Filling In Empty Spaces

Envelope – please. And, the Winner – is?

When I was fifteen years of age, I was deeply loved by two very beautiful women. One was my sister Christine, who was fourteen, and the other was Marilyn, who was six months younger than me. The three of s went to University High School in Los Angeles. What I loved at the time, was, Art. I was deeply in love with the creative process, and, Art loved me. It gave me a sorely needed identity. My narcissistic parents were extremely stingy in this area. Art was my shield, and my sanctuary. Art consoled me.

At the Emerald Art Center I showed my First Love the Presco Family photo I beheld for the first time two days ago.

“It’s all here! The story. Vic told me Rosemary favored Mark, to the neglect of her second born. My father thought this was very unfair, and told me he tried to pay more attention to me. But, look who is being utterly ignored. Christine should be in Mark’s place, and, my brother should be by my side taking an interest in what I am doing.”

What am I doing?

“Look Daddy! Here’s what Jesus wrote in the dirt. The answer came to be in a dream!”

Due to a ancient family legend, I was destined for the church. You can barely make out my halo. This is why Rosemary stayed clear of me. Raised a Catholic, she chose to be a Sinner Woman. She ended up making porno movies for the Mob in order to support the four children Victor gifted her with. Whatever it is I had, she did not want her perfect son to catch it. Mark hates religion.

“Have you thought about running away from home and becoming a Franciscan Monk?”

“Mother! I’m only three! I just learned to change my diapers, because, God knows you won’t potty-train me. How am I going to hold down a job if I sit behind a desk all day – in my poop?”

It is rumored I inherited much of my parents narcissism. But, Christine still fights me for that honor – from yon hither side. She was the artist ‘Rosamond’ famous for her “empty spaces”. Alas, I believe I have outdone her. There not a hint of  lip, nostril, or eyelash in my copycat piece ‘Empty Space’. This is the first portrait of Rosamond.

When Marilyn came into my life, she had to pass thru seven light-shields, and a thick door made of Krell metal. Lying together under the giant Queen Avacado tree in the backyard at Glendon, I admit I never thought it possible for a human being to be so much in love.  I’m talking about Marilyn. However, there was a price to pay.

“You destroyed My Art,  my love, and now I don’t know who I am anymore. You have altered my molecular make-up forcing me to feel my DNA and the painful scientific source, which is immersed in a hellish argumentative, goo. You are making me aware I am a male, and that I have a father who was a sexual being. He created me during a brutal argument he was having with Rosemary. There was no LOVE BETWEEN THEM. They took a sex break. I was once a immortal, but, now I must die a mere mortal, my love. This is all your fault. I warned you over and over not to make me love you!?”

On our first date, at my mother’s suggestion, I took Marilyn to see ‘Withering Heights at UCLA. On our second date, she took me to see ‘Black Orpheus’ that may have been shown with ‘Phaedra’ at the Nuart theatre. M and I were very anxious to recreate this scene. I did not know how to kiss. We are the last generation to feel the heat of soft-porn. The large self-lubricating eye balls, the hot burning log, the dripping-wet door, the Vaseline smeared on the lens, is oh so trite for today’s slick cyber-teens.

Marilyn took my complaint in, and then jumped up!

“Your mother has a dark hold over you. I’m going into the house and confront her.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. She has a mysterious thing going with Mark. No one can figure it out. My father suggested she was forever working on her novel. You will be sorry!”

This dialogue is somewhat exaggerated, for time and humor’s sake. What happened next, is the truth. I hear Rosemary snarl this at the Love of my Life, as she took a firm hold of her hair and slapped at her face……..

“No one tells me how to raise my son!”

I came to Marilyn’s rescue, and pulled the She-beast off her back.

Last night, one of the most beautiful persons in the world is telling me I can find forgiveness for my parents. She presents an astounding argument. No attorney could have defended Mr. and Ms. Presco so eloquently. I am deeply impressed.  I tell her I have been struggling with the Bragging Rights Snyder’s biography denied Rosamond’s mother and father, and, I am inclined to double down in my biography. But, here it, presented on the day Kavanagh was approved by the Senate, who have found some kind of alien forgiveness the Democrats are not capable of, and this will affect the coming elections.

Marilyn ‘The Fair’ hand delivered her gift on my 72nd birthday. Inside is The Antidote for the Never Ending Argument. The verdict has been sealed. The poison Apple put out for Christine and I, has been rendered impotent. The long argument the two creative Presco children had carried on – beyond death…………..if finished! I have a video of Marilyn reading it. I may never post it. Her letter may never be published, because, it is the key to the cell I was locked in, because, I owned the truth. Many truths. If my enemies know what this letter says, they will melt it down and forge a ever more clever key.

