a speck on a shoulder dust cycle
written and directed by: ian mccarley
produced and edited by: jemery kurin


I feel like an apparition wandering through this void of civil engineers and broken widows. This spectacle of the shy is always good for a laugh, and since there is no other abortion in the world to gawk at, I might as well entertain the idea of witnessing what the small town of Ridgecrest, CA has to offer, aside the nuisance of earthquakes and the haunt of a glooming militarian presence, more awkward than sinister. All I have is wine to dull my senses enough to be polite, usually whiskey is an ally, but the well is dry and no longer do the patrons at the liquor store accept my credit. Dark times; you’d think Nixon was in the White House, but worse we have a wolf in sheep’s clothing. At least Nixon wore his horns as if blessed with blisters from some mythical, divine touch.

“Ian!” Yes, Laura, my high school chum, happy to see my glinting blew eyes and phosphoric smile, what does that grin of yours so defiantly want?

And that was it. A cloud of smoke hit my chest and I was engaged into a conversation with a local photographer looking to let the community know about the talent in town that is showcased thought this house party in a style that lacks class but is overwhelming in good ol’ hometown comfort. There was booze and local prostitutes about the house, some high school crushes that let themselves go and a variety of love affairs I’d entertain. But now, and on assignment, I fondled the house of all it’s sex in stead of gestated with all of these desert rats.

It was a typical art show: The beautiful women; drugs were a secret, but they are always there; music, and dancing, and cocktails; the dumb boyfriends that could care less; their girlfriends who read about how ‘art’ is now popular. At least they’re trying. At first glance some photography, lots of photography. I grabbed a drink, and taking a sip of wine, I asked how much they intended...

a speck on a shoulder dust cycle
written and directed by: ian mccarley
produced and edited by: jemery kurin


I feel like an apparition wandering through this void of civil engineers and broken widows. This spectacle of the shy is always good for a laugh, and since there is no other abortion in the world to gawk at, I might as well entertain the idea of witnessing what the small town of Ridgecrest, CA has to offer, aside the nuisance of earthquakes and the haunt of a glooming militarian presence, more awkward than sinister. All I have is wine to dull my senses enough to be polite, usually whiskey is an ally, but the well is dry and no longer do the patrons at the liquor store accept my credit. Dark times; you’d think Nixon was in the White House, but worse we have a wolf in sheep’s clothing. At least Nixon wore his horns as if blessed with blisters from some mythical, divine touch.

“Ian!” Yes, Laura, my high school chum, happy to see my glinting blew eyes and phosphoric smile, what does that grin of yours so defiantly want?

And that was it. A cloud of smoke hit my chest and I was engaged into a conversation with a local photographer looking to let the community know about the talent in town that is showcased thought this house party in a style that lacks class but is overwhelming in good ol’ hometown comfort. There was booze and local prostitutes about the house, some high school crushes that let themselves go and a variety of love affairs I’d entertain. But now, and on assignment, I fondled the house of all it’s sex in stead of gestated with all of these desert rats.

It was a typical art show: The beautiful women; drugs were a secret, but they are always there; music, and dancing, and cocktails; the dumb boyfriends that could care less; their girlfriends who read about how ‘art’ is now popular. At least they’re trying. At first glance some photography, lots of photography. I grabbed a drink, and taking a sip of wine, I asked how much they intended to pay me for this article of astronomical importance. Their response (blank stares followed by bales of laughter) was the only disappointment of the day. So no money, huh Bobby? Don’t you know we are in economic crisis? What ever possessed you to think I’d do something for free? That is the use of talent in a humanist way and we all know that we aren’t intelligent to do that yet, nor appreciate it. So what does Bob do, he tells me to do it anyway to help out my friends, like Ringo would do. Favors for favors; I feel like Vito Corleone, and Laura is now in my debt.

And as much as the notion of money is entertaining it always seems insulting to put value on the priceless.

I walked amongst the paintings, and a little tipsy, it struck me how rare it is nowadays to find art that isn't mass produced, or the by-product of committee thinking. If you go just by what there is on TV, there is no talk of renaissance occurring. Works such as Zeitgeist and Chuck Palahniuk grab people by the collar, making them question the conventions of society we all take for granted, but what kind of impact can they have? It's so much easier to flip on the tube, and let the network executives tell us what to think. I guess another drink is in order, and where the hell is the cocaine? I feel chatty.

