Doug Stuber Solo Show at O’s Square, Chunbuk Dae, Jeonju

https://www.facebook.com/groups/217124318293/10151204937978294/#!/events/442362052454983/

https://picasaweb.google.com/105927119191566045006/OSExhibitJeonju

Here are photos from the exhibition.

The Popular Gwangju jazz band Polaroid will play starting at 6:30.  More info at above web site.

Enjoy the photos.

Blaring heat returns late, provides relief to muscles, brains, love-starved newly-matched mates, here in the land of the morning calm. Green Gingko leaves, soon bright yellow flutter unpredictably due to fan shaped leaf outweighing stems by so much. Our mates walk in and out of shade forty times on the sunny side of the street. Gingkos taste too strong but medicinal value is high, so locals eat them boiled soft or in soup or tea. Their shade is a bonus, fruit is sought after by amateurs and pros so the city grows them down streets in communal Gwangju.
New Navy Base Horrors Historic flutter returns as memorial five eighteen turns into KPOP, miniskirt dance festival. May eighteenth being the day Chun went nuts on Gwangju: democracy not squelched but assured by U.S.-backed para- troopers executing dire overkill, inspiring rich kid pamphlet-drop suicides at Seoul National, until, on the most unlikely peninsula, they yielded power to the masses. A scant thirty years later tendencies toward those ugly times, dictatorial edicts, a supposed presidential suicide, concrete rivers, eight beef protestors dead.
Coffee Lotte This white-haired geezer professor eases into a conversation with a new beauty who half-steps out of her shoes to get further across the table at him. The back-line of her sweater is so deep it reveals bra and hourglass T over beautiful body, under 42-year-ol face. He’s pushing 60, so the match is a typical multi-cultural generation hopping peculiar to Korea in the pre-war era (2012). Self conscious shopper bounces hair, boobs, handbag in a shirt so tight, C-cups have no chance but to scream attention. You can dress sexy and still look peeved when people notice here too. The real competition is among women, so if men take a gander, hot-dressed women, as their training insists, react with disdain and keep moving. Girls giggle as the aging couple departs. Quick- lipped conversations float over coffee, phones.
Witness: monk aflame, broken bones mutilated girl, troops sent in over and over. This behavior is emulated in the new dash for ever-decreasing resources. Modified crops allow huge population while stripping collection of next year’s seeds. World disasters assured via food wars, global warming, auto mobiles, self- righteous billionaires. When we lost touch with nature all else crashed: humanity traded for big money. Is there resurgent loving hippiedom more than fad, or are we destined to fight on behalf of the same rich men who enslave labor?
It’s Your Duty The ten days of spring, over now, bring dust-rain volley, bow-tie dances under sad streets. This slow city offers chance encounters. Relationships in tearless land mean getting used to work-hard love, the kind that pays off in respect. Still, countless occupations Influence beating Hearts so shut, Into lead boxes that us spoiled visitors can’t find what we know to be human. some make the leap, some Force love on historical foundations, meaning they must connect with those who know the entire reasons why “hard work, no play love” adds up to good life. Vanquish excitement, find love in floor scrub.
“Excuse me are you from New York? I thought I saw you there in May or June.” “No Shanghai but I visited Manhattan in June, maybe you did see me there.” This is how the opening lines are played in his head, but chess is simple compared to size, culture generation gap. He’s up, the ruse is a refill at Foster’s in Chapel Hill two days after a home loss too… But dude boy is not about to lose this one, no; cup in hand he weaves through tables, stops, pelvis eye level as she peers over laptop. “Yes,” she says, “Excuse me, are you from New York?” “No, but…”
Mayan Angelou Prophetic Calendar of Events Enough concentration camps to hold two million at a time. Enough new gas lines installed at these converted, deserted former factories to assure that more than some millions will pass through, away. Is FEMA worried about an outside attack or domestic arrests that follow economic collapse? Why waste this kind of money just to scare us? No, these are for real, with train boarding platforms, one-way turnstiles, and mass graves and plastic coffins already in place. Youtube profits beg us to get out now, while we can. They say the bible will take care of us, “so just go, don’t worry about money or food.” No matter how loony they seem, unless you are firmly into the top one percent, and philosophize to that effect, you may well be on the “list” to join summer camp, or winter camp: concentration is required to survive such joints, but history suggests most won’t. Instead of enacting change after Reagan and Bush I, Clinton just made matters worse, dit
