ws arts issue6 final issuu (1)

I S S U E S I X

Cheryl Ann LipstreuCelebrating Women, Beauty, and

the Representation of Women's Body Art

I S S U E S I X

Cheryl Ann LipstreuCheryl Ann LipstreuCelebrating Women, Beauty, and Celebrating Women, Beauty, and

the Representation of Women's the Representation of Women's Body ArtBody Art

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WS ARTS MAGAZINEPAGE 4

Monticello Park Publishing380-H Knollwood St. • Suite 191winSton-Salem • nC • 27103w w w . w s a r t s m a g . c o m

Publisher & eXecutiVe eDitored hanes

[email protected]

VP-business DeVeloPMent& aDVertising Director

David a. [email protected]

associate eDitorsherry Johnson

[email protected]

staFF PhotograPherWendy hanes

[email protected]

WS Arts Magazine is published monthly by Monitcello Park Publishing. Any reproduction or duplication of any part thereof must be done with the written permission of the Publisher. All information included herein is correct to the best of our knowledge as of the publication date. Corrections should be forwarded to the Publisher at the address above.

Disclaimer: The paid advertisements contained within WS Arts Magazine are not endorsed or recommended by the Publisher. Therefore, neither party may be held liable for the business practices of these companies.

Contributors:

Chad Nance - EditorialEd Bumgardner - Editorial

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WSARTSMAG.COM PAGE 5

CONTENTS

06 | Letter from the Publisher07 | Cover Story - Cheryl Ann Lipstreu -

Celebrating Women, Beauty, and the Representation of Women's Body Art

14 | River Run Movie Replay - Far Marfa - Generation X, the Wild, Wild West and Lowered Expectations

18 | Short Story - The Weeping Wishing Well20 | Feature Story - Low Wages, Free Beer, and

the Search for Soul Salvation...Part 3 The Fever

26 | UNC-SA News - UNCSA ALUMNI WORKING ON FILM IN CHARLOTTE - Five Film graduates and one high school Drama graduate are on location of CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

27 | UNC-SA News - Nancy and Paul Gwyn Recieve UNCSA'S Giannini Society Award

28 | Cigar & Spirits - Tatuaje Black: The Champ is Here

30 | Art Scene - Artworks Gallery Presents a Two-person Exhibit of Book Sculptures by Mary Blackwell-Chapman, and Mixed Media Maintings by Betti Pettinati-Longinotti

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

W hat a first 8 months we’ve had at

WSArts Magazine. Two Opera

features, a 35,000 viewer day on

our facebook feed, 4,000 readers

last month online, and new partners

joining on weekly. We couldn’t be

happier and we owe it all to you. It’s been such a short time for

us but we’ve learned so many lessons as a start-up business

in the art and publishing industries. WS Arts Magazine is

here to chronicle the ever exploding interest in local art. As

the definition of “Winston Art” itself gradually evolves, we will

be there to guide thousands of faithful readers to the best

Winston has to offer. Above all else, quality artwork and

lifestyle always has been—and always will be—our strongest

guiding principle.

What better way to lead off this issue then by featuring a

local artist who I didn’t even know that I knew….until I knew her

again. Cheryl Ann Lipstreu, like the publisher of this magazine,

is a Carver High School Yellowjacket. We made the connection

one evening with a mutual friend at 6th and Vine during the

obligatory “where are you from, what high school did you go

to” conversation that inevitably pops up in our generation.

When she told me she was from Belews Creek and went to

high school in Winston-Salem, I had to ask her: You’re not a

Carver Kid, are you? Not only was it so, but we found that

we were in school at the same time. I was a senior when she

was a freshmen. She immediately remembered that we had

a fantastic basketball team her freshman year (in my opinion,

one of the best in the recent history of the City. There are four

players from that team who by all rights should end up in the

Winston-Salem Sports Hall of Fame). She thought I was a

pretty good player. Instant cover story for my new friend.

