The Actor

Lee Montgomery began his acting career at age 10 in the Disney film "The Million Dollar Duck." He went on to appear in more than 50 films and tv shows, acting with such legends as Bette Davis, Walter Matthau, Peter Fonda, George C. Scott & Peter Falk. Lee and I met in 1983 while working on the zombie movie "Night Shadows." We quickly became great friends and spent the next decade tooling around Los Angeles making experimental videos. One of our sojourns brought us to LA International Airport after hours (this was pre-911). Feeling courageous (and a bit stupid) we climbed up the baggage carousel and ventured onto the runway with our camera gear. With no security present to stop us, we made it to where planes were taxying for takeoff. We videotaped the entire experience up to and including the moment where we were both arrested for trespassing. "60 Minutes" had just aired a piece on shoddy airport security and authorities wanted to make an example of us. Fortunately, our video included a baggage handler telling us on camera to "be careful up there" as we climbed up the luggage carousel. Our lawyer argued this was "implicit permission" for us to explore the airport grounds and we were let off with "misdemeanor trespassing." Lee and I remain friends to this day. He is a true spiritual acolyte who has taught me that belief in God and healthy skepticism can co-exist. In addition to his acting chops, Lee is a talented musician and songwriter. (5" x 7", black ink print)

The Chicken Man

Though his karma is stained with the blood of innocent poultry, Colonel Harland Sanders is an American legend. He may look like a beady-eyed, mint-julep swilling racist, but his story is quite inspirational. He had a small service station in Corbin, Kentucky when he began cooking for hungry travelers who stopped for gas. At age 62, a new interstate highway snatched away his restaurant traffic. With nothing but a $105-a-month Social Security check and a secret recipe for fried chicken, Sanders sought to reinvent himself. Less than 10 years later, he had more than 600 Kentucky Fried Chicken franchises across the country. His fame grew quickly as he appeared on tv shows and his ubiquitous "finger lickin' good" commercials. He soon felt like the sweet slave-holding grandpa you never had. One of my childhood highlights was meeting my football hero Los Angeles Rams Quarterback Roman Gabriel in a KFC. He autographed the side of our family chicken bucket, the signature a mix of blue ink and sloppy grease. KFC was one of my four basic food groups through my teen years and college. Only when I stopped smoking pot did the Colonel's chicken lose its lustre. Colonel Sanders died at the age of 90 after a prolonged illness (bird flu?). By the end of his life, KFC could be found in more than 100 countries. Not bad for a man who started at retirement age. (5" x 7", black ink print)

The Scarlet Tanager

I was walking to 24th Street to catch the J-Church to downtown San Francisco when I saw a man on his knees in front of a two-story home. He had something in his hands and he was crying. He didn't look homeless. He wore a silk button-down shirt with khakis and polished black shoes and he had several rings on his fingers.

Usually I'd walk past this kind of scene.  But as I neared the man he turned towards me and thrust his hands forward. He was holding a dead sparrow.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"It's so cruel," he answered.

He pointed to a car parked in the driveway.  It was a 1960's convertible Skylark and beside the driver side door were several dead birds.  "He electrocuted the car," the man sobbed.  "Look."  I saw a car battery on cinderblocks.  Attached to the battery was an electrical cable clipped to the chassis above the front left tire. Apparently the car owner was charging the steel frame with a low-level electrical surge.

"Why would someone do that," I asked.

"People were stealing his stereo.  He wanted to scare them away.  But he killed the birds."

"You know this guy?"

"He's my landlord."

This was how I met my neighbor Mike Hunter.  We began encountering each other at the local coffee house.  We'd chat about the latest political news or whether Steve Young was a better quarterback than Joe Montana.  Mike was a freelance accountant who worked out of his apartment. He grew organic vegetables in the backyard and he spiked his lattes with chlorophyll which he claimed "cleaned the blood."

Mike was a passionate birder.  He showed me an album filled with images of birds he'd photographed around the country.  He pointed out waxwings and thrushes and jays and loons.  The birds ranged in color from bright yellow to dark blue. Some were striped, others spotted.  One had a long needle-like bill, another a ruffled mohawk.  While Mike flipped through his journal, his energy increased and his posture straightened.  He became an evangelist spreading the word about the "angels of the sky soaring all around us."

"How many birds did you notice today while walking for coffee?"

"None," I answered sheepishly.

"Shame on you."

Several months later I found myself in the Mendocino forest with Mike.  He was searching for the elusive Scarlet Tanager, a red Cardinal-like bird found mainly on the east coast.  The Tanager had been spotted in Northern California and Mike was eager to see one up close.  I had no interest in bird watching.  But my girlfriend was out of town and I'd been in a bit of a funk.  When Mike asked me to join him I thought about how excited he became when he spoke of his birds.  I was hoping a trip to the woods would do the same for me.

I soon learned bird watching was actually tree watching.  Mike would hear a shrill whistle or complex warble and he'd whip out his binoculars.  He'd stare at the top of a tall redwood looking for some kind of movement or color variation. He'd admonish me to remain quiet and still.  His patience seemed endless.  I quickly grew bored.  By mid-afternoon I was starving, grouchy and exhausted.

