Playing Sherpa

Navigating these scrambling rabbit paths leads my mind to my childhood when I’d get into one-kid adventures surveying the forest lands like a scout or mini white sherpa. Later I got motorized with a red and chrome Honda 50.

Here the dirt is dry and it’s not even dirt, it’s sand. It ain’t mud. Trails that haven’t been blown away are evident still, but the lack of human intervention out here is the freshest air. I’ve been trying to see as the animal sees. I’ve been trying to stop my mind from forming words. Writing essays and silent minded hiking don’t mix. Now I know.

My boots wind me down a couple slopes to a mass of low willows filling this low folded area wall to wall. It’s a low gulch here. The glut of life accumulates here and feeds the mouths of a whole panoply of species from the micro scale up to the species like bobcats that would have us for dinner if they had to. That’s extremely rare though, just so you know. The deer live here untouched, unbothered by human aggressions and passions and if we watch them closely we may even find evidence of frolicking.

Moisture runs the show. Vegetation is here in this crevice between mountains because the creek flows through with reservoirs. Water, my friend. Even the shape of the ground here was eroded by water in its various phases and amounts. Water, ice, snow and steam work to mold the ground of our lands.

Quiet wind cools my writing on this modern papyrus with fine point gel pen at this poetic moment. These winds have carried away souls for centuries and probably poems too. People have lived here where I write for a long time. A few have died here I’m sure. It’s a natural cleansing cycle. The rhythm rings echoes of death. Layers of the dead bring more layers of life and the desert doesn’t try to hide much in its dried mulch.

There are remnants of historic encampments around here just like I’d see in Goldfield, pots and pans and the various exciting trinkits decomposing gracefully. I wonder if they were mining for gold too. Maybe hunting, I really don’t know but the ‘leave no trace’ ethic didn’t take with these guys. I don’t mind because it all rusts away to make for astoundingly glamorous photos.

They should call this the front 40. Maybe they do. Hiway 34 is gravel and runs through here from Gerlach, twenty some miles away. This area of the property butts up to that.

It’s an unexpected wilderness serving as the dumping point for ancient rivers and shoreline of an ancient high elevation sea. The desert leaves traces apparent for generations. The depth cut in is dramatic here with sharp erosion edges at 45° angles and it becomes wholly apparent that it’s only mounds of sand waiting to change. I’m standing along the border between flattened and ridged. The Granites father this family of hills along the Haulapai flats. Fly geyser bubbles a few miles away and past that the might Black Rock desert. A passionate land.

Horse stables surround the houses of this ranch and beyond the fences are low ridges that sweep into winding formations, gracefully photogenic but unapologetically woeful toward any rubber wheels. Like the rest of the western half of this continent, It’s all volcanic here. Yesterday a kid broke his collarbone riding motocross. It’s dude ranch 2016 style.

Two stunning horses were here on visit, belonging to a wife of a biker is what I’m guessing. Both were a deep smooth brown. One horse was statuesque. A giant. Art car people come and go too. There’s also a family reunion gathered here now so it’s alot of people on the grounds. They’ve all brought enjoyable energy.

Mountain bikers pass slowly down a path as I write this. At a distance they remind me of the Mormons in the suburbs. This is kinda’ funny. I was lost in a Calvin and Hobbes fantasy wearing bobcat skinned sarong brought abruptly back to 12 geared reality in the last frame. I’m not sure they’re wearing the ties but their shorts and shoes look uniform. They are of the dirt biker clan who meets here yearly but today seen roaming more silently. A quick ride before they leave have to leave.

