestial.

 

I have seen wings that were surging

From beautiful women's shoulders,

And seen butterflies emerging

From the refuse heap that moulders.

 

I have known a man to live

With a dagger at his side,

And never once the name give

Of she by whose hand he died.

 

Twice, for an instant, did I

My soul's reflection espy:

Twice: when my poor father died

And when she bade me good-bye.

 

I trembled once, when I flung

The vineyard gate, and to my dread,

The wicked hornet had stung

My little girl on the forehead.

 

I rejoiced once and felt lucky

The day that my jailer came

To read the death warrant to me

That bore his tears and my name.

 

I hear a sigh across the earth,

I hear a sigh over the deep:

It is no sign reaching my hearth,

But my son waking from sleep.

 

If they say I have obtained

The pick of the jeweller's trove,

A good friend is what I've gained

And I have put aside love.

 

I have seen across the skies

A wounded eagle still flying;

I know the cubby where lies

The snake of its venom dying.

 

I know that the world is weak

And must soon fall to the ground,

Then the gentle brook will speak

Above the quiet profound.

 

While trembling with joy and dread,

I have touched with hand so bold

A once-bright star that fell dead

From heaven at my threshold.

 

On my brave heart is engraved

The sorrow hidden from all eyes:

The son of a land enslaved,

Lives for it, suffers and dies.

 

All is beautiful and right,

All is as music and reason;

And all, like diamonds, is light

That was coal before its season.

 

I know when fools are laid to rest

Honor and tears will abound,

And that of all fruits, the best

Is left to rot in holy ground.

 

Without a word, the pompous muse

I've set aside, and understood:

From a withered branch, I choose

To hang my doctoral hood.

 All people are born alike - except Republicans and Democrats.

--  Groucho Marx

Extra underwear

 One of the great glitches in the Matrix: Every time that I travel, I always pack extra underwear... why? 

Always...

 Always do whatever's next.

   -- George Carlin

Young Warhol

 

Young Warhol
2021 Charcoal on Bisque by F. Lennox Campello

The greatest generation

80 years ago the United States was attacked by the Empire of Japan and subsequently 16 and a half million men and women responded to the evil brutalizing Europe, the Middle East, North Africa and Asia and responded with the full might of the American people.

I salute the greatest generation.

All I said...

As some of you know, I used to do a lot of cartoons while I was in the Navy... some were published in base newspapers,  Navy magazines,  Stars & Stripes, etc. I gave most of them away over the years... here's another one of the fabled Seaman Schmuckatelli - This one was "Seaman Schmuckatelli... all I said..."

Seaman Schmuckatelli... all I said...
1983 Navy cartoon by Lenny Campello

Scope Art Fair: The Last Day

 As much fun as art fairs are during ABMB week, unless you're one of those galleries who hire professional crews to unpack and hang, and then to pack at the end of the day on Sunday, then the last day of the fair is brutal.

For some odd reason, the people who run Scope thought that it was a good idea to end the fair at 8PM on Sunday - rather than the usual 5PM.

More on the end later...

Today artist Tony Porto was an instant social hit because of the snug T-shirt that he was wearing - a big hit! It was as if the T-shirt gave him superhuman powers among the social waves and waves of beautiful people and influencers.

Chicago-based artist Tony Porto as a social media superstar at SCOPE Miami Beach 2021

You can read his snuggly T-Shirt...

The crowds were once again present on Scope's last day and we were excited to make several good sales, with a few drawings and one painting finding new owners and new walls to hang at!

As the fair closed, the frenzied process of tired gallerists and dealers and their assistants (and the lucky ones with hired crews) begin the process of tearing down exhibits, bubble-wrapping work to be delivered to new owners or shipped back to galleries, or perhaps to the next fair, and figuring out their next step.

Point of order: every art fair, no matter how good, always has a number of dealers that do very well, some that break even, and many who lose money -- every fair.

This year I noticed that Scope had "opened" the fair to individual artists.  While I understand that the post-Covidian world and inflation woes often make economic decisions... but a fair which starts as a "galleries only" fair and then (as not enough gallery applications are received) opens the process to individual artists, so that in the end dealers and galleries are mixed with individual artists is an "issue".

With the notable exception of DC's only art fair a few years ago -- (e)merge, which was designed from the start to couple art dealers with unrepresented artists, the mixture of individual artists and art galleries at the same fair seldom succeeds. This is generally due to the spectacular lack of business acumen and selling experience that most artists have (not all), and the disastrous "discounting" orgies that happen on Sundays when artists realize that the fair is almost over and they haven't sold squat.

My heart broke when I noticed that the Turkish gallery across the hall (which had a professional crew do all the work), had unstretched all the huge canvasses that they had exhibited (none sold) and had put several thousand dollars of custom made and gorgeous stretcher bars on the side marked as THRASH.

I walked around the fair finding Miami galleries to see if they wanted them or knew of any artists who could use them... what a waste.

Meanwhile Mike Janis directed the complex re-packing of glass work, while Terry and Tony did the van dance of coming onto the grounds; then the carrying of the packed art and loading back onto the van for the long trek back home.

Another year done.

ArtBasel Week: Scope - The Saturday report (influencers)

The spectacular growth industry known as "influencer" is very evident in the 2021 version of Art Basel week.  Influencers handing out cards, dressed to be noticed and asking to be photographer, Instagrammed and referenced... as well as the "make sure that you follow me...."

Today's crowds were by far the largest, most eclectic and flowing - not sure how sales are going on. All throughout the fair, people have been admiring and taking hundreds of photographs of  Tony Porto & Mike Janis' collaborative work and of Tim Tate's infinity mirror "Gay Batman" piece, and and myriads of gallery cards have been handed out to the "we'll be back" crowd. Seldom does that happen... The fairs are big and overwhelming... You either get the work when you see it, or forget it...

And lots of beautiful people...

The Bisque wall continues to sell well throughout the day and in the early evening a very well-known artist from California approaches me (together with her "team") and acquires "Sleep is the Cousin of Death."  The work has to return to the DMV and then be shipped... but hey!

Sleep is the Cousin of Death - detail -