Man in the Shiny Silver Suit Now blossoms fill the space otherwise concrete gray. Students scribble guesses about why she went away. Poets lounge on benches even as it rains. Frigid March springs nothing the walls are water-stained. But these are John Pike masters, naturally branching out. Students walk, umbrellas pop few know what life’s about. But this is not the place, nor inside classroom doors. To introduce the counterpunch to flowers: fascist horrors. Instead we “Jack and Jill” these kids, children at age twenty. We dare not make them think or work, their banks will give them plenty. Heels and skirts, tweed suits, bow ties, it’s a campus fashion show. Some afford these easily, others snort credit card blow. Judgment comes ten times an hour, more when class gets out. It’s all about how well you dress, and what you lie about. Ten lies a day is not a sweat but the truth is a big mistake. To be a globalized professional, your heart you must forsake.
Redbuds bloom some bulbs shoot up in time to usher in Yobo’s fiftieth Korean birthday. Pottery and family play replace the love of husband and child as she has Gui Soon now to make her house alive, and so she can paint in Bulgaria. Her only reminder of age is one poor poem, as her life is near-perfect with more time for creative bursts, less homework. Can she make room for all that mess again? Does she know how emotional her son has become? Will open arms and open hearts announce another chance? We pray for her, she waits to join us.
Gwangju, Korea, Hands reach for warmth, life, in these last hours that he has. No matter that birds flew, flowers grew, barns collapsed, deer ran, hopped, fought, lost to lead delivered so easily. This man, so sad, still reaches to find any comfort he can find. On the periphery of his own life, sequestered in a place his own family doesn’t even know. :How, no why Dad, did you run so far away from what once mattered? But here, on the other side of the planet, long removed from the love that sustained us, so long that brutal cold sweeps through, loud coughs pollute bus rides, and my loved one plays back in my town while I work in hers. Worry not young man, Dad will always be here for you even if we’re abandoned in this cultural wasteland, so adherent to the old ways, but you know me, I have to, simply have to point out the problems of this flawed species, my favorite? This forsaken peninsula: always overtaken, owned, enslaved, occupied.
BC, my old pepper-sauce loving friend suggests I buy a boat in case this here peninsula blows. No it won’t, but that’s not the news. The news is “Extended Detention” for protestors, and “I’m going to focus on Asia,” which is awesome when one considers the potential havoc coming in Iran. Here, plum blossoms do the talking above fake windmills, Koi ponds and German-style stucco/dark-wood Dutch colonial restaurants, sunny days, half weddings, half funerals. Personal set of three appears ready to drop, but must be stopped. You know the routine: lose love, job and house all at once: some by pink slip (job moved) or foreclosure (homeless via fine print) or love torn, leaving children confused and bitter, “exes” smoldering and emotions displayed for boss to see. Because of the young children you work four jobs, both parents unable to parent, then, just as the tulips rise, new hope with them, some major event steps in to render efforts futile, tear asunder, return existence to animal instincts
Soul Rumble This lover, these words spread onto thin tissue which passes for a bar napkin here where jazz flows only on Friday, unpredictable, it’s a trip away from pain inept life, life, so joyous with family, friends, rockin’ school job, yet unable to dance with my wife, fill cavernous soul, having dropped too many sustaining creative outlets, but then: music old friend, joined by three others soothes enough of the ache to render energy too: dance again, punch ol’ Hemingway in the balls.
Stuber Haiku* Labeled “Dad” Simple meals with scrumptious drinks made up his restaurant fare. “Pocahontas” was cheese and bacon on a split hotdog, washed down with root beer. Vegetables were fries or fresh onion rings, causing many smiles, future diet plans. Today’s smile, decades later, is at reunions short but sweet. Much water over many dams means we pray daily, move to strong tomorrows, spurred by writing, reading; large ideas continue to refine thoughts so you or we might say the exact right phrase, sentence, paragraph that will stick in brains so full, hearts so swelled, lives with little room for more.
