FILM POSTER COLLECTION

FILM POSTER COLLECTION

Thriyt-six hand-pulled silk screen movie posters for sale

These unique graphic poster prints of some of the most iconic movies of all time are in mint condition. Collected over the years, they are printed on 150lb white stock and have been stored flat behind glass frames. Full, vivid color, no degradation. Never exposed to sun or any strong light. Some have minor finish irregularities, superficial production smudges, faint handling marks in the ink, but these minor flaws attest to their handmade quality. All considered First Editions.

Mud was my first love

Pueblo, CO, was built on ancient seabeds of clay and sandstone along the Arkansas River. Easy access to clay supports potters, masons and brickyards. High School provided an intro into ceramics for me, under the tutelage of Lyle Clift, who introduced me to salt-fired stoneware. He had his salt-kiln that captivated me as soon I saw gleaming, orange-to-russet, mottled, stylishly functional objects emerge from its arched doorway.

Mud was my first love. Mud was my major in college, but I think that the impressive combustion going on inside Clift’s salt-vapor model, along with subsequent kilns I’d eventually learn to use, was a great attraction as well. Cone 10 temperature (2200 degrees) resembles nothing more than a whirling, breathing, lethal, living thing. Standing close to it makes one feel courageous, almost.

Painting may have been the safer place for me to stand, my first year at USC. I had the good fortune of taking Orlin Helgoe’s drawing class. He suggested I could make it as a painter, “if you take your work seriously.” Evidently, Orlin must have taken certain things too over-seriously, himself. May he rest in peace.

I really admired Orlin’s work and would have learned a great deal from his painting class, no doubt. Instead I plunged into clay. Carl Jensen headed the department at USC. The U of Southern Colorado, that is…Carl, Jim North and I built a wood-fired kiln and fired it multiple times. All I wanted to do was fill it to the arch with pots and load its fireboxes with fuel. Carl gave us opportunities like that, but he also made us learn about the history of the art and craft which we wished to get good at. It was challenging. We had to pass exams in glaze chemistry and such. Carl was known for pioneering photographic emulsion techniques adapted for glazing stoneware. He also sculpted audacious, cartoony caricatures in clay, with titles like, “Pink Lady With a Buffant Hairdo.” Why not? The sky was the limit with such a plastic medium. It was 100 percent natural, too. I have always been into that.

My first pottery wheel was a manual kick model manufactured by Robert Brent. Centering a ball of clay on a spinning wheel was something I was able to learn almost instantly. Throwing production pottery, off a hump of mud with the help of a 100 lb stone, whirling under bodily forces of my own, became second nature. The act of throwing pots is fluid and slick. The spinning wheel is as much an entity as the fire in the kiln. I spent 11 of my 12 year fascination meditating over slippery, slathered, precisely-centered spinning balls of clay as if it were the living end. My efforts were concentrated on hand-thrown, functional stoneware, like people used in the old days. We’re talking about cups, bowls, crocks, plates, casseroles, jars, bottles, teapots, pipes and even an urn for someone’s ashes. Seldom did I attempt anything else.

Then, in 1990, my last month, at the very last ceramics studio in which I worked, I became drawn back to drama and storytelling. I got off that perpetually moving hundred-pound wheel, that perfectly-round-object-making-machine and started creating with my feet on the ground for a change. My work ceased being born turning around-and-around. It popped out of its exclusive symmetry, for once, and lay still for me. I spontaneously launched into sculpting masks and mysterious objects, with a slab roller as my device of choice.

That was a breakthrough that would likely have reset the direction I was headed, had I kept going, but that turned out to be my last lease on a clay studio, so far anyway. Right after this, my focus turned to video. In the meantime, I remain a huge fan of river trips, mud baths, clay facials, scrubs and such. The actual act of making stuff out of mud has been absent from my repertory these thirty years, But given time, it is bound to come back around. Possibly on a gigantic scale. To be announced…

Landscape Painting

My first art teacher was my dad, who painted watercolors from the early 1960s to the ’90s. Growing up, when one of us kids said we were bored, Dad would say, “paint me a picture.” I would sit down with him and paint, then complain that my painting was inferior to his. He would say, “No way, you’re better than me.” It’s no joke. He was referring to the creative impulse we all possessed as a child before the inner critic is born. Mine was already on my shoulder, but he brushed it aside for me enough that painting has remained a lifetime love. Maybe the only reason I never tried it as a profession was the fact that it had been with me since childhood. I was hungry for the things I had yet to try.

In primary school and college, various teachers helped improve my painting and drawing skills, including John Mendoza and Orlin Helgoe. I went on to major in ceramics, and then worked full-time in woodworking and jewelry, before reconnecting with painting. I have already posted about the Homages that I painted when we first moved to Santa Fe. The history of art is like a sacred text to me.

There was so much gallery space devoted to painting in Santa Fe, so many museum walls, so many booths at art fairs dedicated to the medium, one might say it had the effect of calling me off the sidelines and in to the game, so to speak. Still, it did not draw me to it as a potential profession. I viewed my orientation with it, then and now, as a foundation for other 2D, 3D and HD work.

I have already written about my life drawing experience, as well as my experiments with making homages to old masters. In terms of materials and process, they were the prelude to this series of impressionist outdoor scenes on canvas. These early works were the result of coming into contact with a living master who’d been painting the southwest full-time for 30 years.

Rod Hubble is incredibly learned, creative, and possessed of the skills that decades of making a living with his art, naturally bestow. He’s a gracious, humorous, big-hearted man, which makes him a splendid art teacher as well as a treasured friend. Rod’s work hangs in almost every room of our house. Rod is an expert at painting outdoors and to look at one of his pictures, transports one to an intimate moment with nature. Working mostly outdoors, Rod tutored both Phoenix and I for two years. It was a rare and rich immersion in the art technique and style that he has honed his art for a lifetime. This entire gallery is oil-on-linen, which I had never ventured into until then. With one or two exceptions, this was all begun and finished during sessions in which Rod was tutoring.

The Jewelry Business

With but one class in jewelry making under my belt, I began fabricating jewelry for Heather Laurie and her partner Phoenix Sun in 1990. After working for them for three years, I became a full-time designer and partner in the business, “Heather and Phoenix,” a wholesale and retail art-to-wear jewelry studio.   

In 1996, I created a new line of sterling silver, gold and semi-precious metal jewelry, named “Rio Plata” and began marketing at the same venues. In 1997 Phoenix and I bought out Heather Laurie and we carried on with that line of jewelry and fashion accessories under the new name of “Stryder and Phoenix.” Together we did as many as 30 juried art and trade shows per year and serviced dozens of wholesale accounts, nationwide, including Nordstroms and Henry Bendel. From 1990 until 2005, if we weren’t at a show, we were either getting ready for a show, on our way to a show, or getting back from one. Over that period of time, our work was viewed by millions of people and worn by thousands. We frequently won awards in juried shows, for our displays as well as our art. Our work could be spotted in the film “Waiting to Exhale,” and exclusive editions of our jewelry were sold in the Coldwater Creek catalog. 

It was fun designing and even making the jewelry, but the small business aspect of it was a going. We had subcontractors and suppliers, inventory and huge customer databases. The economy was booming under Clinton. It’s the last time we had a budget surplus. It was also a time of easy credit so everybody had tons of plastic to max out. Creatively speaking, it was encouraging to see our work sell well, but I soon grew weary of talking about my occupation when I was a jeweler. I kept trying to get into a writing program or better yet, sell a manuscript. I couldn’t wait to say I was a writer, not a jeweler.