Besides having great high school pedigree, Cheryl Ann is

brilliant in her work and one of Winston’s true arts stars. Study

her work in the next few pages. Witness a home grown talent

on the rise.

All in the arts,

Ed

Publisher’s Letter

Cheryl AnnLipstreu

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WS ARTS MAGAZINE

Cheryl Ann LipstreuCelebrating Women, Beauty, and

the Representation of Women's Body Art

By Staff

Cover Story


What does it take to be an artist? drive,

passion, determination? What does it take

for an artist to be personally satisfied With

their career, success, opportunities and

business? for cheryl ann lipstreu it took an

ultimate belief in her talents, abilities, and

the sheer determination to continue to

create against all odds.

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

t a very young age Cheryl Ann began

drawing. When she was introduced

to oil paint at age ten she fell in love

with painting and the creation of art.

She has since continued painting as both a lifelong

passion and a professional career. After graduating

from Carver High School she earned art degrees from

Guilford Technical Community College, Pennsylvania

College of Art and Design, and the Fine Arts League

of the Carolinas in Asheville, NC. She has completed

private apprenticeships with master painters both

domestically and abroad: Senor Javier Pamplona in

Madrid, Spain. Master Fresco painters Mr. Ben Long

IV and Mr. Roger Nelson of the Fine Arts League of

the Carolinas. Workshops and private lessons from

professional artists Mr. John Cosby, Mr. Nick Bragg,

and Mr. Tony Griffin.

Her lessons didn’t end in apprenticeship studios.

“I've traveled to many parts of the world in pursuit of

my art dreams, training, and painting challenges,”

commented Cheryl. “I've painted on the cliffs of

Hawaii facing the Pacific Ocean with winds so fierce

they literally blew the paint off my palette. I’ve painted

in a serene palace setting in the heart of Seoul,

Korea. Our own United States has offered equally

wonderful opportunities to create from California to

North Carolina, and everywhere in between.” To be

a traveling artist was always a dream of Cheryl’s. She

sought to embrace not only the art world around her,

but the amazing art worlds and adventures to be found

globally. Not too bad for a girl from Belews Creek.

Having lived that dream, she now feels it’s time for a

new focus: expanding and exploring representations

of the female body and helping working artists survive

and thrive in a supportive arts district.

Cheryl Ann has decided to locate her art career and

focus her efforts in the City of the Arts. “City of the

A


Arts is such an appropriate name for Winston-Salem.

It makes perfect sense to embrace the next stage of

my arts vision here.” While looking in the downtown

area for a working studio space, she discovered that it

was extremely difficult to find appropriate areas where

there was proper ventilation, flooring, and lighting in

which to create. Finding such a venue with optimal

gallery space in which to showcase her art was equally

daunting.

During her hunt she discovered that most area

artists where having the same issue. “Through my

own personal need and my life-long passion and

commitment to art, I decided to build a thriving Artist

Collective Community to further enhance the cultural

and artistic diversity of my city,” commented Lipstreu.

“Utilizing my creative abilities, I founded and developed

the Winston-Salem Artists Collective (WSAC). This

is a group of eclectic artists coming together in the

community to work, display, discuss, promote, market,

and feature their art with other artists and their patrons.”

The WSAC is for individual artists who need

adequate work spaces combined with a gallery to

display and market their art all in the same setting. The

Collective offers artists a unique chance to have working

studios, gallery and community in one dynamic location

featured in the heart of the downtown Winston Arts

District. “Since there will be many artists concentrated

in one area, the opportunities for learning, working,

and growing to expand their talents and feature their

products will be limitless,” noted Cheryl Ann.

A center for events, classes, workshops, and private

instruction can be taught with quest professionals. The

center will welcome traveling artists. “Winston-Salem

can only be deserving of the title “City of Arts” if we

embrace the talents and careers of our local artists”.

Lipstreu continued, “We must provide them with

appropriate working spaces to create their work which,

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

in turn, assists in the enhancement of their careers and the

enhancement of the entire City.”