“Slow Tourist” and “Cold Springs Valley” -2 New Poems

Slow Tourist

In a scrambling world

in the busy

they scurry blinded to the peace

to the stillness

We can be slow tourists

every day past our morning coffee

beside the delivery truck idling

beyond the unread emails

There’s a thick volume beside me

on my park bench

Robinson Jeffers the cover

of which features his image bathed in sunlight

though black & white

he ponders like me but he gazing out to sea

Jeffers was a tourist

slow where he lived

You feel that in his words

so proud his vocabulary

his land provincial perhaps

but his sea

by Chad Sorg


Cold Springs Valley

Complex lines divide this ridgeline from skyline

where dirt paths climb behind

and the rabbit brush has faded

its Spanish yellow blooming

which the bees do miss

and which had an early fall climax

and the sagebrush is always

a delight as it defines

the high desert floor

such a clear groundling

distinct shrubs so there’s always

an easy path

which ever direction chosen

all worth pursuing

the sunlight rakes askance

long down the fence face

and shading as it dips

most of our mountain

in chocolate

Energized rocky outcroppings

stand out orange against the coming evening

and the wind leaves painted

flesh tone wispy strings

against the pale blue dome

and the dogs in neighboring neighborhoods

echo a mindless clambering clamor

multiplying in varied pitch arrayed and disarranged

all this signaled the end of this day

in Cold Springs valley

Nevada USA

by Chad Sorg


Skybox Painting, My Newest From the Ranch (photos & journaling)



I lumber from bed

in my wild orange box cabin

five days moving forward

each moment toward commencement morning

making my waking here fruitful.

This one, the sky box,

will eventually house the workers

whose spaceships touch down here,

buses don’t run out here

to Iveson Ranch

with its glorious sunsets and its crunching mix of souls

and its ancient Indian remnants on the ridges

the hoo doos.

First I had to kill the rust who were grazing here.

for two days loudly I did that

Early afternoon the rains came in

so either I napped or I drew.

It was the blue that got me started.

Bright patches would shine through and I knew

that color would scream to be obscured.

And deep greys were important to me too

because rain clouds here are a treasured gift

from the hoo doos?

But without the pinks

none of this picture would hold any hope

and it was the sky’s change from moment to moment

that this picture was all about.

These days, the daily grind here is more about entertainment,

the biggest desolate desert party in the world,

and instead of hunting mule deer into the canyon for the tribe’s dinner

these tribesman celebrate the burning of a giant wooden effigy.

Those working at the ranch were either using air chisels

to mend windmills or cookin’ stew

for the off roader party

about to roll thru for the weekend

couples in campers

no more deer hunting.



started 5-19-14

Journal from my 6 days at Iveson Ranch

Day 1: Grinding steel all day. This box has some cancerous rust to get rid of. Whatever.

But tonight we watched a show, The Voice, because these guys have gotten into it. That’s fun. The rooting for your favorite, it pulls you in. This kid blew me away. His skill was astounding. He sang Stevie’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered” and I love Stevie, but this kid BROUGHT it. He had it. He just did. Confidence, poise. But goofy looking and even that, he made work. Talent, ya know.

So I did these black & white drawings and watching this show is what pushed the drawings. Talent; it’s all a practice. If I want to be good at something–if I am good at something, I practice.

I’m wanting to write about sleeping. I just woke up an our ago. It’s a rain day. My first night I stayed in the guest room up at the house but last night I moved to my new home for this week, the orange container cabin. It’s many fruity colors actually; yeah, maybe I should call it “the fruity cabin”. It wasn’t warm but last night was damn cold. No heat source here other than me. 2 sleeping bags was a good idea.

This unit is painted indescribable colors: grey/lavender, orange, pale yellow, silver-brown. So yeah, I guess they are describable. See the pictures of it?

But when I stepped out to pee in the morning a cat meowed behind me and when I turned to see him, he was stretching his “good morning” at me. He was in the compartment on the side of a neighboring empty camper where the battery was to be stored. It’s just the right size for a ranch cat to crash in and my guess was that this is a regular spot of his. I hadn’t known he slept there last night, I woulda’ invited him in.

