Photographer and podcast wizard Andrew Hall recently reached out to J Edward Neill about appearing on a Dead Hand Radio podcast.
They originally planned to discuss the Cold War and its history, but quickly derailed themselves.
Instead of a history discussion, they talked at length about J Edward’s art, books, life, and influences.
If you want to learn entirely too much about J Edward 🙂 …here’s your chance.
Click the link below and enjoy.
The Fae Slayer
Lustrous art prints available in two sizes (8″ x 24″ and 10″ x 30″)
Click the pic and check it out.
I’m J Edward.
Lately I’ve been as busy as ever in my life, creating new original canvasses. I’ve got trees, swords, towers, ships, and bones…so many bones. The amount of new art I’ve got quite literally covers my walls.
Typically I sell my original paintings right here, via Etsy.
But today I’m expanding. I realize not everyone likes Etsy. Moreover, Etsy takes a hefty cut out of every sale.
I’m offering a 10% discount (off any price listed on Etsy) to anyone who wishes to buy directly from me using either Paypal or Venmo.
That’s 10% off original canvas art (not prints.)
Domestic shipping is still free.
Interested art collectors should reach out to me using any of the social media links right here.
This offer is good…pretty much forever.
As ever, I love you guys.
I’m J Edward.
I paint gloomy landscapes, dark trees, infernal towers, and bones…lots of bones.
But this week, my son (aka: the G Man) added his first print to
my our Etsy store – ShadowArtFinds.
And it’s just…so…cute.
Anyways, if you want the details, just click the pic.
(All proceeds go to the G Man’s mustache-wearing piggy bank.
101 Fun Questions to ask your Kids
This week only. Through April 19th.
All my dark lady original paintings – 50% off.
See that guy in the desert?
Ok. Not really. I honestly just liked the image.
My calendar, the one in my kitchen with the Hubble photos, the stars, and the big, red, fiery galaxy, says today is April something or other. The year 2020. It suggests today rests in the heart of spring. That, today being a weekday, I should be off at my corporate day-job, and that instead of sitting in the quiet gloom of my peaceful little house, I should be pounding my life away in a turbulent office, selling machines to men I’ve never met.
I’m here. At home. Working. Writing. Painting. Listening to the birds. Watching my cat, Bacon, scale the woodshed. Waiting for my son to thump down the stairs and ask for his morning breakfast of apples and Cocoa Pebbles.
I gotta say…
This isn’t how I expected this year to begin.
And honestly, I’m torn about how it’s going. Like a piece of paper. Right down the middle. Half a sheet wants the quarantine to end tomorrow (but not for life to return to normal.) The other half wants this situation, this peace, to last…forever.
I should probably explain.
Part I – The Day Job
You see…it’s like this. The corporate life I described, the selling of industrial machines…it’s been my life for twenty years now. Every day, I abandon (I mean, used to abandon) the comforts of my little house to journey across a major city, drop my son off at school, snare meals when I could, and park my butt in the same chair in the same office, doing the exact same work I’ve always done.
Soulless work, as it happens.
Machines. Metal. Money.
Easily performed from the comfort of my kitchen? Absolutely.
And so now I ponder…
All the years I’ve put in, all the hours in traffic, all the money thrown toward fuel, meals on the go, daycare, school…
All the time lost, the driving, the wear and tear on my trusty car, the exhaustion, the working all day just to collapse in a heap and do it all over the next day…
Because of Coronavirus, because of a disease which has disrupted the flow of everything, suddenly I’m awake. I’m alive. I’m breathing. I’m at home, doing my work in a pool of sunshine, dressed comfortably, glancing out the window at a car I haven’t had to refuel in a month, peering over at my son as he merrily reads his first Tolkien novel – The Hobbit.
Again…this is not what I expected.
As I sit here, basking in soft music, I ask myself – what have I been doing all these years? Why, if I could’ve been doing this work at home (I could have…and been far more productive than while in a distant office) have I garbage-canned two decades of life? Why have any of us, with our wifi, laptop computers, and cell phones, played this absurd game?
I don’t have the answers.
