How do you think a society without money would work?

Question 1. “Eddie’s Garden”

After the big blast our world was in a nuclear winter. Ash and a muddy gray painted the landscape like melted wax over everything that has or hadn’t survived. There were few people that lived through this hell. The wise ones’ said the war was over simple paper they called currency, a strange way that people exchanged paper for goods. The crap still floats around with other debris in this dark wasteland.

I was born to a clan called Eddie’s Garden. My birth took place in an empty dug out grave with a tombstone still in place. It had three inscriptions on the stone \! / \! / \! /. My mother gave birth to me there for the shelter it provided and safety from the rest of the clan. The only worry she had been the constant burial of the walking dead. (Distorted and dismembered creatures that suffered from the nuclear fallout.) The graves were not new graves at all but ones that were excavated with dead bodies thrown out into the “Field of Bones.” These remains were used for fuel to be burn by the clan.

Tiredly I walked the barren landscape nothing left higher than the new green sprouts of grasses and weeds. The wind swirled in all directions. Nothing to divert it’s furry. I moved quickly to my salvation, AL MARTS EXCHANGE. This is the only place that I could trade for my life provisions. Only three maps under my arm and a tattered piece of paper of a so-called artist statement in my hand that I caught in the wind some time ago. It read:

Artist Statement

Primitives huddle in a cave, some listening to a hunter grunting out a story about the big kill, others watching painters render crude images of the same event on the rock walls. Has this scene changed that much? I believe not. We are huddled in this gallery doing much the same thing: listening, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching and seeing. No, nothing has changed. But do you believe?

When I approach an empty canvas, I carry with me every thing that ever happened to me since the day I was born. I even carry the genetic imprint of those cave dwellers huddled around the fire. I am the wolf yearning for the taste of blood and the deer intent on escape. All of it is there when I stand before the canvas, not in words, but in the feel of movement and the senses interacting with one another. A writer once told me that art is not about the artist or even about the finished product. It is about the journey that took him there: the hunt for a single truth. Painters can document this journey. The map is the painting itself.

I invite you to look at my paintings. Look at them with more than your eyes. Take in all you can in that’s around you. Let yourself go and feel. I invite you to go with me back to the cave…J.W. / 2007

On and on, I looked for the colors of AL- MART EXCHANGE. Others had said it was a sign in the prime colors of blue and pure white. (These color where foreign to me. They were scarce after the big blast.) And there it was, the sign. It was glowing in the dismal light.

To my luck, they were open. There was one person at the front desk in this acre lot building. A quick glimpse around, I saw no others. One light above the register had the number 7 lit up. Out of the 54 stations only one light was on. A man in a nice blue uniform greeted me. “What can I do for you today, He said> “I would like to exchange these maps for some provisions.” “Sure! What do you got there? ““I have three maps.” He looked at them and just laughed. “What you have here are paintings not maps. I can’t follow these maps. The only thing I can recognize is the moon and the sun and they are in reverse order.” “Oh, “I said. Dejected, I turned away to go out the door. “Wait! “ He said. “What are the maps to? “I turned and said, “They are maps to show the way to the “New World.” “I see, “ he continued. “Awe, a place not yet discovered, yet.” “Yes, “ I replied. “Well, that makes it a treasure map. I guess, that is worth something. This is What I will do. I will let you exchange these three maps/ paintings for one of our paintings.” And with a sweeping motion, he reached out from below the counter and threw this painting of a woman with dark hair and peculiar eyes on to the counter. “That is it? Yes, that’s all I can do.” (He felt my hesitation and continued with his sales pitch.) “This used to be a very important painting before the big blast. It comes from way over the acid sea from a place called Paris.”I started to get intrigued. “So what do you think? Well, I do like her smile. Do you have any blue paint? Can you throw in a can of blue paint in on the deal? ““He paused and said, Oh, why not and again reached under the counter and flopped a gallon of blue paint on the counter. “Here you go!” I shrugged and said yes. And out into the crap I went with an old map/painting under my arm and a can of blue paint. “He yelled from behind his counter. Don’t quit until you paint your entire world the color blue! And laughed.” \ |/ \1/ \! /

“Cookies and Paper / Corporate Criminals” 4’x 5’ mixed media on canvas

“Money Birds” 24”x 36” mixed media on canvas