We find our place in life, the rancher man was telling me last night after steak dinner. That’s Eddie. He said we don’t always find it right off the bat and we might have to switch gears but there’s a place for us all.

It’s still not raining this morning but grey skies impede me. I’m almost hoping for some drops so I can continue hibernation without shame. Instead, though, I’ll move back to grinding for the second day. Hard disk or wire wheel?–we’ll see. Hell, maybe I’ll end up pulling some paint out today after all.

I can’t get away from this book this morning though. Cowboy poetry and paintings. Our resident Scottsman cowboy (Eddie) highly recommended it. He lives this life fully, having lived many other lives fully already.

I do understand why… this kind of life. It’s a certain culture to belong to–those that would appreciate the solitude of cow pokin’ or whatever they call it. Ranch life, even a modern ranch with its motor repairs and backhoes, it is a special existence. Nature simply fills up life more.

It’s strange to think that rust is a life form. It eats.

Anyway, we’re sitting in what was once the river bed. I like how rivers move through the centuries and you can tell where they might have been a couple hundred years back. The canyon still drains through here even though a ranch or two upstream diverting water.

The deer were run up through here. In close quarters, the Pauites would hunt those deer and feed their families. The water is great here. This spot is a pocket of life & life feeds on life. We don’t like to think about it like that these days but that’s part of our problem, being so detached from the natural processes.

The Indians had the solution to having limited numbers of hunters in the form of what we call the hoo doos. These “hoo doos” stand in formations made of dark rocks on ridge tops overhead, lining the valley and canyon floors around here. When running animals between ridges the hoo doos served as stand-ins to guard from above so the deer or whatever animal it was didn’t get away. They were fooled. It was very systematic and apparently successful, proven by how many of these are left meticulously standing today.

I painted the hoo doos on the last unit. That one’s going to be Eddie’s home, once the craftsmen finish the inside for him. Its a landscape all the way around and I think it looks pretty damn good–effective.. buoyant colors. This oil enamel technique of mine is dialing in.

These cabins actually are very temperature efficient. The steel is very thick and then they’re insulated in here. Drywalled and trimmed nicely. This unit has 2 beds, bunks, and a nice huge shelf/table. My dad actually helped with this one last year in the fall.. maybe it was summer.

I’ve got to get artists out here. This ranch can room 15 comfortably. This place is exactly right for creative making. My surroundings have engulfed me–it’s official.

When I come back from painting all day, I’m still wearing “painter eyes” and everything is being scrutinized closely of color. The form of my surroundings becomes delineated and I render edges to everything. Nothing is lost; this is not a lament. I would say that reality becomes questioned. What am I really looking at? Does the paper I’m writing on tonight really have yellow, grey and tan mottling to it?

There are prevalent batches of color staining my arm, mostly shades of blue/grey. My calves are sore. My back cries. This bed is plenty soft. I’m gonna’ end this writing abruptly and catch some Z’s now.

The following are some random notations I don’t feel like editing into their proper placement:

at one point, explaining, I pointed Eddie up to the clouds and said “Not like those–too easy.” My technique grows more streamlined with each piece but at times pure poetry was to pull me through.

The horses watched from start to completion. Who knows, maybe they crtiqued me with my impressionisms.

Every time I find myself rendering a painted sky I muse that once a year the two will match. As above so below.

The clouds and I both conjure up poetry. When there is nothing our motivation is to render poofs of something. We find ourselves with rhythm and alliteration to abbreviate the scene. The form of the score adheres where pattern & repetition presents in present tense. Precipitation, drama in quarantined sections rendered to push eastward or westward in Z’s and V’s.

Everybody’s ecstatic about this finished unit. It feels good to hear them say I’ve outdone myself.