But I do know this:
Now, instead of arriving home after dark every night, a hungry child in tow, an empty bank account, my gas tank on ‘E’, and my shoulders sagging…
To be fair, I’ve always painted. Always. On weekends. During holidays. I took entire vacation weeks, not to leave the house for a sandy beach, but to lock myself indoors and make art. Or write books. Or both.
And now, I paint every day. Without losing hours to a daily commute, I’m free to step away from my corporate work at day’s end and immediately begin creating. Suddenly, what was once weekend adventuring has become my primary source of everything. Income. Happiness. Stress relief. Freedom. I’ve regained a huge chunk of my life. I feel alive.
…because of Coronavirus.
Yes, that same thing which has killed tens of thousands, that disease which fills the supermarkets with Coronazombies, has somehow become a boon to me. And that’s a little messed up, isn’t it? That I should experience a renaissance while thousands of others are struggling. That I should be at peace while my neighbors just up the street can’t pay their mortgage.
A better man might feel guilty. He might look at himself in the mirror and say, “Your peace of mind comes at the price of others’ pain.”
But I don’t have it in me. I can’t feel guilt for no longer wanting to participate in the corporate merry-go-round of work-sleep-work. If I could (and I may yet find a way) I would give a portion of my pay to those who actually need to go into work. To the builders. The makers. The laborers. They should make more. And maybe when this is over, they will. But for me, who can literally do my work while loincloth-clad and sitting atop a grassy hill in the middle of nowhere, I question the whole point of offices. Of cubicles. Of traffic. Of executives flying across the world every day…when the meeting could’ve just been an email.
And I’m grateful to, at least for the moment, have escaped it.
I’m just sorry it took a pandemic to make this possible.
Part II – Love Distance Love
In case I made it seem like it’s all strawberries and cream, allow me to elucidate.
There’s a girl, you see.
And she lives 770 miles away.
It’s how life goes, isn’t it? For every see there’s a saw. For every up, a down. In this case, for as fortunate as I’ve been to awaken to a better life because of the quarantine, I’ve been unlucky in this crucial way.
I have no way of seeing the love of my life.
For many reasons, it’s impossible right now. Her city and mine have enforced rigorous lockdowns. We both have children who need us to stay put. While I’m locked away in artistic hermitude with my one son, she’s virtually imprisoned with her entire family, seven people, in a small rural household.
In the best of times, long-distance love is hard. Actually, hard isn’t the word. I prefer the term ‘routinely heartbreaking.’ The one person I want to see more than any other (my son notwithstanding) is the one person I can’t get to. Folks online wisecrack that their marriages might not endure the quarantine, that they might go insane spending all day with their spouse, their kids, their domestic life…and here I am, wishing I could just have a few hours, a few days, a quick break in the fabric of Corona-tude in which to hold hands with my love.
So for all my pontificating about how legendarily wonderful it is to have escaped corporate servitude, I’m torn. Like paper. In half.
With the pandemic, I’m free to live, to breathe, to exist outside the wasteful and traffic-riddled rituals of office life.
But with the quarantine, I can’t do the one thing I most desire.
I can’t look her in the eyes. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not likely for a long, long while.
I used to joke with her that we were like a military couple. One of us would get a moment’s leave from our batallion and use it to spend a few days with the other. But now it feels like a war has broken out, and that the best we can do is to write each other letters from distant battlefields. Words on a page, photos on a phone…they’re quite lovely, yet hardly a substitute for a moonlit walk, a kiss, or a shared meal.
First-world problems, right? That’s what I tell myself. People are out there struggling to pay their bills, mourning the loss of loved ones, and dying…and I’m sitting here in shorts, working from the most pleasant office in the world, soaking up the morning sun.
But even so…
…this strange balance of good fortune and heart-rending separation…
…I won’t say it’s easy.
Part III – Artistic Liberation
Ultimately, all this time alone might be accidentally ideal.
If I can’t yet see my girl, and if corporate life doesn’t have to be its typically grueling thing for the moment, I have but one choice…
More than ever before.
