A little over a year ago, I wrote an article entitled (with tongue firmly buried in cheek), “Phoenix Loves Its Artists,” to commemorate the closure of yet another underground art institution: the House Gallery and Studios, on 5th Street, just south of Roosevelt. The article never saw print, because the editors of the various and sundry “arts” periodicals felt it was too negative and cast both the Phoenix City Council and the Phoenix arts scene in a harsh and unyielding light. That was my intention. I refused to change it or soften the edges and so the article remains unpublished to this day. Doesn’t matter, I still stand by what I wrote in that article and the few who have actually read it have agreed completely with my assessment. The truth wins out in the end.

The truth of the matter is this, taken directly from that article: “I've lived in this Valley for two decades. I've watched the arts come and I've watched the arts go and I've watched the arts come again. My personal history in the downtown Phoenix art scene reads like an obituary: The Faux Cafe. Gallery X. MARS Artspace, Smash Arts, Planet Earth, The Hub Galleries, Metropophobobia. And many more. All gone. All subjected to wrecking crews and bulldozers and imminent domain. All demolished in the name of progress, greed and revitalization. None left as legacy, except in the minds and hearts of the dispossessed.”

This, then, is the primary reason for my departure from this soulless, cultural wasteland. Not my only reason, certainly, but the longest festering one. The reason that has haunted me for well over a decade, but which had to be pushed to the back-burner while I raised a son and tried to shore up a faltering relationship. Both reasons are behind me now and all that’s left is this, one, reason. Never before have I worked so hard, for so long, only to have nothing concrete to show for it, but the occasional poster, newspaper clipping or photograph of happier times.

In the almost 20 years I’ve lived here, I have nurtured and fed the arts with my own blood, sweat and tears. I was on the original committee to begin what is now known nationally as “Phoenix First Fridays.” I discovered and introduced new artists, organizing and promoting exhibits and shows for those who later gained notoriety and abandoned Phoenix in favor of greener pastures. I have written about the arts in just about every magazine and newspaper that came and went during that period. I published two arts journals out of my own pocket. I edited and managed several more. I was integral to three different theater troupes and was co-founder of an art gallery/performance space. And still, despite all that, I leave feeling under-appreciated and forgotten.

The upshot is this: After a grueling day of loading, I’m that much closer to gone. Tomorrow morning, at 6am, I climb behind the wheel of a 26-foot U-Haul truck and rumble out of this hot, putrid, smog-infested city for good. There have been no last hurrahs, no teary good-byes, no farewell parties. To my knowledge, only a small handful even know that I’m leaving. The feeling is bittersweet at best. Honestly, I can’t help but wonder if I haven’t wasted 20 years of my life here, in a city that doesn’t love it’s artists, doesn’t hate them either, but rather is simply indifferent to them. Like a mangy dog with fleas, it scratches indiscriminately and seldom with any positive result, whatsoever. I won’t miss it any more than it will miss me.

To those I leave behind—friends, lovers, acquaintances and business associates—I wish you the best and hope to hear from you, from time to time. The e-mail addy and the phone number will remain the same. My door will always be open to visitors, too. You’ve helped make my time in hell tolerable, memorable and at times downright enjoyable. For that I will be eternally grateful. I guess, then, that I am taking something of Phoenix with me. A few unforgettable beacons scattered like life rafts throughout this vast sandy sea of despair. It’s enough. I leave contented, if also a little bitter. But tomorrow is another day. A new life in a new city. A chance to make a difference again, in a place that appreciates, nurture and even LOVES, its artists. It’ll be a nice change, to be sure.

Time to turn the page…




Goodbye, smoggy shithole. You will NOT be missed.