Skybox Close SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA Skybox Side Skybox Pinks SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA Skybox and MountainSANYO DIGITAL CAMERA  HooDoo Painted Storage Container Home Unfinished   Sagebrush Desert Rocky Ridge SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA Roadway

Goldfield Labor Wars 1907

I illustrated this cover to go with my story, published in Harbinger Asylum
I illustrated this cover to go with my story, published in Harbinger Asylum

Wobblies Unite The Workers

The headline read “Anarchists Growing Bolder At Goldfield” -The Goldfield Sun, and the year was 1907. Goldfield was becoming a company town and the gold miners had their defense: their union.

Goldfield had been ripe for capitalists, politicians, rebels and anyone with unbridled ambition to take action and cause a ruckus. Goldfield was a clean slate, an open book in 1903. Small mines were about to start turning huge profits. By 1907 the town had grown into a substantial 24 hour town, the largest in Nevada. 20,000 residents lived here and the mines were being consolidated.

Vincent “The Saint” St. John was a professional agitator. With the backing of already famous agitator Big Bill Haywood, his union, the Industrial Workers of the World, the IWW or the “Wobblies”, believed in “One big union”.

In 1905, with their rallying cry “Workers of the World Unite”, the IWW split from the Western Federation of Miners. The WFM’s secretary-treasurer and Socialist William “Big Bill” Haywood opened the first IWW convention in Chicago, June 27th, 1905: “This is the Continental Congress of the working class. We are here to confederate the workers of this country into a working class movement that shall have for its purpose the emancipation of the working class from the slave bondage of capitalism.” Chicago hosted that inaugural IWW convention. In attendance were labor movement standouts Mother Jones and Eugene Debs.

Haywood went on.. “When the corporations and the capitalists understand that you are organized for the express purpose of placing the supervision of industry in the hands of those who do the work, you are going to be harassed and you are going to be subjected to every indignity and cruelty that their minds can invent.”

Laborers of America, especially in the West, were open to the idea of socialism, not state socialism but a socialism for the people: socialism “with its workboots on.”

Climbing out of mines, workers were being subjected to newly installed changing rooms at the mines to be used under observation to prevent “high grading” which is the term for stealing gold ore in their clothing and amongst tools. Until then, the act had been regarded lightly. Miners considered high grading to be a God-given perk of the job. After the banking scare that year, script (company store coupons), was being used to pay wages in lieu of cash.

St. John, the young, successful union agitator, who had earned a reputation for violence in the miners’ strike in Cripple Creek, Colorado, 1901, was now here in Goldfield. “ organization which asks no quarter and will give none; whose battle cry is ‘an injury to one is an injury to all’; an organization which recognizes no division among  workers…”

Harry Jardin, a friend and cohort in St. John’s radical union, went on to bid, unsuccessfully, for the single Nevada congressional seat on the Socialist ticket in 1906. “Get an ax and use your ax at the system that makes slaves of you…” Jardin advised.

St. John and Jardin were among the union leaders indicted for conspiracy for the 1907 Preston-Smith murder trial, where in an act of self-defense, shot a restauranteur during a picketing dispute. Said St. John, “If they pack the jury to hang our men, we will pack hell full of them.” Many years after his death Morrie Preston was pardoned of this killing.

Later, the radical Big Bill Haywood put in his bid for Governor of Colorado while in jail. He had been detained for allegations of the murder of the Idaho Governor, Frank Steunenberg.

Wingfield Consolidates the Mines

All the miners knew was that mine owners like George Wingfield and Senator George Nixon, co-owners of The Goldfield Consolidated Mines Company, were impinging on their right to happiness. These mine owners were the same men who also happened to possess large financial interests in the banks. It was a national bank scare as shares were dropping. The union made demands.

Wingfield: “Compromise be damned. The Goldfield mines will stay closed down until hell freezes over before we open them to let a lot of anarchists tell us how to run our property.” He had the upper hand. Diamondfield Jack Davis, gunman/murderer, was Wingfield’s bodyguard. Wingfield also had the backing of the patriarchs in his newly formed Goldfield Business Men’s and Mine Owners Association.