It is true: working artists sell their works and in turn become

contributing members of the community creating a sustainable

economic development. Ms. Lipstreu is under no delusion

as to the enormity of this task and the private partnerships

that will need to be created. “We will naturally join with many

downtown business owners in the creation of this dynamic

and sustainable economic development. The downtown Arts

district boasts many bars, restaurants and shops. While this

is very exciting,” she continued, “if the district continues on this

path it will not be a true Arts District at all. The rents and fees

in the area will push many hardworking local artists out.”

Her fear is not unsubstantiated. This trend is already

happening in places like Richmond, Asheville, and other

midsize to small cities that once boasted of their love and

appreciation of the Arts. “It is simply not feasible for an artist

of any caliber to compete with the rent prices of a restaurant.


We must facilitate a dialogue and proactive cooperation with

the City, building owners, developers and contractors to make

sure that Winston's Arts District is a vibrant and functioning

area for the actual Artists. We want this area to be more than

a name with a few shops that sell "crafts" and a few galleries

who, in the long run, cannot keep up with the always climbing

and threatening rents.”

Cheryl Ann’s vision is to help redefine a new era of Art

appreciation not only in our community but, possibly, throughout

the modern art world. “A true renaissance and revival of the

culture of the arts is happening right now in the hearts and

minds of the great artists who live here, “commented Ms.

Lipstreu. “We must embrace it if we are to be true to our roots

in arts and innovation.”

Do you own or have you ever wished to own a piece of

Original Art in your home? You may see Ms. Lipstreu’s work on

Friday June 7th at the Ember Gallery during the monthly gallery

hop in downtown Winston-Salem. n

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

River Run Movie Replay

Far Marfa ~ Generation X, the Wild, Wild West and Lowered ExpectationsBy Chad Nance

In Cory Van Dyke’s new film, Far Marfa, the writer/director

takes audiences on an amiable stroll through the angst

and demished expectations of Generation X nearing

mid-life while he introduces us to a cast of characters

likely recognizable to fans of the early work of the Cohen

Brothers and Harold Ramis. Far Marfa is essentially a slob

comedy in the vein of The Big Lebowski or Fletch, minus the

sometimes cruel aggression of Chevy Chase and the dim-

witted squalor of The Dude. Shot with a painter’s eye and

existing in an isolated Texas community that somewhere along

the way made a hard turn from the Wild west into the Wild

Weird, Far Marfa is a small treasure of a film that entertains,

amuses, and in the end offers up a measured spoonful of

hope to go along with the rather grim realities of the early 21st

Century.

The star of the film, actor Johnny Sneed, inhabits the

character of erstwhile music producer Carter Fraizer with

a hangdog expression and sometimes twitchy physicality

that suggest a man who struggles mightily just to keep

his it together…and often can’t. Much of Sneed’s soulful

performance is in his eyes. Carter Fraizer’s eyes seem to look

out at the world with the casual doom of a born loser and the

desperation of a secret optimist. While facing his seeming

systematic misfortune with Charlie Brown-like self-pity, Frazier

also keeps an eye out for the dimmest sliver of opportunity. At

the beginning of Carter’s story he looks to hot young blondes

as the “anchor” on which he will build a “successful” life and

by the end of the film he has come to realize that “success”

is not about chicks or money. In fact, the destination may be

pointless – it is the journey and the struggle that hold value and

meaning.

Far Marfa’s narrative is deceptively laconic. Van Dyke has

done a delicate balancing act of tone and story-telling in a

film that is edited so tightly that I imagine there is a hard-drive

somewhere in Texas that holds many of Van Dyke’s babies

whom he sacrificed for the good of a story that never gets in the

way of its characters or twists them up in knots in an attempt

to make some deep statement about the state of modern life.

