the story
The Journey of an Artist in the 1960s
PART ONE
Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
– James Joyce
19/11/1963
And then there is me, that is Dylan Joyce, a lowly young beat-nick who came to this country 18 years a go in 1942. As an American citizen, I’ll always feel my heart remains in the city of Dublin. Where the greatest of the philosophers preach at the local pubs and bowerys, and they croon away their sorrows over a dark, brown , frothy beverage which is the blood of every true Irish man.
Yet, I have no desire to return at this point in my life. Ah, I remember it’s greatness , beauty and lore, but now is not the time for me. A return would mean living in the flats, working in the shipyards and being repressed by the bourgeoisie Ulsters that satanically inherit our land. No, that is no place for me as a 25 year-old artist. I am I am a man with a passion that runs deeper than this. I paint, draw and photograph, and in this I find pieces of myself, my true inner-self that can only be brought out artistically.
I found that in this new time, an era where we have elected such a charismatic and liberal leader as John F. Kennedy, there is promise in this land known as America. Unlike Ireland, it is a land that is so diverse, one feels as though each state is an unexplored nation, unlike anything else. And perhaps the greatest example of diversity, a cultural Mecca is , New York City.
And so, I am leaving my liberal studies program at Berkeley to experience life, something that cannot be taught
I have only $100.00 to my name and no means of getting there, but in a week’s time, I will find myself in Greenwich Village. I hear there’s a lot of great young thinkers there. Hopefully, I will find inspiration and meaning in that great land, and become the most influential and creative artist to walk this earth.
20/11/1963
And here I am, in the rain, waiting for someone to stop and give me a ride. I stand a lanky 5ft 10in with coal black hair and blue eyes I hide behind black-rimmed specs. Some have called my face “the map of Ireland”, and in my eyes you can see the Irish coastline, the deep blue and the sorrows of those who know it. To protect myself from the brisk Northern California weather, I am suited in a hand-made wool fishing sweater, tan chinos and worn-out brown loafers. I’m carrying with me a leather record bag filled with the tools of my trade, pencils, paintbrushes and paint. I also have with me a 35mm camera and this journal. Oh, I’ll admit, I’m the vision of a standard young intellectual who discusses what’s wrong with society and the Oscar Wilde-esque “Owe My’s” of this world. Yes, that is me. But I do indeed hope I contain more than this inside. And so, I will embark on a journey to discover this, this thing we call a soul.
I have learned through out life only a few things I know as truths, and one of the greatest truths is as Oscar Wilde stated “True friends stab you in the front.” Well, I’ve been stabbed in the back a few times too many, and so, my only true friend in this world is something that never lies. In fact, it is one of the only things that is able to capture my thoughts and what I in vision. It doesn’t question of interpret, it simply does as though I ask it to and reveals the truths of a moment’s thought. And this friend’s name is Ulysses. No, it’s not a man, for no man can be as faithful as this, but it is a camera, my camera. One may ponder why I chose the name Ulysses, and for this question there is a simple answer. And the answer is that there is no answer. I guess I could say I liked the book by James Joyce. Oh sure, I could make up some intellectually pleasing reason like “my camera is a great hero that aimlessly traveled the streets of Dublin with me.” But that would be a lie. I just got if for Christmas, and I named it as one would name a dog of cat. I wasn’t exactly satisfied with the name inscribed on the camera, “Honey Well 35mm.” Of course, this camera has become more to me than a camera, it is my one true friend.
After standing in the cold for a good hour, I saw a young hot-rod speeding down the road. I waved my hands and he stopped suddenly.
“Hey boy, where you headed?” he asked.
“East, New York City.” I simply replied.
“Well hot dog! That’s where I’m headed. I gotta be there in a week’s time to meet my girlfriend down in Manhattan , to meet her parents before I propose marriage. I sure could use a friend right about now, if you wanna be my friend I’ll be happy to take you. Course I’m headed down to Vegas to see if I can get some extra cash in my pocket, and then down to my home state of Texas to close up a business deal. We’ll have some real good fun. You game for this boy?” he said.
I thought about this, Vegas…hmm…yeah okay. And Texas…yeah sounds okay, the Wild West. Of course as I stated earlier, I don’t particularly trust anyone, certainly not someone I just met. But then again, it’s a ride to New York, just what I want! I’ll just refrain from telling him that I don’t want a friend, especially not a rich conservative friend.
“Yeah, sure man, I’m with ya. I only have $100.oo though, so I hope this won’t cost me any.” I replied.
“Well, you now find yourself in the company of a multi-millionaire, so you ain’t gotta worry bout nothin boy. Yeah, I real Texas bred oil collectin gamblin’ man. You want somethin, you just let me know and it’s yours.” He told me.
