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James Rosenquist & Star Wallowing Bull (2005).

My friend Sandy Ben-Haim had told me an artist by the name of “James Rosenquist” was coming to the Plains Art Museum. She recommended that I come and meet him, which was about a couple of months away. I had never heard of James Rosenquist before.
I thought at first he was an artist from the area. I really didn’t give it much thought soon after. I just planned on being there if I wasn’t too busy.

As May 2005 came around, so did James. My live-in studio was just across the parking lot from the Museum. I looked out my window as I usually do every morning and saw something going on at the Museum. I didn’t pay to much attention to what was going on,so I went upon my regular routine with my color pencil drawings and coffee. Later that morning,I was starting to become hungry. All I had was rice and water. I had a bad habit of eating fast food everyday and not buying groceries. So unhealthy. I had very little money at the time but enough to make it until I get paid again. As I looked out my window again,I remembered,the artist James Rosenquist is at the Museum. This was my chance to meet him and socialize.

I made my way to the museum and walked in. The gathering was on the first floor and they had his art hanging on the back wall of the atrium. Before I approached his work I loaded up my fleece pockets with food, then I walked over to the artwork and was fascinated with his colors and cross hatching lines. I also remembered seeing his work growing up. I just didn’t know the name. Another good friend of mine, Rusty Freeman had came over to me and said,”you should meet James”. Rusty introduced me to him. He was pleasant to talk with and I could tell right away he had a great knowledge in the arts. We started to talk about art in New York City. I had told him about a documentary I saw of naked people who roll in paint and jump against canvas nailed to the wall. I chuckled about that. James was talking about Pop Art being over with and time for a new art form. He also told me about George Morrison and that they were friends. Rusty had told James I used to run around him when I was a kid. In fact,I use to steal some of George’s artistic ideas when I was younger but I didn’t tell James that. Before I left,I told him he should come by my studio next door when he’s in town again. He wasn’t waiting around, he wanted to go now. I felt guilty for a few minutes because he would be leaving everyone behind for awhile because he was the guest of honor. You see James is a native of North Dakota. He was in town to receive his honorary doctorate degree from North Dakota State University.

James and I walked over to my small live-in studio. I noticed he was a fast walker. He walked faster then I did, especially walking up the stairs. I could tell he took great care of his health. I also thought at the time, “What street corner or farm did the Museum find this guy”? At this time, I still didn’t know who this guy was. My studio wasn’t much at all. It was converted into a studio from a efficiency apartment. As soon as James walked in. He really liked my paintings. He was asking me how much I wanted for the large painting? I said,that painting is not done. James said,it looks done to me! He then proceeded to look at my smaller painting’s. How much do you want for that one? I said,that’s not done either. The only painting that was completed was an abstract painting of a dog, entitled “Rez Dog”. He really wanted it. So I sold it to him. It’s strange that nobody liked that painting but me,then James came along and he liked it as well. He also went through my drawing’s which were not done but they were very colorful. I told James,I’m not doing too well with my art and I’m struggling. He told me he was once in my shoes and that we have to start somewhere. He told me not to give up and to work hard. My self-esteem greatly increased as a person and as an artist after talking with James.

I wrapped up his “Rez Dog” painting with plastic and walked him back to the Museum. I think we were gone for quite sometime. Sandy was waiting for us with a camera and she took a picture of us. I then faced James shook his hand and said “it was nice to meet you and take care”. As I walked away,all I could think about was buying myself a steak dinner and buying more color pencils. James was all but forgotten until later that week when I started to find out from my friends who “James Rosenquist” was. I had no idea of his history and his stature in the art world. A legend on top of all that.

I see Jim Rosenquist the same way I do as I would any other artists. I can’t see the famous person he is nor the influence he has in the art world. I see Jim for who he is. Jim has given me hope and he has helped me with so much. Jim has became an inspiration in my life, especially my friend.

I’ll never forget Jim for what he has done for me…… Thank you so much Jim.

My father was very happy to have us back. It meant the world to him. I was very emotionally scarred and highly sensitive as well. I thought the worst was still yet to come. I was afraid of being taken away or abandoned. I latched on to my father for comfort and safety. I practically smothered my father. I think it bothered him at times. It took awhile for me to adjust to my new life. I was such a quiet little boy. My father had started me drawing on paper at that time. My training had begun in the arts. It was a good outlet for me to express myself or just to doodle.

Fawn was just a happy little girl who was so sweet and innocent. To this day she doesn’t remember what had happened to us during our time with our mother or that particular foster home mentioned in a previous blog. In a way,I’m thankful for that. Too much to bare for my little sis. She does remember the elderly couple with great love and respect. For that, I’m thankful.

Around that time, my father had introduced us to a lot of Walt Disney books. I really grew fond of Pinocchio. It was my favorite book. My father would read it to us and I always imagined myself as the wooden Pinocchio. I wanted to be a real boy when I grew up. This story was so real to me, I can somewhat identify with it with my own personal life. I became obsessed with this Pinocchio character. Always talking about him to my father,my relatives and my little friends from the neighborhood. Talking about him as if he was a real live person. Pinocchio became my mentor and my friend.

