FETCH ME MY MONKEY!

   Michael Jackson has always loomed large in CLGM canon. Hymns like MICHAEL LOVES THE LITTLE CHILDREN and PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE PANTS are of course homages to the gloved one. From the church's humble beginnings in 1986 to recent services we've drawn inspiration from Jack-o's lifestyle and music. BAD is our theme song.
   Maybe it's the camels and ostriches wandering across my lawn or the caged skunk out back on the job site, but recently I've noticed some of MJ's less than positive personal traits are starting to rub off. No, Webster is not sharing my futon and as far as I know I'm not under inditement, but every morning I wake up feeling less than happy to face the day. I pack my tools in the pick up, drive to the job site, string the extension cords, start up the saw and........where's the joy? Then I remember where I was just 2 weeks ago- surrounded by supermodels, hob knobbing with the art world, soaking up the hipster vibe. And when that was over I squeezed into a bright red g-string with blinking lights, glued green sequin tassels onto my nipples, attached bunny tail and ears to my Santa suit, and stepped on stage. I felt so happy.....and dare I say-complete. Could it be that, like MICHAEL, I'm only comfortable on stage?
   I pull my flat bar out of the truck, dig out some nasty mouse nest and ponder this issue. This stinks. Or maybe that's the skunk out back. In either case I have the distinct feeling that I'm morphing into a show business beast that will be unable to operate normally in the day to day world. Just this morning after succeeding on the third try to get the combination right to my post office box, I found myself waiting for applause from the post mistress. None was forthcoming. I walked in the diner and no one looked up. At The Trading Post a little fat girl passed me and didn't want an autograph. See what I mean? How the hell am I going to make it to Labor Day and THE BORST BELT STAND UP COMEDIAN CATSKILL CASINO CLICHE TEMPLE OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN- Sept. 3, 2011 8pm. Anybody got a monkey for sale?    

GENTLE CREATURE

MO DAVID NORTH-open

  I may not want to talk about church but MO DAVID NORTH is another story. It's off to a good start. We got press and plenty of interest in the work of the three artists we are showing- George Holz, Richard Kern and Marianna Rothen. And so far Marianna in garnering the most buzz. The work really should be seen in this context. As good as the old internet is, it is no substitute for a drive up to the Catskills and a little visit to probably one of the classiest little out-of-the-way galleries you'll ever come across. Officially it's only open by appointment. But unofficially I'm here- just hanging.
    It's nice and cool under the big oak and the cross breeze on the porch makes the work look even better. Richard Kern chose photos that were shot  at THE OLD SCHOOL FOR SOCIAL SCULPTURE and in my bathroom and the church. All of them have that distinctive "Kern" edge. You can't tell if they are supposed to turn you on or turn you off. It's a rather pleasant limbo that he elicits out of the voyeur. You come away not all together guiltless. George Holz on the other hand, lays it out up front. His languid beauties in repose or arched in babbling brooks are there to be admired in slack jawed awe. Add to this a deep black and white printing and the pieces have a lush preciousness and a commanding presence. But it's Marianna Rothen who comes up with the cross over into object. Each of her photos (all 13"X13" with no glass) are simply presented in white frames. The model/actresses in each of her photographs are no small component in Rothen's work. All of these artists chose their models carefully, but Marianna Rothen (being a model herself) brings an especially mysterious mood to her work and a sensitivity to her subjects that I don't think you could get otherwise. She, above all, shares the immediacy of the shutter click with us. As a dealer I want to thank each one of these artists. I'm a big fan. Man, what a world.    