On December 6th, President Teddy Roosevelt sent troops to Goldfield.

Subsequent to the troop occupation, wages dropped, unions were banned from Goldfield. The miner’s strike ended April 3rd, 1907. Their leaders had been taken out of commission.

Roosevelt eventually sent a presidential commission to investigate. Their findings were stated “The action of the mine operators warrants the belief that they had determined upon a reduction in wages and the refusal of employment to members of the WMF, but that they feared to take this course of action unless they had the protection of federal troops, and that they accordingly laid plans to secure such troops, and then put the programme into effect.”

There was rumored to be a bribe of $50,000 to Governor Sparks. Ida Crouch Hazlett -journalist -The Socialist: “Everything points to the fact that Governor Sparks was paid $50,000 for getting the troops in here. He is nothing but a drunken sot, as tough and disreputable as they make them, and nothing else could be expected.”


Goldfield -The Last Rush on the Western Frontier

-Sally Zanjani

The Ignoble Conspiracy -Radicalism On Trial In Nevada

-Sally Zanjani and Guy Louis Rocha

Radicalism In The Mountain West -1890-1920

-David R. Berman

A Window Cleaner Solicits Work

Cold Springs Valley is the farthest out. We’re a suburb of Reno surrounded closely by lovely mountains. Ad & I like to brag about our California sunsets since we’re–literally–right on Nevada’s Western border here.

About 10,000 people live here and I’ve vowed (to myself) to hit every single home with my flyer soliciting for window cleaning services. Today I started canvassing the valley.

I walked out the door, down the street and approached every house and left a flyer. My flyer says “about a buck per window per side” and I figure I can’t get much more straight forward than that. There’s a hand-drawn illustration of me window cleaning on this flyer and it also says “trust me, lemme’ do them because you won’t get around to it yourself.”

Sorg Window Sorg Window Stretch

It’s all so old fashioned–flyers, door-to-door.. locally focused.. I think I’m on to something here.

I had some success. One guy, he answered the door and I said “window cleaner”, he responded “just the man I need to talk to..” I was only a couple blocks down.

It’s very nice to see the neighbors face to face and step into their particular worlds. I had to overcome my shyness and fears. I did respect the houses posting “no soliciting”. At least I’d not knock but just slip the flyer, half exposed under their doormat, instead of knocking to talk.

Upon walking up to the door, there was alot of self-talk keeping myself from over-thinking too much. It reminded me of window cleaning in LA where it was necessary and I had no choice. It’s kind of nice that way, cold calling.

This valley is well defined–mountains line all sides, as previously mentioned. It makes for a good marked off area to conquer. Psychologically, I know how far to go. I can see my goal.

Goldfield had a similar ease of demarkation. Goldfield, though, only has 2oo people and most of them are socially retarded old, poor people. The young bloods are too rebellious to even see that they could use a little help. As I like to say, fuck Goldfield! You’ve never been there–you wouldn’t understand. Bitter? Me? Maybe yes. It wasn’t all bad; I’m just ranting ’cause it’s funny.

Reading Hunter S. Thompson‘s “Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72”, as I am now, makes me more receptive to all the various types of people I encounter on the streets. Canvassing door-to-door is a full time job–insightful. It makes the beer taste better at the end of the day. I can’t imagine what I’d be drinking if I were working for a Presidential candidate or Rolling Stone Magazine for that matter!

My border lines were mentally marked off. I knew how far I’d be going tonight. If it hadn’t been snowing I would have went later than 4:30. Walking the streets in the snow? It made me look pretty determined, all of which was unplanned. Basically, I only made it down one street today but I felt accomplished. I need to redo my flyer a bit tomorrow at Kinkos.

One guy wanted to talk to me for a bit. He informed me that most of his street, a self contained side street on my route, was inhabited by new residents. Former owners there had lost out to banksters & vulture capitalists. He had an engine crane in his driveway that he apparently had constructed for a buyer that had dropped out. He was really down & out about the economy. He invited me in to warm up but I declined.