And so, we were off, embarking on a journey, which will not be as trying as I thought. Yeah, I’m a lucky guy, this I have learned thus far.
“Oh, by the way, the name’s George Pittney II. My friends call me Junior. What are you known as?” the oil baron asked me.
“Well, me parents named me Dylan, Dylan Joyce. “ I replied.
“So boy, what do you do here in California?” he asked
I hesitated before replying with an honest answer, certainly not the answer George was looking for.
“I go to Berkeley for Liberal Studies…” I stated.
“So youse is one of those poor liberal folk? OH, I had you as a sort of fella with his head on strait, but I guess everyone’s got a flaw or two. So why do you support them democrats?” he asked.
“Well, I simply believe they can do more for me, and I agree more with them. Conservatism never appealed to an artist such as myself. I would hardly call my work conservative, and so, why would I let my thought be so?” I explained.
Clearly this was going to be more of a tribulation than I had concluded earlier. I, one of the most liberal , left-winged citizens of this land, is in a confined area with perhaps the most conservative and cynical individual on the face of the earth. I can only imagine the debates we’ll get in to.
“Well, we’ll save this for another time boy, when it ain’t so late and I ain’t so tired.” Stated the conservative I found myself with.
That was what I wanted to hear. Thank the lord, I don’t need a headache like that right now. With that, it became rather silent. We’d been driving about an hour, and for the next 12 hours to Vegas, I found myself starting and finishing the book “On the Road” by Jack Karouac. A book I could relate to in more ways than one.
In fact, we hadn’t discussed our life history’s like I had expected us to, something that pleased me greatly. I don’t know myself, so I certainly don’t want someone else to know me. The only information I offered was that I was born in Dublin, that was all I offered and all that I told.
21/11/63
We arrived in Vegas early in the morning and gambled for most of the day. I won $50.00 playing black jack, and George lost $1000.00 on roulette . Perhaps the most shocking occurrences was, that he treated it as though he had lost a nickel. I couldn’t believe the little value money had to this man. It intrigued me beyond belief an also made me think. It made me think to the point that I cant even think what I was thinking. I did come to the conclusion though, that George and I , being brought up in diverse financial situations, could both benefit from capitalism, and we both respect the system. And so, I’m done thinking about money, I’m going to enjoy myself, something I don’t often get to do.
The highlight of the day was seeing the Rat Pack at the Sands hotel. Ah, there’s nothing like a bit of popular culture to lift one’s spirits. Superficial, yes, but also quite humorous and entertaining.
After the show, we hit the road. We had to be in Dallas by 23/11, and we were going to make it. I can’t say I learned much about myself nor did I learn anything else in Vegas, all I really learned was that money comes and goes like hell there.
PART 2
History, said Stephen, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
-James Joyce
23/11/63
I slept for a good piece of our journey, and when we got on the highway into Dallas, we noticed that traffic was backed up beyond belief. But why? Ah, I remembered! Kennedy’s in town! This is certainly a class opportunity for a young liberal like me, seeing the nation’s great leader…but how am I going to convince the original GOP supporter to see him? Hmm…
“Well, I forgot, Jack boy’s in town today, I’d sure like to see that S.O.B, be real funny to see him wavin’ and all. Yeah, s’long as we’re here, min-as-well. What d’you think boy?” he stated this to my complete and utter surprise.
“Oh, I certainly wouldn’t mind, in fact, I would find it to be perhaps one of the greatest opportunities given to me thus far.” I stated.
And so, we first had to head down to George’s mansion and take care of his business deal. It only took about an hour, and we made it to the city to see Kennedy before it became too crowded. We managed to position ourselves at the ledge of the side walk, a spot where we would be able to see him with ease. I’ve got Ulysses ready, and I’m going to get some great shots of the President. Well, I’ll continue with this entry later on, the President is approaching and I don’t want to miss a thing….
9.00 23/11/63
Tragedy, horror, shock, disgust, uncertainty and disbelief. These, are mere words, but they are perhaps the only words I can find to express my emotion at this moment. Of course, as usual, the only way to express the occurrences of earlier this day, are to look inside Ulysses, for he captured the moment as nothing else could, an exact interpretation. It’s a moment that will be frozen forever, such as it seems this great nation will be.
I don’t quite know how to explain this…how to explain what happened. I certainly can’t explain why, but I’ll try and conjure up the guts to get the what out of the way.
I stood there on the streets of Dallas, only feet away from the nation’s great leader. A leader so powerful, so promising, so bright, someone I thought was invincible. It seemed as though all of America was there. If not there physically, there emotionally. I could feel the patriotism and nationalism, and for once in my life, I felt proud to be a part of it. However, this would change shortly.
I observed countless children and adults waving American flags, excited beyond words. I heard a small child say to his father “Daddy, I’m going to see the president, I cant believe it!”. In a moment’s time, the look of joy and hope on that boy’s face would turn to one of terror and grief.
