Destroying the Living and Dead Artists


vicky6The non-artists, and anti-AA people that surrounded Christine Rosamond, published two biographies, and two movie scripts about my late sister. All four parasitical endeavors were utter flops. Tom Snyder wooed my sixteen year old daughter and her stage mother in an attempt to get them in his disasterous book wherein he continues to do a dead artists recovery program! He get’s to do this because she is famous. “Prove it!” I said to the executor, who knows I am authoring a rival recovery novel about – my recovery! There is a race on to beat me to the limited market. I mean, how many artists make it to recovery? Of course when I pointed out Christine would hate what her kindred were doing, I was excommunicated!

After failing to get me to contribute my miracle of recovery, as now revealed in posting my letters from Vicky Arnold, I forbid Snyder to use any aspect of the Family Recovery because we are going to need it for generations to come. It has to remain integral, even if the art can not.

The disease of alcoholism is a genetic one. My daughter’s appearance in my life was months away. Snyder stole our program in order to refresh the waning interest in Rosamond’s art, and, to secure movie rights based upon this biography. The public did not buy it, a man revealing secrets about a woman, as if he was the victim – on the road to recovery! There is no program from dead drunks in AA.

They……..gave this book away with a purchase of two are more Rosamonds – depending on the value. It is hard to believe this bargain was put on any artist’s website. It was like throwing a lead life preserver to a drowning man. Anyone who went for this Entertainment Package of the Century, walked ten feet out of the gallery, stopped in their tracks, and wondered what the hell he/she just bought! This is more of ‘THE DEAD ARTIST SALE’ that began hours after my beloved sister drowned.

I mean, picture this. The new owner of a Rosamond walks into his house. Goes and gets his little tool box in the mud room. Hammers a nail in his wall. Hangs an image of a beautiful young woman on the wall, pours himself a glass of wine, flicks the switch to ignite the flame in his faux fireplace, and in no time is reading this;

““Before the service, Vicki had taken the trouble to go through Christine’s
bedroom, putting her jewelry and intimate belongings out of sight. As matters
turned out, it did little good, for the funeral was not long over before family
members and others were ravaging Christine’s house, taking whatever could be
carted away. The artist’s closet, a veritable mother lode – took the worst
beating. World-class spender that Christine had been, much of the clothing had
never been worn. So whatever still bore price tags was hauled off to be
exchanged for money. Jewelry disappeared, as well as other personal belongings.
Gallery employees and close friends of the family, along with Vicki, were doing
their best to staunch the flow – the estate had not yet been inventoried – but
to no avail.”

O.K. He reasons. “I don’t know much about art, but I know bullshit when I read it!”

Now his mind begins to turn on him. “Why am I being lied to? What is the fucking motive?”

In a hour he has tried to burn his Rosamond in his fake fireplace, but that only turned it into a gnarly grotesque mask. Now he calls up his girlfriend he just broke up with and ask her to come over and hold him… last time!

“Make it go away! I don’t understand. Why didn’t anyone call the police? This is a cultural tragedy! Didn’t the Nazis do stuff like this? I mean – I’ve done the math! There had to be at least five people who tried to staunch the flow. How many looters were they up against? Didn’t anyone try to get to a phone and call for backup?”
“There! There! There! Do you now understand how your big brain got you in trouble when we were together? I think you’ve had way too much Art & Culture for one night. Would you like another glass of wine?”

As things turn out, there are a dozen reality shows where Hillbillies go hog wild. While talking to Chris in New York about her famous artist boyfriend, Stephen Eins, I am watching this sick Hillbilly show where diabolical plots are made against real nasty hill folk. One guy is making a pitchfork trap that when stepped upon, springs up and sticks the rival in the stomach. One hill dude is throwing and sticking all kinds of shit in a tree, garden spades, screwdrivers, you name it.

I am probably giving my series away, here, but my show will be titled ‘Redneck Art Gallery’. It’s about a real backwoods Oakland Hills clan who strike it rich in the field of Naïve Art, and open a gallery in Carmel. They move into a mansion next to the Clint Eastwoods. The Backwoods verses the Eastwoods. Get it?

Clint was present when Christine presented her portrait of Jimmy Stewart to the famous actor. Vic was there. He had gone and bought himself a white suit just like the one Mr. Stewart was wearing in the Rosamond painting, and was telling these famous actors he was mistaken for Jimmy when he came out of a theatre in Westwood when he was twenty two. Rosemary showed me the video her ex-made and is muttering;

“That son of a bitch! If he was here right now, I would garotte him!” And I watched my mother clench her teeth, put her knuckles together, and make a grunting sound as she twisted her hands.

A garrote or garrote vil (a Spanish word; alternative spellings include garotte and garrotte[1]) is a weapon, most often referring to a handheld ligature of chain, rope, scarf, wire or fishing line used to strangle a person.

“And, what do you do for a living Mr. Presco?” asks Clint.
“Oh! I’m running a loan shark business out of my home in the Lafayette Hills. I pay these young women going to college shit wages, and got them on the Perk System. Need a loan?”

Captain Victim propably got one of Vic’s Girls to do the shoot.

“Who wants to go with me to Carmel and meet Clint Eastwood and Jimmy Stewart? Who has done everything I asked of them without giving me some sassy mouth?”

Above are two pages written by a woman whose boyfriend for fifteen years was a real famous artist, and whose brother took art, poetry, and literature, seriously. Vicky Arnold knows she is writing to someone who knows a lot about art and poetry – for starters!

Vicky is a professional Dog Trainer who has worked with the Stars, and makes six figures a year. She lives near the ocean in Malibu. Not like any member of my family, then and now, Victoria is very concerned about my sobriety and sanity, and the survival of the creative comradeship she personally witnessed between Bill and I that was famous amongst all who knew us, including Christine Rosamond.

How my family treated me, was a true glimpse of how they treated Christine before she died. I had seven years of sobriety and was bid by my sponsor to stay away from these people, or I would have my next drink – and die! I had not spoken to Christine in seven years. Vicky can no longer have conversations with her beloved brother, her only sibling, so I am trying to fill my dear friend’s shoes. This talk of “my chair” is the chair Bill sat in when would visit his sister. It became the Guest Artist Chair. When one sat in it, one was bid to be an Honest Man.

Vicki is talking about Bill’s epic poem that was rejected by a publisher when he was nineteen.

Jon Presco

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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