It’s been three weeks so far. Three weeks of isolation from everyone in the world except an eight-year old boy (who, much to my amazement, is a quiet, thoughtful bookworm.)
Three weeks of artistic hermitude.
And it promises to last a while longer.
While the world ruminates, and while everyone who’s not me craves a swift return to normal societal life (‘Why?’ I would ask) I’ve essentially started an art commune. In my kitchen and garage. For one. Paintings are flying off my brush, and flying off my walls. Thank goodness for art-lovers, collectors, and people who support local business. With their support, I’ve reached a joyous place.
I get to create.
I get to support myself with my creations.
I get to improve my craft, and enjoy the sort of peace I haven’t felt since…ever.
When corporate life reboots (And being the capitalistic nature of America, it will) I won’t have to go back. I’ll have a choice. With the strange set of circumstances surrounding Coronavirus, and the partial crumbling of yesteryear’s surprisingly fragile economy, I’ve been impossibly fortunate. I’m as grateful as one human can be. I also feel a sense of great responsibility, not to rest on my laurels and soak up the freedom, but to work harder than ever. To paint more. To write better books. To educate my son without indoctrinating him. To make no waste. To leave a tiny footprint (carbon or otherwise) on the world.
To both thrive and honor this existence.
Yes, maybe I am the guy in the desert. Maybe I really am striding alone atop a sandy dune.
But it’s ok.
Despite everything, I count myself as one of the luckiest guys in the universe.
However, if anyone wants to kidnap my girl and bring her to me, the first ten paintings are free…
Stay safe out there.
Join my one-man art commune here.
I’m J Edward.
I paint. A lot. Maybe too much. Honestly, these days, it’s all I do. If I’m not painting, I’m preparing canvasses. If I’m not prepping, I’m conceptualizing new trees, new landscapes, new ways to end the world.
All day. Every day. And most of the nights, too.
Yes. It’s true. I have no social life. I live in a colorful hole, and I’m fine with it.
For the last two years, life has been good to me. I’ve found myself able to make a living almost purely via art. It’s a dreamlike state, and surely one I never thought I’d reach. Yet here I am, up to my elbows in Mars Black and Unbleached Titanium, knee-deep in stacks of pristine canvasses gleaned from the shelves of the local Michael’s craft store. My house is a museum, almost every square inch of my walls covered up by images of trees, ships, towers, and strange, surrealistic objects.
It’s a good life.
But there is one thing.
One little dilemma.
A small something about which my collectors have reached out and tapped me on my shoulder.
I never sign my work.
The other day, a nice lady who’d just purchased several originals and prints sent me a message. She was very polite. Very reasonable. “I was disappointed,” she said. “None of the pieces were signed.”
She explained her distress at length, and I tried (and hopefully succeeded) in politely and honestly explaining myself.
“I never sign them,” I said. “It’s about the art, not the artist.”
“It’s just a thing with me.”
She never did reply. As of today, I’m not sure whether she understood. Or appreciated my view. Or whether she quietly fumed and plotted never again to buy from me.
Frankly, I get it.
Truth is…original art isn’t quite like any other consumer purchase. It’s just not. Sure, a signed Spiderman # 1 comic might fetch a high price, but it’s not the only Spiderman # 1, and it’s probably not the only signed one, either. Paintings, especially canvas paintings properly varnished and cared for, have a long, long shelf (or wall) life, and tend to endure the ages better than other items, given that they are rarely touched, typically only viewed.
What I’m really getting at is…
…what my point is…
…my art will outlive me.
Being of only modest talent and ambition, I’m never going to be the next Van Gogh or H.R. Giger or Zdzislaw Beksinki. And yet, I’ve still created things, unique things, in which my beloved patrons have placed much faith. These objects, well cared for, might sit upon their walls, their children’s walls, for many decades to come. With any luck, I’ll be long gone before they start to decay, and the slow entropy of the years wears down their color.
And finally, on that day, the person who created them (me) will no longer be recognized as their creator. These creations will become creator-less. Orphans, if you will, haunting the walls of people who haven’t the faintest idea who I am…or who I was. They’ll become free, in a way. Unbound to me.