When I saw the movie ‘Sexy Beast’ it was like watching a home movie. For some reason I chose Vic’s House to show my art that I schlepped up from LA atop my 1957 Ford Fairlane in 1965. I had just turned eighteen. I quit my job selling art supplies and threw my fortunes in with the first hippies. I was weary of the terribly lonely identity crisis that Christine and Marilyn deeply admired. I provided answers for them. I was both a mother and father to Christine. At eighteen, I could not handle the responsibility. I tuned in, and dropped out. I was burned out as an artist. I was all washed up. I was having – fun – just being me. There is a me – somewhere, somehow.

Two of my paintings were destroyed in arguments Vic was having with his third wife, Dee-Dee Boyles. The painting I did of Marilyn and her mother hanging up the wash was knocked off the mantle, and punctured by the fireplace irons. The Argument came crashing down on Dee-Dee who hunkered down to receive – another blow! The stretcher bars exploded into splinters, and for a moment Dee-Dee was draped in a work of art I did at seventeen. In my movie ‘Empty Spaces’ I have Dee-Dee throwing off this veil of illusion and grabbing Vic’s 9 millimeter, then emptying it as she chased him around the house. As he made it out the back door, a bullet crashed thru the glass, and ricocheted into my father’s back, where it rested against his backbone. King Victor was buried with that bullet. He could not go to the hospital because Dee-Dee knew where are the bodies were buried. If she went to jail, she would talk. Two months later she dies in their bed of acute alcoholism.

Rosemary kept telling me;

“Your father is a made man.”

When I showed Marilyn his image, she took a closer look. He has ‘Tough Guy’ written all over him, complete with white tee-shirt.

We lived together on 72nd Street and McArthur, one of the baddest neighborhoods in Oakland. You could hear the gun battles every Friday and Saturday night. We played a lot of chess and watched the riots at San Francisco State. I watched my father make his way over to the black whore house next door. On Christmas Day he came home at sunrise, shit-faced. We were invited to Grandma’s. He forgot. I did the driving. He wanted to stop at the nudie bar on Highway 50 for a drink. While watching a pole dance, I lost my father.

“Look Vic. Let’s cut the comedy. You are a lousy father – and always have been. We make better friends, and drinking buddies. You treat your friends with great respect. Your days of treating me like shit, are over. Capeche’?”

“Call me el Friendo!”

This, surrender was a great load of Vic’s shoulder because he was telling everyone I was never his son, and was the product of Rosemary’s betrayal, her infidelity. A strange man slipped me in the Presco Nest – for King Victim to raise. I didn’t look like Christine and Mark. There was something different about me. In 2011, when Vicki and I picked Aunt Lillian up at the airport, she gasped when she saw me. We had not seen each other since 1994, since Christine’s funeral.

“Oh my God! He looks just like Vic!” Lillian gasped.

“See!” said Vicki Presco. “I told you Vic was lying about Greg not being his son!”

In 1987, at Serenity Lane, I recovered my first name, John, because there was an argument over my name a day after I was born. Rosemary wanted it to be spelled JON. A nurse put an H in it and my mother refused to call me John. My sober birthday is April 7. 1987

“We admitted we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable.”

Last night Marilyn and I had a brilliant Art Conversation. There are not many of those anymore. We talked about getting some of ours down – for prosperity. What I want, is our story to be an Art Movie. I want Jonathan Glazer to direct it. The world is now ready for Family Sex Abuse – with Gangsterism. I want to make Springfield the Art Gangster Movie Capitol of the World – in the ongoing feud I have with Neil. There should have been a special division for my painting………Gangster Art! After they shoot ‘Empty Spaces’ in Springfield, perhaps there will a Division 0 – Mob Art? Of course there will be a Mob Film Festival, with guest directors.

I will take Marilyn to see Colette. It is our kind of movie! Of course I want my reluctant Muse, Lara Roozemond, to play Christine Rosamond, but, Keira Knightly will do in a pinch! In the end, gangsters are forgiven, especially if they have entertained us. There are no Gangster-Art movies? There is a chance Christine was murdered because she ended up with everyone’s Narcissistic Supply.

Johnathan may also be interested in directing ‘The Royal Janitor’ now that women really need a champion to defeat a powerful man who was crowned ‘The King of Denial’. There will be far less successful interventions now that Kavanaugh is on the court.

https://www.alcohol.org/alcoholics-anonymous/step-1/

Victoria Rosamond Bond is a sculptress and embodiment of Camille Claudel. Here is yet another synchronistic art happening which I suspect is leading us to the next Renaissance, driven by women. Marilyn’s creative brilliance has been laying down patterns that await the material. There is a archetypal role here. To put her memoirs in the form of a letter, is, Genius! In many respects it is a sealed eulogy that arrives twenty-four years after the death of Rosamond. Inside is – my rebirth!