My Loving Foster Mother and our First Real Christmas (1977)

Approximately around the year 1976,my sister Fawn and I were taken away from our mother. We were placed in foster care for the next two years. The first foster home was so bad, they might as well thrown us in a prison. We were placed with an African-American family which consisted of a single mother of two and a boy and girl about the same age as us. At first, I didn’t know what to think about them. I had never seen a black person before. I stared at them with a curious expression. I kept touching their skin and looking at my fingers to see if the color would rub off. Later these kids became our friends. They were such good kids. The mother on the other hand, was such a terrible mean woman. She didn’t want us playing with her children too long so she kept us separate from each other. We were also kept in our rooms most of the time. Our room never had any sun light coming in,just darkness and lit with a bare lightbulb. If we got out of bed or did any little thing wrong, we would get spanked with a ping-pong paddle. That would hurt us so much. We pretty much got hit with it everyday. Fawn and I were very scared of this woman. We endured eight months of isolation and child abuse. The only time we were able to be outside was when the social worker came over to see us. The woman had dressed and cleaned us up.(Obviously just for show for the social worker.) I wanted to say something but I was deadly afraid of this woman. My pleas for help went unheard.

After eight months, we were finally taken to another foster home. This foster home was the best ever! When we first arrived, we were greeted by an elderly man and woman. They were so happy to see us.Of course Fawn and I were silenced by the traumatic situation we had endured. They assured us it was okay. The older man brought me to their back yard and had shown me a lot of toys,especially the plastic indian and cowboy figurines. Inside my little heart, I was a happy little boy again. Fawn was happy too. It was hard to adjust to such a loving family,it took awhile. They gave us three square meals a day, toys,and clean clothes. They took us to church,road trips,fishing,carnivals,zoos and of course they gave us chores to do as well. The one thing I had a big problem with was asking them to use their bathroom. I was so shy and scared to ask them that I would poop and pee in my pants. I think being traumatized by my past experience had something to do with it. They were never mad at me for doing such things. They always encouraged me to ask. I think my foster mother took it very hard and seem to cry at times. I miss and love them very much. It was very hard for us to leave them.

After a year and four months with them. We were taken again,but this time my father, Frank Big Bear, won custody of us to which we were flown back to Minneapolis from Denver. I was five years old and Fawn was three.I remember Fawn and I were looking out the airplane window over Minneapolis and the social worker was telling us,”Your daddy is waiting for you down there”. We were so happy! As we were walking down the hallway. We could see our father and we both ran towards him and gave him a big hug at the same time. We became a family again.

I want to live a long healthy life.

That’s all I can remember from the dream. I awoke that morning with such deep sadness and grief. It really bothered me for quite sometime. I decided to make a few drawings based upon that awful dream. I finished both pieces in July 2001. These pieces are titled, “The Tears of a Broken Hearted Ojibwe Shaman” and “Untitled” (drawn on black paper). Both are great pieces but disturbing.

It wasn’t until that morning when that tragic day occurred on September 11, 2001 that I started to realize this was the evil image I drew just two months prior to this awful day. It was such a sad day for us all, especially to the ones who lost their loved ones. Were my drawings based upon these dreams? Was this dream trying to warn me, or was it just a coincidence of my dream?

I only wished I could have stopped it. What a terrible event that human beings can afflict such evil on other human beings. I have had other dreams relating to events or just people in general. My dreams were so real that they seem to become true in somewhat of a similar fashion or another.

Not long after September 11, a private collector purchased the smaller drawing (“Untitled” on black paper) and the Frederick Weisman Art Museum of Minneapolis purchased the larger drawing (“The Tears of a Broken Hearted Ojibwe Shaman”) soon after. I’m blessed with a gift of being artistic but also the gift of sight within my dreams. I do wish at times, I could save or warn of these upcoming tragic events in peoples’ lives, but I can’t.

I do understand now why my father had to leave us. He did it because he was broke and also because he loved us. He thought our best interest was with our mother. The sense of abandonment had hit me hard. I did feel a little safe with my mother but I also felt safer being with Fawn. Fawn was my little “Teddy Bear”. She gave me such love and comfort.

My mother’s alcoholism came to light during our brief time with her. I awoke some nights and found my mother wasn’t there. She locked us in a room while she went out to party. When those nights came I would run to the window, open it and cry for my mother over and over again.
We were terrified of being left alone. This went on for quite sometime. If she didn’t go out she brought the party to the apartment. All kinds of people, and they were all drunk. I don’t remember them hurting us, but it was very unhealthy for us to be around all of that chaos. I thought this was a way of life. It was at this time when I was only three years old that I took my first drink. The nearly empty beer can was laying on the floor one morning and I picked it up and drank it!

I know my mother was not a good mother but I knew she loved us and we loved her. It just wasn’t a family that was meant to be. My mother locked us up again and someone finally called the police.

We ended up in foster care in Denver, Colorado. It was hard for us at first, but we got to be children again among the other kids. Three meals a day and lots of toys to play with. Fawn and I got to see our mother one last time, but we were too busy playing with our toys. My mother wept and cried. We had no idea what was going on. We were just happy. My mother’s alcoholism got the best of her, but it was also a blessing for us. Although this time in my life has affected me deeply to this day, I have made peace with it and I have forgiven my mother for what she had put us through.

My father was somewhat there but it wasn’t enough. The main issue with my father was his negativity towards me and life in general. It was his words that really made a bad impact on me. I always believed I wasn’t good enough to be anyone or be anybody. My father probably meant well on his end, but it really knocked my moral down into the gutter. No matter how good I did in life, there was always something negative coming from him and I always believed him. All I wanted from my father was to be positive, no matter what! I wanted his encouragement, love, support and especially to show me how to be a man. He never showed his love for me but I knew he loved me.

Later in life I learned how to be a man. I have learned how to be good person to myself and to others. I learned how to love myself with respect and am truly able to love others. I’m positive to people no matter how bad it is for them. I seem to be doing the opposite of how my father was.

I just want to continue to be the best that I can be in life. I am 33 years old, sober, and a man.