His neighbor’s yard housed alot of junk & a giant CD stack which formed a hut–air conditioner above the window & all. I asked if that was a Burning Man thing. My new friend in the neighborhood informed me that his neighbor’s driveway’s unusual trailer-bound giant ornament was once employed by a radio station for remote broadcasts. KOZZ, he thought. I didn’t mention my past (volunteer) occupation as a radio DJ in Goldfield, KGFN.

He had asked me if this is not what I usually do and times have just hit me hard or what? I told him I’m an artist and the occupation doesn’t really pay the bills without “filler” work. I’ve been cleaning windows for 20 years. He found my buck per window price reasonable and thought maybe he’d call upon me for window services at some point. Either way, I think I’ll make it back around to talk to this guy a bit more.

The Rise of the Creative Class: NadaDada Motel Does it Again

NadaDada came from a similar place that Burning Man did so I don’t mind giving them credit for inspiring our movement. has a huge following and I’m very thankful to them for posting this interview. World wide publicity is always welcome. I’m proud of our conversation.

Burners.Me: Me, Burners and The Man

by Whatsblem the Pro

There are a lot of ways to burn, and when you start talking about what makes someone a burner or not a burner, chances are good that you’re about to say something foolish. One thing that does tend to hold true, though, is that part of being a burner is being comfortable with ad-hocracy, and being motivated to make things.

As our culture penetrates the mainstream, outbursts of grassroots art that bring our values from the Man to Main Street are inevitable.

This weekend in Reno, the loose and unled affiliation of artists known as NadaDada Motel got together for their seventh year, to unleash a weird and wonderful fireball of creativity on midtown. They usually do their thing in June, but NadaDada is growing! This year the group mustered a second February event, dubbed “Nada Gras.”

The premise is simple: “Get a room, make a…

View original post 2,785 more words

Sorg’s Back

Sorg's GhostReno, so markedly full of artists.. I wonder why that is. Creatives make a strong bond and the open flow of ideas is powerful here. In a word: optimism. Artistic life leads to optimism.

Goldfield? Not so much. There doesn’t seem to be much of that, there. Then again I didn’t move there to join a community. I moved there to be alone and apparently, it’s the same with everyone else there. As I said before, it’s a town of anti-socialists.

But yeah, I do still live in Goldfield, painting oils like a madman and writing.

It has become evident that working for a decade with the art community here in Reno has been an invaluable investment. People here know me from my past successes and in professional or creative relationships, that’s something that can be built upon, solidly.

I’ve put in the man hours. I’ve laid a good foundation. Since the days of Bleulion Gallery, the role I’ve filled is that of connector, promoter, publicist. I took on the role out of necessity–our necessity, as a member of Nevada’s art world and it seemed a natural position for me. People appreciate my commitment to the creative life.

Did assuming this role get in the way of my own art making? That’s a pivotal question. I can’t give a simple yes OR a no.

In an alternate procession of things, I would have just stuck to myself, developing in the vacuum that is an artist’s studio. That kind of scenario would have amounted to what originally attracted me to being an artist: solitary work. Socializing had never been my forté, or so I thought.

Eventually it was confirmed, what I was learning, and that is that the schmoozing, any blue chip artist will tell you, accounts for the largest percentage of time invested in laying down the tracks that lead to the palace of art world success.

There’s a speech I sometimes give to inspire artists toward developing a more collaborative spirit: “Me, Them & Us”. We evolve toward adulthood from the selfish & self centered perspective as if “I” am all there is–service me! Then we’re on to the independent phase, “I don’t need THEM!” But then, if we develop more fully, which some never do, we get to the stage of INTER dependence where judgmental competitiveness is left behind and we see the higher plane and the glory/grace of inter-connectedness.