As JFK approached on that sunny November day, I got my camera ready. And when he was directly in front of me, I shot it. However, the shot of my camera wasn’t the only shot that rang out. For another shot rang out of now where….it rang so loud and so powerfully that it was heard across the nation. At that moment, there was chaos, I heard someone say “the president’s been shot, help!”. I couldn’t believe it at first, I felt like I was in a dream, there’s no way something so shocking and unfair could happen. The parallels of this day were unthinkable. It went from being a day of hope, to a day of mourning and a day that caused me to rethink the morals I had developed my entire life. It made me think of who I was, and why I wanted to be. In fact, at this point, I don’t particularly care to exist. To be the lowliest bug would be far more desirable to than to be of this breed we call simply…humanity. I’m sure that other creatures do not have to think in such great depths to realize who they are or what their purpose is. They know, they have God-given reasons for being alive and they stick to them, there’s not soul searching, no questioning of existence. And yet, I feel as though I’ll never be as lucky as them, I’ll never truly know what I’m here for. Is it pain and sadness? After what I saw today, that’s what I think. What were the chances of me being here to witness this? Very small, and yet I was and did, and I will live with this scar for the rest of my life, this is certainly an even that will not be easily forgotten.
Like every other American, liberal, conservative, black listed, the question of the hour, in fact, the question that rhetorically surrounds every great tragedy is simply “why?”. This is a question I’d love to know the answer to, and yet I fear I never will know the true answer. I am surrounded by dishonesty, corruptness and impurity. I’ll never truly know. Al l I can say to justify or explain this, is that all great leaders die. It’s a known fact. If you’re going to be great, you have to die. I can make a list 10 miles long, James Connolly, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Abraham Lincoln…etc..etc..etc..
I suppose the conclusion I’m able to come to be, is that I live in a world based on upset and tragedy, and ways to avoid it. And so, the last place on earth I want to be right now is in the midst of all this, in Dallas. So, I’m going to go get George and we’re going to head out of here, go to New York, not that it matters much anymore, I’ve forgotten my purpose in life, I really don’t care now.
24/11/63
I listen to the radio attentively, and the death of the president has been confirmed over and over. Every time I hear “President John F. Kennedy has been assassinated.”, chills run up and down my spine. It’s like a conformation of the demise of our nation. A truth so unbearable, I wish I could climb under the nearest rock, or hit the local pub and drown out my pain with a nice brass farthin.
I certainly didn’t expect to find any comfort in Mr. Conservative thinking, but as I usually am, I was wrong.
“George, what is your take on this good fellow?” I asked.
“Well, I know we’ve had our disagreements in the past Dylan, but this is unacceptable. I might not of voted for Kennedy, but there’s no reason stuff like this should ever happen, I’m disgusted and saddened.” He stated.
Of course I was shocked by this. I was shocked, and at the same time I was refreshed, and I realized that when something as tragic as this happens, unity can occur, and disagreements can be put aside, and we can feed off each other and find comfort in each other. This is something I never knew before I met George Pittney II. In fact, with this knowledge, I’ll be the first to admit I’m a hypocrite. I had been prejudice, and I had written George off as a conservative waste, but I was wrong, deep down he’s a caring guy with a caring soul. And so, at the moment I realized this, I took a photo of him, he was crying, something I had not seen him do, nor did I think he was capable of doing. And strangely enough, he was crying over what the rest of us were crying over internally. But here was a man, with such a pure soul, a man with nothing to hide. George Pittney II was a man who could bring his inner emotions to the outside and allow himself to weep, bare his soul. This I have come to the conclusion is perhaps the bravest thing a man can do. And at that very second, I snapped old Ulysses and took a photo of George. As long as I have this photograph, I’ll be reminded that there is more to a person than what is on the outside. Something I never should have forgotten.
PART 3
“New York is the shrine to which the lords of capitalism commute in cattle cars.”
-John Ciardi
26/11/63
After driving many miles with George, and learning a lot about, and opening up myself, I arrived in New York. And I arrived in New York with something I never would of that I would have, a true friend. I know, it’s an insane concept, especially for me, a lad that told himself for so long that there’s no such thing as a friend. Again, I’ve learned quite a bit from my ordeals.
I was dropped off in Greenwich Village with an invitation to visit whenever I wanted, an invitation I might oblige to some day. But for now, I’m in New York, with a new out look on life, and I’m hungry to answer every question and misconception that burns in side of me.
I had no idea where to go first, I was not familiar with anything or anyone. I guess I’m as that young poet Bob Dylan would call a rolling stone, a complete unknown, no direction home, in fact, no home at all. I saw a small coffeehouse and heard some music, so I walked in. Of course I had told myself earlier that I wouldn’t be quick to judge, no, but if I was going to label these people, I’d call them artists, you know, the standard pretentious type. But I’m not going to do this, no I’m going to talk to them and see “what’s happenin ‘man”.