Buddha’s No Rae Bang cranks up one more time in late May to celebrate his true birthday. Lumbini swells as Koreans rock out on a lotus-filled stage high above the Najuho Valley. One cute seventeen-year-old, Park Jin Hye steals the show with a song and dance routine to die for. Then, in a shocker, esteemed visitors and the seunim join in minstrel making merriment. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see the creator smile, but here on a hot-dry Monday we laugh together each one of us a god, able to solve all earth’s problems with what we have. Peace now Peace now.
Decade dream remains unfulfilled, but she can still talk about it. Lunch and coffee reawaken it. Then she disappears this time for good, scaring the life out of you . If you never see her, what will it mean? Dead dream, dead woman, dead heart? Sleep deprivation reaches the three-week point but semester’s end approaches and all you can think about is how she’s thrown away potential just to abide Dad’s demands, Mom’s urgent requests stuck in a study room trying to pass one more time. Oh quit girl! Chime in, tell him you’re alright; force out to the light that awaits right in front of you.
O’s 1 Moon beam bounces back through deck slots next to palatial garden hidden in the heart of Jeonju. Curved pines rise over crooked-branched maple as workers scurry to wrap up another food day. Diners linger long after the kitchen closes, as this sanctuary is genuine, calm, respectful of others, mindful that this short life deserves moments that shine. Beauty surpasses The anger grind as oversized, puffy bread arrives by immaculate delivery: a waiter straight form the L.A. scene, but not, just well trained. O’s, the hipster joint hangs your work.
In The Groove Polaroid, the jazz band brushes its first number as a trio before maestro sax steps in to liven the night in often sleepy Gwangju, the City of Light. Close your eyes and the bassist sounds natural, with no chart, and when summertime bee bops he cooks. The Maitre D’ is both helpful and a touch suspicious. But by God he’s given jazz a place, so our souls’ relax, find conifers to pull in, and dreams to chase over cocktails and smiles when most joints only offer smug teenagers dancing and asking how old you are, and ending the night with “thanks for the dance sir.” Is that in the groove?
Good Luck! Best dressed and sluttiest hit simultaneously on exam day. One class fails the averages ninety-six. Few are ready for the dance. Another leap awaits those lucky enough to score jobs. Hard to forget money when still living at home means having to rent motel rooms to be with your loved one, or at least partner. Since the miracle on the Han took only fifty years to propel per annum income from one hundred to an astounding thirty thousand, one suspects an equal drop could happen much quicker. Depression is creeping in now.
O’s 2 Min Hee puts a prime tiny movement at station one that sports water and syrup and a spotlight. Her eye surpasses the Ray Brown solo in bass register that floats in and out of perfect weather that adds to immaculate space designed and executed subtly soothing without a hint of self applause, a refuge in the valley that once housed the Chosun Dynasty. Again some grace of the creator sent this chance while the normal drift had led to dance stardom among the slowly initiated, horrified, shy, hard-to-describe- to-outsiders crowd.
Does one blushing smile, innocent in its attempt to say hello and good-bye at once qualify as poetry? Or must there be some Philosophical Underpinning that Jumps to the fore? Peace Means adult red face as an opportunity to blossom, and a restaurant where time is itself worth noting on this bloody earth, starved, parched, war-torn tears flowing, cruelty- filled type of planet. So if you’re munching on plastic chairs at some seven eleven, able to watch life flow by for an hour, imagine just how good you have it, when in front of backdrop that’s not so easy.
Yang Overload Bamboo surrounds the hill Jin Hee studies on. Inside two abstracts find a home, the Yin Yang one for her, dominant Yang rooster for Tae Kyung, the fake red haired soft-face from Seoul. They plan to conquer the world by constructing personalities that can win in the big male money club; the corporate, legal bank account world that assures their children will attend foreign rich high schools. What about love? The artist asks, but she is shy to admit her boyfriend won’t penetrate her dreams. She fears accepting his kindness will throw off her hard fight to be Seoul’s top dragon lady.