If I sit on my couch and dwell on it, I realize something:
Most artists are not okay with this arrangement.
I suppose, not signing a painting (or a sculpture, or any hand-crafted item) is a little like having a child and giving it no last name. It’s maybe a bit like having a favorite pet, then forgetting it once it passes on. To some collectors and artists, it might even be considered arrogant. I’ve been called as much by a few buyers. And on the same subject, I’ve been asked, “Why? Why don’t you sign them? Don’t you want to be remembered?”
The short answer is…
…way deep down…
I don’t care about being remembered.
And while it may challenge the prevailing wisdom of signing one’s art with a flourish (or at least subtly inking the back of the canvas) I know I’m not the only one. To me, the art really is all about the art. My part, creating it, is my joy, my passion, and oftentimes my suffering. But after I’m done, after each piece ends up on someone else’s wall, it becomes no longer mine to claim. My part in the story ends with each painting that leaves my walls, and a fresh story begins in the dwelling of its new owner.
To me, my reasoning feels genuine. Simple. Honest.
These created things spend mere moments in my hands, and possibly lifetimes in the presence of others.
And truly, art belongs to everyone. What I see and feel as I create in each piece has no bearing on what its owner will feel.
So perhaps, in the end, my true signature is…
…no signature at all.
We’ll leave it at that.
Wind, water, music, Edgar Allan Poe, Sylvia Plath…
J Edward Neill and H.R. Reiter choose a wide variety of themes, styles, and famous poets, and splash several poems in each theme throughout this elegant poetry book.
Hecatomb – ‘heka’tom/ (noun) – An extensive loss of life for some cause.
The name of my terrifying novella.
In a drowned village, on a dark shore, in a city of white stones, an ancient evil stalks.
It has no name, no face, and no desire but to see the death of everything…
Down through the ages it exists, sleepless and void, a relic from the world before humanity.
One dead. Every night. Forever.
Until nothing remains.
MARCH 16TH – MARCH 26TH
BUY TWO OR MORE ORIGINAL CANVAS PAINTINGS, GET 50% OFF YOUR ENTIRE ART ORDER
No one loves you like I do.
In fact, I’ve several nicknames for you—
Beef chunk ambrosia
Salty, buttered rump of heaven.
All of these and more.
It’s like I said—
No one loves you like I do.
When I first met you
as a young lad
I didn’t fully understand you.
Why would they leave your bone in?
Why are you a little burned on the outside,
and a little undercooked in your fleshy center?
Why would they give a six-year old
a Ginsu knife?
You tasted as if a live cow
had strutted up to me
and begged me to eat it.
Which I did.
Some people cook you better than others—
That restaurant I used to haunt
That annoying guy with the green, egg-like grill
whose house I visit for only the one reason.
the one time he did it right.
But none of them revere you
like I do.
A dash of salt.
A blob of butter.
White charcoals, hotter than Chernobyl.
It’s pretty much a religious experience,
You should’ve seen my face
when I ate your cousin the other day.
Most midlife crises
begin with flashy cars
and a new therapist.
But he and I,
we sat alone in the dark,
and I made stupid faces,
while he just
raised my cholesterol.
I’d die for him.
And for you.
I mean, it’s probably too late already,
given the number of Angus I’ve sacrificed
to my sacred fork.
I think the neighbor hates me.
He stands on his deck, watching me worship you
as if you were some woman he coveted,
some woman I just grilled
over a five-hundred degree flame.
He lurked a while, gazing at me
like a starved wolf, who is also balding.
I hope he was looking at you, not me.
When I’m alone, which is almost always,
I daydream of you.
You don’t talk much.
You just sizzle seductively.
Is that even a thing?
When we embrace, every vegan
in a ten-mile radius
It’s a shame, really.
I’m sure they were good people.
But nothing like you, my friend.
You, who loves me in a way
which makes me embrace arterial hardening
like a hug from an old friend
who just happens to be delicious.
See more (not nearly as ridiculous) words here.
J Edward Neill