I began speaking with a young man, no older than me. He was wearing the traditional black beat clothing, a real hipster. I began chatting with him. All he spoke of was whom he knew, and all he wanted to know was whom I knew. I really didn’t know anyone “of importance”, and so he seemed uninterested in me.
I spoke to several others and this became a pattern. The names of Bob Dylan, Andy Warhol, Lenny Bruce, and Jack Karouac were tossed around, and if equally notable names were not tossed back, one was written off and shun from the small society. I quickly learned that everything I had imagined was untrue. I thought New York would be a place where I’d be inspired, learn about myself, and expand my creativity. But all I really learned is that if you don’t know people, being yourself is nothing.
28/11/63
Today, to my surprise, I met a man who said he could help me as an artist, exhibit my work, something I had always dreamed of. He told me that in only a week I would have a showing at his gallery. I graciously accepted this offer and now, I’m going to spend this week preparing my work and setting up, this is going to be a busy and exciting week. Ah! It’s true, the land of opportunity! Here a day, and already I’m having a life long desire filled. Remarkable, astonishing.
1/12/63
Oh how I love life, and how I love youth. I believe it was Oscar Wilde who so candidly expressed the importance of youth and ceasing it in his work The Picture of Dorian Gray. Oh, I’m not going to let my youth slip away, I’m living to my potential! Oh Glory! It’s a new day and I’m a new man!
2/12/63
Today, I took Ulysses to the photo shop and developed the once live pieces of my soul. Included was a photo of JFK. This photo was taken at the final moment of his life, a moment that is painfully revealed and relived on this sheet of paper. This is something no one can see. It may not be a photograph of me, but there is so much of me in it that allowing anyone else to see it, would be like allowing someone in to my soul, no that is not something I am ready for. When I told my art gallery acquaintance of the photo, he pressingly tried to get me to exhibit it, but I will no, no, I will not let the undeserving masses know me in such a away that I cant even say I am certain of. And so, they will have to “settle” for my paintings and drawings, pieces that run deeper than me, yet remain truthful. Of course there is in fact no use of art other than aesthetic pleasure, but for me it is a healing mechanism, which allows me to be honest. With each stroke of the brush, I feel the paint come from deep within me, from my blood, soaking up on to the canvas as though a bullet had passed through my inner most creativity and drenched on a piece of material. Material…not a word to associate art with. There is nothing materialistic about art. But then again, there is everything materialistic about it. Art is everything and anything, I am art. Yes, my vanity, my perceptions, my fears, me, all of me, I am art. For I am art.
3/12/63
I’m more excited than ever, today, my work is being exhibited. I can hardly believe it! The “whose who” of this town are all going to be here, journalists, reporters, everyone, I’m the man of the hour, and oh what an hour it will be! After the showing, we’re going to indulge in some of life’s great evils and atrocities, matters that are not appropriate to mention in the event that anyone reads this.
4/12/63
“The Highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.”
- Oscar Wilde
Never has there been a truer statement than this. Last night, I embarked on one of the worst peril’s a man has ever embarked on. The criticism I received far outweighed the praise. But this did not bother me, no in fact with the criticism I received; I learned a great deal about myself, and have a greater expectance of myself. And this is all I really wanted. This was my purpose for going on this journey, to discover myself, and with the criticism I received, I was able to.
The people who were at the showing might have been the “whose who”, they might have been what I thought of as “where it’s at”, but no more. No, I have realized that they were nothing more than snobbish, phony socialites who thought it was the hip thing to do, criticize rather than critique art. In the work I did, there was so much of myself that it was painful to reveal to the outside world. But I gathered up the courage and did it, to which I found was a mistake. Why should I share myself with people who can not appreciate, nor deserve to witness my work? I shouldn’t, and so, I have been taken for a fool. But it is the most foolish ventures that we learn life’s greatest lessons from. And from all of this, I have learned that America is no place for me. All the money in the world could not make me happy, no even that. And so, I’m going to return to the one place where I’ll always be accepted, the one place where no one judges me, the one place where I belong, and that is Dublin, Ireland. Even if I have to work in the lowliest of places, I will be happy. But something tells me that I wont. Because the lowliest of places it those that don’t accept one for themselves. And so, I am going to a place where there are true intellectuals, 80-year-old men who have lived through everything, who have the right to make assumptions.
And so, my journey may not have been comparable Stienbeck’s Travel’s With Charlie, but I did indeed uncover many new facets of existence, and learned a great deal about myself as well as my art. Thus, I will leave on the next ship over to my homeland, and there, I hope to find the missing piece of myself. But one can only hope.