Tae Kyung appears to be ready for the rooster now headed her way. You can feel the yearning steaming up from her loins as you sit with Jin Hee, now a mutual friend. There’s just as good a chance Tae Kyung will stay in touch, as she is less driven, more conventional, already settled in. She’s much harder to read though, so you’d be wise to book a few more meetings to catch up to her dreams as well because there’s this one life, and it’s half done, but she’s just begun to realize the universe will take care of her no matter what she does. To assist or take advantage of it?
Jeonju to Gwangju Bus One yawn on the back row initiates beautiful trip that reminds you your young wife will be back on Friday. A hair toss lands on right elbow as she adjusts short skirt underneath leather knock off. Skirts are meant for show while moving, not to be looked at while seated; exposed blue panties which, in this case, match fingernails and the prettiest face this side of Meudungsan. She will not think of using her left arm rest, as it is your right one, even though you know she “works” in Gwangju, how dare You ask what Her job is on a bus? Kwang Suk would Laugh, or punch your arm Depending on mood.
New Occupation, 2012 The disenfranchised finally take to the streets; without jobs they try to formulate systems inclusive of everyone’s needs by consensus: a direct democracy for small town change. Local gains will be miniscule, national non-existent. Fascists don’t give up, they just die. Corporate mouthpieces seek leaders to blame, a list of demands, ribboned box to veto. Two of the twenty-twelve candidates will address these issues, three percent will vote for them, though protests are on behalf of the ninety nine percent, ninety six remain unable to change.
When facing the loss of job, home, family, each word uttered counts on spiritual levels. Save others, mend yourself later. Use time once wasted hurting your lost love to grow a new heart. Admit to errors, but do not give up everything just to save a life full of misery. Reach out to friends, give yourself a pat on the back. Stop tears by finding new outlets for your love. Keep anger away from your children, but speak to them about challenges. they will help solve them. Hard work can solve problems, save love, retain some aspects to ease transition. Keep children happy.
Staunch Cedar encircled by vines continues up though frail, thin-boughed, dwarfed yet resplendent. Winter sun illuminates triangular patch for two minutes before clouds. Poplar whip sprouts canopy in January. Bright autumn brown remains aloft. Ten pines sport pink chop ribbons, so our Cedar will be rid of her fierce old competitor. But will the logging crew spare the creature? Her trunk is less than ten inches from tomorrow’s saw. New spotlit needles oscillate light as if controlled by adolescent prankster Koalas.
Boddhisatva Her heart, while sticking tongue out, leads a sheltered life, doesn’t drink, nor dance, Norfolk, it’s in her dreams. Shocked by lack of fidelity, still pure, as she has never… though the thought comes: Now free, pretty and young. Brother nudges open eyes, Confucian box blown open. Evident culture gap, yet she jumps his way. Cosmic bonding creates a further life, tantric self-love springs to relaxed life, freedom to be, to elongate burdensome boundaries. Will she head back to marry, deny uncoiling life, to prove obedience? Dry flowers yield, break mid-air as she walks.
121 Curves to Happiness* Dad’s open-air, safety strapless fire engine hauls seven kids, two adults to Roseland on a mid-June circa sixty eight birthday afternoon. Skee-ball champ trades high-score stubs for a ticket to the moon. Sunfish sailors return refreshed after a tacky morning. Lisa and Gigi got what they wanted in a boat gliding through lily pads. Here* our bond grows playing monopoly: two Moms, one Son and two Dads. Dry your tears, rejoin friends, value time, honor your blessings, follow your dreams. Young spirit meets old, walls tumble, no man can distinguish celestial streams in time to reverse economic collapse. James lights up the room laughing, deep in schadenfreud, joined by Dad and Mom in bankruptcy court, destroyed by money-bags, the infamous railroad tycoon, locomotives deployed. *There are 121 curves on Route 64 from Brevard to Back Nine Lane near Cashiers. The Christmas monopoly game (2010) is held at 345 Back Nine Lane causing memories of Canandaigua, fire
Carpe Nostrum The stain of nitrous on the streets Is matched by the stench of coal. Entertainment between the sheets Flew on the wind (it shows). Young hotties with their strollered kids Shuffle form store to store. Be happy for all the fun you did So much you wound up sore. Because as wrinkles turn to gray And memories surpass the present The fun you have tonight, today Will make arthritis pleasant. And wash away your lack of cash And brighten ancient clothes, And make you laugh out loud at last When tubes run out your nose. So if you’re past the middle-point Prematurely retired, do not give up your haunted joints get out, re-light the fire.