John Presco

Creator of ‘Empty Spaces’

Copyright 2018

 

 

After marrying a successful Parisian writer known commonly as “Willy” (Dominic West), Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette (Keira Knightley) is transplanted from her childhood home in rural France to the intellectual and artistic splendor of Paris. Soon after, Willy convinces Colette to ghostwrite for him. She pens a semi-autobiographical novel about a witty and brazen country girl named Claudine, sparking a bestseller and a cultural sensation. After its success, Colette and Willy become the talk of Paris and their adventures inspire additional Claudine novels. Colette’s fight over creative ownership and gender roles drives her to overcome societal constraints, revolutionizing literature, fashion and sexual expression.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camille_Claudel

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keira_Knightley

https://rosamondpress.com/2015/08/24/our-dirty-dee-dee/

https://rosamondpress.com/2012/06/03/dirty-dee-dee-knocked-my-eye-out/

Within weeks of being back in Oakland, I learned my stepmother, Dee-Dee, had knocked Vic’s eye out with a huge glass ashtray she hurled at his head. The eye disease – was a big lie! Were they drinking? Or, is mental illness to blame? Mental illness vs. shit-faced drunk! You decide! What does that look in Dee-Dee’s eye tell you?

https://rosamondpress.com/2013/08/26/my-muse-redeemed-at-the-art-museum/

The Scream & The Argument

My favorite painting from the age of sixteen to twenty, was ‘The Scream’ that was recently auctioned for $119 million dollars, which is a record that leaves ‘The Mona Lisa’ and ‘The Men in Her Life’ in the dust.I never made any real money off my art, but, I know what I like, and what constitutes good art – because I did my own version of The Scream when I was seventeen, and gave it to my insane father, and his crazy-ass wife, Dee-Dee. Crazy Dee-Dee chased Vic around their home in Lafayette un-loading his nine millimeter at him. As he headed out the back door, perhaps screaming for his life, Dee-Dee’s last shot ricocheted off the metal window frame, shattered the glass, and is imbedded in my late father’s back, or his skeleton this very day.

I gave two paintings to my father ‘The Argument’ being one of them. It was my hope to tame this wild beast, this selfish Leo and bring some culture into his life. After Christine died, Vic growled this critique;

“I hate art!”

Well said, thought I. Alas a honest opinion! And Art hates you!

Vic’s homes were horror shows of drunken brawls. The painting I did of Marilyn watching her mother take clothes off the line because a terrible storm is approaching, ended up with a good size hole in it when it was knocked off the fireplace mantle. For want of a nail!

The Argument has three figures in it. Two women are walking up a zig-zag road to the top of the hill where there is this sickly light – of hope! A man who looks like a white-robed prophet is yelling – as are the two women. No one is on the same page, traveling the road of life together in harmony. There is terror behind Dee-Dee’s eyes, devoid of hope. When a business associate of Vic saw this work, she began to cry! Now – that’s art!

This painting is prophetic for Vic began to look like the male figure, and he took to wearing a robe around the house all day like Vinny the Chin. He also sang in the Barbershop Quartet, which adds to the opera and drama of it all.

Note how the Prescos have decorated their home with the same somber browns found in The Arguement. The T.V. tray is brown, and the clock seems to exude – Brown Time. The lamp is the white-robed prophet bringing light into the dark Presco home, it growing darker by the day. Dee-Dee is all in brown and Vic has placed her before his son’s masterpiece, the only gift he ever recieved from any of his children. But, it turns out to be a Trojan Hosrse that sucked the life out of Dee-Dee and Vic – and drove them mad! They wanted to cry out, but, couldn’t! This was my vision from the Id, my monster I unleashed upon my father and his second wife, that was their un-doing. This was my revenge for Vic twisting my mother’s arm, forcing her to her kness before the Frigidaire because she did not know how to cook cattle kidneys.

“You put them in a big pot – and boil the piss out em!” growled King Victor.

It is a vicious rumor that Dee-Dee and Vic died due to acute alcoholism. They died of acute art!

The fate of this painting is unknown. Who knows what the price of my very rare works will bring at Southeby’s some day.

Quality, no Quantity!

Jon Presco

Copyright 2012

“Big Bones” of Scowtown

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vic30002Yesterday I talked to Dick Moyer, a curator of the Crockett Museum. I had talked with his late father back in the 70s about my grandfather, Hugo Presco. He said he was a great man, known as a gambler. I asked Dick about the gambling in Crockett, but he knew very little. There were some raids during Prohibition, but Moyer had not read the article that I found in 1994 that said there were about sixty bordello and gambling houses in Crockett. My father had said the same thing. Rosemary said there were about five thousand people at Hugo’s funeral, including the Mayor of San Francisco. Was the funeral held in Crockett? According to my mother, Vic took the money collected for burial, and went and got drunk. Where Hugo is buried, is unknown.

Vic took us to see his father but one time. Hugo was living on a houseboat in Scowtown located in the shadow of the Carquinis Bridge. We had to walk along a maze of floating dock. A malato answered the door, then went and got The Gambler. In reading about gambling in Portland’s Scowtown, Hugo’s houseboat could have been the sight of a infamous poker game that was impossible to raid. You could see, and feel the cops coming as they rocked the dock.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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1 Response to Filling In Empty Spaces

  1. Reblogged this on Rosamond Press and commented:

    Our family got rid of us. They worked hard to disapear us – as they went for the money and the fame!

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