"Eat some seeds," Mike recommended.  "That's what the birds eat.  They're perfect protein."  Mike finally tired.  We'd spotted several woodpeckers, blue jays and something called a Clark's Grebe.  But no Tanager.  We hiked back to the van. Mike began spitting at trees and softly muttering to himself.

"You okay, Mike?"

"The Tanager is a harbinger of good luck.  I guess I'm cursed," he said.

"Why do you say that?"

"It's just the way it is."

He sat down on a fallen tree and I sat beside him.  He pulled out a steel flask and took a deep swig.  I took a tiny sip and started coughing.  Mike launched into this crazy story about his time in the Navy during the Vietnam War. He was an artillery loader, a guy who lifted 40-pound shells into cannon-like guns.

"We'd cruise the coast about a mile off shore.  The spotter would search for circling birds overhead.  This meant dead Vietcong.  Which meant live Vietcong were nearby.  The spotter gave the coordinates and we'd fire ammo deep into the jungle. At the time I was shooting up heroin on a regular basis.  I kept a syringe and a stash of dope inside my cot.  If the stuff was discovered I'd be subject to a court martial and jail time.  One morning, about an hour into my shift, a soldier taps me on the shoulder.  'C.O. wants to see you,' he says.  I froze.  I was certain they found my stash.  I walked to the Commanding Officer's cabin and took a seat in front of his desk.  'Private Hunter, I have bad news,' he says.  I'm thinking to myself, twenty year prison sentence, ass-kickings, mental and physical torture. They're gonna string me up like a dead duck.  Then the C.O. says, 'We received word that your father committed suicide.  Jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. Sorry to break the news to you, son.  That's tough luck.'  I never felt so relieved in my life.  I thought for sure they found the stash. Now not only was I off the hook, I could return to the States for the funeral. Best thing my pop ever did for me."

Mike took a deep swig from the flask and started laughing.  I was stunned and didn't know what to say. Mike handed me the flask.  "You know why I like birds so much," he asked.  He unrolled his shirt sleeve and showed me a tattoo on his bicep of a hawk with spread wings.  Beneath the image was the inscription Matthew 6:26.

"That's from the Bible.  It says birds don't have to do shit except fly.  God will feed them, God will protect them, God will give them a place to live.  Pretty sweet deal, right?"

"I'd say so."

We sat in silence.  I stared at a burn mark on the fallen tree.  The tree had been hit been hit by lightning.  A wide array of cracks and fissures spread forth from a black scar.  Mike finished the flask and started walking.  I followed.  I stared at the forest canopy above.  I visualized birds circling over dead Vietcong.  The sun was setting and it was starting to get cold.  I couldn't wait to be back in the city.
(6" x 6", Black Ink Print with Watercolor)

The Documentary Director

Filmmaker Tommy Sowards does not do soft and cuddly. As a graduate film student at UCLA he directed music videos in the emerging gangster rap genre. Tommy became friends with renowned rapper Kurtis Blow who introduced him to several members of the "Rollin' 20's" Bloods gang.  Tommy spent the next decade documenting the underbelly of Los Angeles gang life. The resulting film Slippin: Ten Years With the Bloods offers a rare glimpse inside LA's gang culture.

Tommy first met the gang in 1992, the same year as the LA Riots.  After an introductory phone conversation, Tommy was told to wait at the corner of 56th & Western, a rough LA neighborhood.  A rickety limousine pulled up and Tommy got into the backseat.  Five gang members were "all flamed up" in red clothes and bandannas.  Within seconds, several guns were pointed at Tommy's head.  The young men wanted to know why Tommy was interested in them.  Was he a cop? Was he some sort of informant?

Tommy kept his cool.  He calmly rolled a joint, took a long hit and passed it around the back seat.  The gang members put away their guns and joined Tommy in a ceremonial smoking of "the peace pipe."

Over the next six months, Tommy hung out with the gang.  They played basketball, drank 40's, had barbecues and played cards.  Tommy met the gang members' girlfriends, their grandmothers, their babies.  A trust developed and Tommy was given a crash course in "the hood."  He learned the meaning of gang signs and how to discern between rival gang "tags" (graffiti).  He learned the cryptic slang unique to the Bloods.

Tommy told the gang of his desire to document their life on video in a non-judgmental fashion.  The gang members agreed.  Tommy traveled to Germany to obtain a small amount of funding.  He put together a six-person German crew and by the middle of 1993 they were ready to begin shooting.

On Day 1 of production, a German still photographer quit on the spot.  He wasn't ready for the real-world intensity of the South LA streets.  Tommy manned the main camera himself.  He wanted to capture something real, something deeper than the after-school special sensibility of Boyz N' The Hood.