SOLID GREEN DANCER ROSE CRACK

WHAT HAPPENS IN CHURCH STAYS IN CHURCH

For years people have asked me about the CLGM. Sometimes it's some lost Hassidic family stopping by to peep the neighbor's camels. Sometimes it's a clueless family member or old friend who has reconnected after 40 years. Other times it's an art student or writer of some hipster mag. looking to make sense of what they have just witnessed. I struggle with trying to put 25 years of evolving theology into a coherent sound byte. I even started a facebook page for the church. (See facebook.com/clgm for a thumbnail sketch). But all attempts fall short.
   There are many things I do in this world where I wish I had a little more recognition, or money coming my way. MO David North is a commercial gallery where you can actually buy art. I do static work under three different names- Kristan Kohl, Richard Mauwra and Mike Osterhout. All this work may be written about and purchased. I write plenty of songs that may be recorded by others and have tape from three different projects- Purple Geezus, Black Tractor, and a solo called LUCKY 13. WSSP, WSSP II and the HOLLY WITCHEY PROJECT all show what I can do with a hammer and saw. I can be bought. But how about the church? That's a different story.
   The CLGM stands alone as a project that does not need nor want press or money. The reality of what has developed in terms of congregation is so satisfying and heart warming that press would only ruin it. So it is I ask all members of the congregation to keep it under your hat. Sure you can tell your friends but do not write about it or talk to any reporters. We have a great thing going here. I know it's hard to wrap your head around something that you don't want to go viral in a world that judges every thing by thumbs up and comments. So the next time someone asks what the fuck that church thing is all about? State very simply "What happens in church stays in church." Amen.

CLGM INVITE

SEASON RECAP

For all you turkey hunters who read this blog for that day to day report throughout May I apologize. Once again I scheduled a CLGM for Memorial Weekend and on top of that opened a gallery....so I had my hands full. Let me make it up to you.

Opening day found me up above WSSP on Ralph's land. At dawn things were quiet. No roost gobbles. I wandered down the ridge, calling periodically. I set down against a big oak and dozed off. Then in my stupor I heard crunching leaves behind me. Out of practice and half asleep I turned. What a bone head move. A jake was coming in silent. He spotted me and disappeared. I shook it off and started calling again. Finally a gobble....then another and another. I sweet talked the birds and in they came. Gun on my knee, sight settled, I saw three red heads coming through the woods. I clicked the safety off and.......all jakes. I lowered the barrel and just watched. Jakes are legal but it's like shooting a spike on opening day. I'll pass.
   Now maybe it didn't rain every day in May, but damn close. AND it was cold. Add to that the fact that we were trying to put two roofs on out at The Hollie Witchey Project and the season shaped up to be one of the most frustrating in recent memory. I'd see birds in strut far out in fields and never be able to  get up on them. The woods would be silent for most of the morning, only to hear one or two gobbles then nothing.  Late one Saturday morning I went down to Gilkey's and called in five hot jakes. I wasn't gonna let this one pass. I shot and killed one. Then I pumped another shell and leveled the sights on a second bird. Click. I pumped again. Click again. Fuck! Turned out my gun was so dirty it wouldn't chamber the shells.
   The weather only got worse as the season progressed. I'd get birds going only to have them shut up and vanish after 15 mins. I hunted before work when I could drag my ass out. Another jake went down in Butch's field. I had meat for Memorial day but no gobbler. As we all know it ain't over until May 31. So the weekend of the church and show I went out, hung over, dead tired with George Holz (my only artist hunting buddy). Once again we heard birds only to fuck up and spook them or just have them hen up and go the other direction. And now 10,000 mosquitos were devouring my flesh. On Sunday George was at my door in a raging thunder storm at 6am. I had to give it to the guy. He was serious about drawing blood.  But once again the only blood came from my neck covered in needle nosed insects.
  The weekend over, I got up at 4:30 am yesterday and hit the woods. Nothing at Butch's. I drove to WSSP. As the morning progressed I had three different birds going. Each time my heart raced as the woods rocked with gobbles. FINALLY! But then they'd shut up. I'd call softly....then louder. Other hens would call and before I could ever see feathers they'd peel off the hot tom and I'd only hear sparrows and meadowlarks. The last morning was the best- even without seeing a bird. By 11:30 I drug my ass home to mow the lawn. Time to write the blog. I'm back.

ANNA SCHILLING