White Day, The Ides of March I confess my deepest love But this you already know. The smile upon my face is real Inside my happiness grows. On this day so white with glee The magic comes back to life Because the joy I feel each day Comes from my loving wife. I know I put you through a lot Now it’s time to have some fun. This life provides us many shots I prefer golf to guns. So here’s to goat farms by the sea And photos of our happy days A life made full by passion’s kiss, Art that cannot be delayed. Turn off TV then throw it out Come, hold hands with me. Let’s reinvent what life’s about Becoming all we’re meant to be.
Ode to Horace Mann Be ashamed to die until you have won Some victory for humanity. Horace Mann Be aware that energy is life, save some for your kids. Be afraid that our minds are bent by news not books. Be awed by the healing power of the simple purple cone flower. Be amazed that after four short years she knows so much. Be awake before the bombs drop, before the money rules. Be agile: live in a town that walks and bikes to work and play. Be amused by ants and birds, goats and potato fields, lilacs and sycamores. Be angry only long enough to solve the problem, then move on. Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.
Ruth walks in synchronicity with universal ebb flow but not herself, a self-made trick. Self-inflicted, but not of her doing, not embraced, fought against, dealt with, screamed at, therapized. Still, she sings, this is the one sure peace time, when all is right, when everything works as one, as Ruth. Child-rearing is its own reward, but everything else too, so, as soon as she could, Ruth blossomed. This box brought us back together, for what? Mutual recognition, or a draw to move on? In life you do or don’t follow your heart. Is once-a- month coffee enough? Yes it is, you fool.
Luo found out about a chance to sing for Myanmar’s poor. She sang the Jasmine and Embroidered Wallet from her Hanzhou province. Her smile bespeaks last hour’s visit, five days abroad, cradled, swinging, laughing with music and stabs at Mandarin, while unjealous wives fix their hair, aware that spoken flow creates great passion after Manli leaves, the old man remains. Somehow the spirit of Tang Dynasty poetry is shy tonight, a new moon, so dark, hidden by clouds, coolly whistling through skies visible to beings we don’t know about, the rabbit is out there, but how can I offer a hand or a finger, a mouth or a toe to this late-spring flower who persists, as a human while cousins wither, and father reminds her that life’s many sweet moments are tempered abruptly, even as the reflections shimmer on the West Lake. They come, she now tells me, to dance, act, perform, laugh,
There, at the rock, the innocent stands waiting for what she’s not sure, but she knows the man she once dreamed of could not be out fishing until two in the morning, nor could her busy parents be lured away from the fields by the promise of money, nor her dreams fulfilled in the rice paddy, nor will some Batman, half hero, half millionaire show up, nor will wearing a yellow, pleated mini-skirt and pumps attract the type of guy she wants to spend the rest of her life with. She doesn’t see a salamander popping its head up above a fallen leaf. She hears the owl call his hunting call instead. Fog dampens night. She can’t explain why she knows this is the place she is meant to wait. She can’t relax or even sit without the pain of growth spurts ruining her yearning. No hikers present themselves, no slow moving conversations, so she marches back down to her lonely room, sits reading by a new lamp, listens to her parents snoring, fully aware of time.
Wonderment #1 Water rushes, tickling feet with sand. Gilgamesh relaxes by the sea. Purple Echinacea sends a cone into rain. Chopin laughs and strokes his polonaise. A beetle digs the desert, over oil. Chang sung-up daubs a mystery in ink. Water trickles down a granite wall. Lao-Tsu hikes through summer’s offerings. Yellow lilies waver in the wind. Tasman lacquers the last board of his keel. Crystals mingle with Icelandic ash. Lodi licks his chops, nudge-nudge, wink-wink. Water batters barns from red to gray. Burck paints Freda as Leipzig hums along. Canandaigua feels the White Snake’s breath. Handsome Lake enjoys a drive-in movie. Sesame rice lands in a wooden bowl. Africa snaps a twig and starts to think.
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Comments
2 Responses to “Doug Stuber Solo Show at O’s Square, Chunbuk Dae, Jeonju”
  1. Mark says:

    Doug, this looks to be a great show. Best of luck!

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  1. […] Doug Stuber Solo Show at O’s Square, Chunbuk Dae, Jeonju. […]



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