The first part of the film covers the years 1993-1996.  We get to know the lives of Dig Dug, Jumbo, KK, Low Down and Twerk.  We watch as the men deal drugs out of their homes, explain their use of rap music and exhibit their fascination and knowledge of a wide array of weapons.  We see their preoccupation with killing and being killed.  We also see funny moments as when Low Down takes a job as a "court summons deliverer."

The men have no education, no structure, no functional family guidance.  Their lives are insulated and hopeless.  At one point, Dig Dug takes some of his gang money and hires a tutor to teach him to read.  But this is a rare moment.  Unlike Hollywood, there is little redemption or glory.

The emotional heart of the film occurs in April, 1993 when CK ("Crip Killer") Lil' Mike is killed by a rival gang.  After Lil' Mike's death, the gang members begin questioning themselves.  They pour 40's over Lil' Mike's grave wondering why they kill their own people, why they keep themselves down.

Tommy completed production in 2003.  He approached Christopher Koefoed, the editor of Menace 2 Society.  The two men cut 180 hours of footage down to a taut 84 minutes.  The resulting documentary won Best Film at the Montenegro Film Festival.  It played to packed audiences at the Tribeca Film Festival and ultimately screened on Showtime.

Some critics were offended that a white filmmaker had the nerve to make a first-person movie about black America.  But Executive Producer Kurtis Blow and editor Koefoed (who is black) helped give the film street-cred among gangs.  As Tommy said, "I'm just the white wall on a black tire."

Slippin' has since been shown at colleges, prisons, inner-city churches, police departments and army bases.  Tommy went on to make documentaries about prison rehabilitation efforts for Latino gang members and the world of extreme martial art fighting. His new film is about Wallid Ismail, a legendary martial artist who pioneered competitive MMA fighting in Brazil.  (5" x 7", black ink print)

Buscemi

When I first started carving woodcuts, every portrait oddly seemed to resemble Steve Buscemi. With that in mind, I decided to carve the actual Steve Buscemi. A favorite of edgy filmmakers like Jim Jarmusch, Quentin Tarantino and the Coen Brothers, Buscemi is infamous for his large number of screen deaths. Ironically, he was the only character who survived in "Reservoir Dogs." He often plays sleazy, fast talking criminals and outcasts. One critic called him the cinematic equivalent to junk mail (I completely disagree). He is the lead character in my favorite indie comedy "Living In Oblivion." Before acting, Buscemi worked as a bartender, an ice cream man and a New York City fireman. In 2001, Buscemi and actor Vince Vaughan got into a barroom brawl in North Carolina. Buscemi was stabbed in the face, arm and throat and he still bears a scar on his cheek. He has become a fantastic film director and his directorial episode in the pine forest remains my favorite Sopranos episode of all time. These days he's busy playing Enoch "Nucky" Sullivan in HBO's amazing series Boardwalk Empire. (5" x 7", black ink print)

The Reality TV Producer

Javier Winnik is a veteran in the reality tv world. His producer credits include "Last Comic Standing," "Weakest Link" & "Dog Eat Dog." We've been friends since high school and during college we often videotaped private events to help pay our bills. One such event was Nathan Spiegel's barmitzvah at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. For us, the night was an epic disaster. Among the evening's lowlights: we stepped on a $20,000 violin while crossing the stage for a better camera angle; we set a large photo of the barmitzvah boy on fire with a hot camera light; we accidentally unplugged the PA system while Nathan was reciting his thank you speech; and worst of all, we mistook the boy's uncle for his father and spent the evening videotaping Uncle Shlomo in extreme closeup as he danced, socialized and nibbled on chopped liver. The only footage we captured of the "real Mr. Spiegel" was a blurry pan across the dance floor which we had to reference over and over while editing the video in order to get Mr. Spiegel to pay us. Though not quite reality tv, I'm certain the Spiegel barmitzvah remains the most "surreal" video Javier has ever worked on. (5" x 7", black ink print)

Derek Fisher

I was 10 years old when my dad took me to my first Lakers game (1973 Finals: Lakers vs Knicks at the Fabulous Forum.) I've been a huge Lakers fan ever since. As a boy, my favorite player was Gail Goodrich. Today my man is Derek Fisher. Derek is what the NBA calls a "character guy." Well spoken and humble, Derek exemplifies hard work and tenacity. He was drafted in 1997 in the same draft as Kobe Bryant but where Kobe was a prodigy, Derek had to toil for everything he's achieved. Lakers fans know him for his "0.4" miracle shot against San Antonio in 2004 but he's assembled a career of great basketball moments. He saved Game 4 in the 2010 Finals against Orlando with two amazing end of game 3-pointers. In Game 3 of the 2011 Finals, he helped defeat the hated Boston Celtics with an amazing 4th quarter scoring spree. Derek nearly gave up his basketball career in 2007 to devote himself to his 1-year old daughter Tatum who was diagnosed with a rare form of eye cancer. His daughter survived and Derek and his wife became spokespeople in the battle against retinoblastoma. Derek is so respected by his peers he was voted as president of the NBA Players Association. He helped end the owners lockout against players which saved the 2012 basketball season. (5" x 6", black ink print)