Laura DeAngelis put on a very nice display. She’s looking for something in her art, and hasn’t quite found it yet. When she does the streets of Manhattan will silence; tears will no longer be of pain but joy, and the tyrants may even feel guilt. Laura’s photos usually feature her in an arrangement of situations. They are always humorous or loving. She is known for throwing these types of shenanigan filled art extravaganzas throughout the Ridgecrest area.

In the rear of the house an artist named Patrick Spurlock, who didn’t have much that stood out, displayed a painting of a trumpeter that stole my speech. He put his soul on that canvas. Also in the room was Nina Pearl’s sculptures and wax works. These pieces were fun and most likely the favorite of the show. Here flying bee’s and tie wire men were impressive and sparked me asking anyone who would listen to me the question of, ‘Who the fuck sculpts anymore? You think she would tie wire my cock?’ No one thought she would.

Karen Smith, who has been a favorite painter of mine since high school, displayed two new paintings and an old one. You can see a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak setting. When I spoke to her she told me that she would was painting again and would even do a piece for my house in Long Beach based on a Frank Zappa epic titled, ‘Billy the Mountain.’ Favors for favors.

Braxon Oliver’s wall had a few paintings and some photographs. Most notable was the old man with the guitar. He said, ‘sometimes shit captures you, not the other way around.’ A cynical person would tell you to get over yourself five years ago, and now it seems like pretentiousness is just showing off your bare skin, and honesty needs no shading.

Kevin Winniford had some tasteful black and whites and Jessica Coan had some very nice portraits of dead various celebrities. All were done in good taste and had a touch of sadness lurking. Mike DeLaney, the host, had a couple of nice photographs of shadow settings.

I made my way throughout the house, taking it all in, trying to be suave to the ladies, everyone just looking at me with a queer sense of relapse. I stopped at a shot of the Death Valley sand littered with rusty pull top cans, beautiful and red against the tan earth. As I gazed at the landscape, reflecting on all the pieces I had seen, it struck me. Maybe culture isn't in as much trouble as I had thought. Right here in Ridgecrest, there is an entire gallery full of talented people who have come together, each with their own message and their own unique voice for communicating it; each putting themselves up on display.

Art that you can purchase for a steal, but whether you're buying or not, it's still worth the trip over. Bring the kids. The youth should be seeing what the female body looks like, and why it’s the most beautiful image in the world. They get free lessons in shading and depth and life and pain and love. They get to see nudity without being told to look away. Everyone should come see this talent because in a town where there is nothing to do, there seems to be a whole lot happening.

I left the show in much better spirits than I had entered. And much more willing to write a pro bono piece. It might not be mass broadcast, but that spark of the renaissance is alive and well here. When it seems as though we are losing touch with our humanity, art is the bridge that brings us back. It reaches across social, racial, and religious lines to evoke our basest and most deeply held emotions. To make us think. The world can be a crazy place sometimes, and just seeing that there are others who share our journey is comforting.

So stop. It’s easy, just cease to defend ourselves and be completely open to learn again. Sounds less than thrilling, but what is not so obvious to everyone is that the freaks are still lurking, and waiting to strike. Yes, you Laura DeAngelis, you Karen Smith, you Jessica Coan, you Nina Pearl, Mike Delaney, Braxton Oliver, Gene Walls, you Steven Pearl, and Shannon Luker, let’s not forget Shannon Luker, and Mallory Wilkerson, Patrick Spurlock, Eric Osborne and Kevin Winiford. You are the freaks that have all the power, you are the ones that will blow the gates apart and let everyone see the sun shine again.

Art is the only medium that passes through the censors without out too much hassle. Paintings and sculptures are safe for now, so get on with it. Humanity has already fought wars for you to have a chance to blow our minds and change things for the better. Music and literature still have a ways to go, but paintings, those are going to give us the boost that we need, again. There is a spirit brewing, soaking up all that energy festering in the unknown, shedding it’s love onto canvas. Hope to see you around the bend soon before all those mushroom clouds come to fuck up our day.