So, did all this get in the way? No. I made the choice of collective involvement because I could see that doing my part in the community would help to advance alot of us, and not just me. As a consequence, I’d always belong to a community that would be supportive of my efforts too.

God knows I’ve tried to break away from this community but it always seems to suck me back in. I feel the love every time I come back to Reno and see a show populated by all my friends. They keep on going whether I’m here or not, which certainly seems to be the case with NadaDada, now in it’s 7th year!

See!!? Didn’t we tell you!?? NadaDada is its own beast–no one at the helm!

An ancient philosopher noticed two great desires of the human psyche: the need to belong and the need to stand out. Isn’t it ironic?

As any film maker can tell you, conflict is essential to good story telling.

Art Reviews Written by Sorg

I’m very proud of the art reviews I wrote for Reno News & Review. If you like reading about art like I do, read up.. comments always appreciated.
Sweetness ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 12.10.09 )

Andrea D. Juillerat candy coats her nonverbal communication.

Natural gait ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 09.17.09 )

Elaine Parks likes not knowing how her art will look when it’s finished.

Extra ordinary ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 08.27.09 )

Nebraska artist Tim Guthrie explores American perceptions of torture.

Straight edge ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 05.28.09 )

A retrospective of artist Kelsie Harder’s works.

Bulk art ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Arts & Culture – 04.23.09 )

Where do some of the big hotels and casinos buy their paintings? And do they have any artistic or educational value?

In the think tank ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Arts & Culture – 12.25.08 )

Local artist Chad Sorg spent a week living in a “fishbowl” on public display, ruminating on monks, exhibitionists and voyeurs. Here’s his first-hand account of the experience.

Factory productions ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 12.18.08 )

Is Dania Home & Office just a furniture store, or is it an art gallery?

Steal this art ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 04.03.08 )

It’s funny how rough and disjointed art like John Yoyogi Fortes’ could look friendly, but it does.

Painted birds ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 02.21.08 )

Women get naked for a good cause.

View from a hot dog cart ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 06.21.07 )

He may look and sound like a natural-born hot dog man, but cartoons are Woody’s art.

Body parts ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 05.03.07 )

Not specifically erotic or macabre, B.O.D.Y. points to our fascination with the human vessel.

Fire starter ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 03.15.07 )

The Shiva Vista Project is building a fire-breathing tower for Burning Man—an image of creation through destruction.

Get in gear ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Arts & Culture – 02.08.07 )

The Reno Bike Project is putting bike advocacy in action by trying to give new life to donated bike parts.

On the flipside ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 01.18.07 )

Neither a cowboy nor a poet, artist and TMCC curator Nolan Preece exhibits his photography in Elko during the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering.

Bare boned ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 10.26.06 )

Using mostly wood and bone, artist Walter McNamara is high-minded and lowbrow in his work, with winks and nods in every corner.

In full bloom ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 09.28.06 )

Mary Warner’s exhibit Bloom shows masterful rendering and humbling accuracy of a simple subject—flowers.

Hunter-gatherers ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 08.31.06 )

Eight local collectors share their prized obsessions in To Collect and Preserve at Shappard Art Gallery.

I, robot ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 08.24.06 )

Hotshot Few Thousand is meant to be seen as an autonomous being without human dependence. As the robot’s fame grows, its creator, Chris Munz, would prefer to fully slide into anonymity.

Fit to print ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 08.03.06 )

Printmakers’ Conspiracy honors some of the more mysterious aspects of printmaking.

Eyeful of icons ( RN&R – Arts&Culture – Art of the State – 04.13.06 )

If you think Russian icons look awkward and unrealistic, its makers were just doing their job.

Sorg Lays in Oils

“All Your Bus Are Belong 2 Us -Oil Paintings and Writings From the Car Forest by Chad Sorg” is my art exhibition at Truckee Meadows Community College, Feb. 1st thru Mar. 23rd. Free to the public.

*details link OR click the picture.

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