Those points, however, are made with subtly and grace. The

search for a piece of a rare, misplaced art is simply the bones

on which Van Dyke builds flesh and blood human beings that

amuse, frighten, and anger audiences in equal measure. The

pay-off with the painting at the end of the film comes in a single

shot that shares resonance with the last shot of Mike Nichol’s

The Graduate, by way of Citizen Kane. Another moment in

the film echoes The Graduate as well, when two momentary

lovers take time to look away and let the audience in on their

apprehensions about how and why human beings tend to cling

to one another in ways that often cause as much pain as they

johnny sneed


River Run Movie Replay

do pleasure.

Marfa, itself, is a character in the film. The vast scrub land

will be familiar to film audiences who are fans of No Country for

Old Men, There Will be Blood, and George Steven’s legendary

Giant. Not satisfied to merely trot the camera out at magic hour

and score some easy production value, Van Dyke also shows

us a shabby, re-purposed community where Americans are

hard at work building a new future on the crumbling bricks,

sheet metal, and Formica of the past. Far Marfa’s production

design does not have the same studied preciousness of David

Lynch or Harmonie Korine, though. Marfa feels real, lived in,

and not overly designed or thought about. If you have spent

any time traveling in the American Southwest, Marfa will remind

you of small towns turned artist communities like Bisbee,

Arizona and Madrid, New Mexico. Marfa is a real, breathing,

and pulsing community full of characters that not only feel

like human beings, but also stand in for some 21st Century

American archetypes.

Among these characters are two Baby Boomers. One looks

back on his past artistic passions with regret and existential

angst and a second who has not only turned from true art

to fully embrace mammon, but also holds onto his financial/

social position with the greedy petulance of a man afraid that

everyone around him will figure out that he is really full of sheep

dip. It is these characters that Van Dyke uses to both entertain

and amiably make his points as a story-teller.

Carter Fraizer is a character who continues to live off of an

album he produced years ago. Like many in Generation X he

also has to have help from his parents. He exists in a world of

lowered expectations where past glories are fleeting and so

far away that their light has grown dim

and almost ceased to exist all together.

There are hints at Carter’s former life in

the tattered posters on his wall and the

occasional drum stick that the filmmakers

occasionally placed into the background

of the frame as a subtle reminder.

Douglas, as the heavy, is a former

rebel, an artist who ran in the social

circle of a legendary but now dead artist

who burned bright then burned out.

Douglas is the Baby Boomer survivor

who somehow managed to find a way to

exist in the Clinton/Bush Era, but lost his

soul in the process. Forgetting that he

once honored and revered true artistic

passion, Douglas now only honors and

reveres aggressive avarice. The good die young and the bad

just keep on existing by feeding off of the creativity and intellect

around them while producing little of their own.

In the end Van Dyke’s wonderful gem of a movie comes

down to one idea… work, specifically working with your hands

to make or create something tangible. Several characters

make references to physical labor being a way to tap the soul

back into life by becoming an active participant rather than an

observer. It is a rebooted American Dream from a generation

who had many of their opportunities squandered by the

generation before. The end of this new journey may not be the

glories of financial riches, but the satisfaction of a job well done

and the knowledge that even if you never sell much, that is still

better than selling out. n

the long arm of the law

marfa resident

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

Short Story


The Weeping Wishing WellBy: Sherry Brown-Lawless

as millie sloWly turned doWn the long gravel

driveWay that lead to her parent’s beach house,

her mind raced With memories from her youth. she

had alWays loved spending her summers here in the

outer banks. oak island had managed to remain free

of all of the usual tourist traps that stretched up

and doWn north and south carolina’s coasts. the

salty brisk smell of the ocean Was intoXicating.

millie took a deep breath before stepping out of

the car.

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

T he house was amazing. It was a perfectly restored Victorian home built in 1897 and faced the ocean. A smaller enclosed area next to it contained a beautiful garden of fragrant herbs and stunning flowers. Millie’s favorite had always been the koi reflecting pond. She referred to it as her “Weeping

Wishing Pond”. The boards creaked as she walked up the stairs to the

porch. Not all that unusual for such an old house. The house had a magnificent wrap around porch, complete with a porch swing and walkway down to the beach. The front door stood over nine feet with colorful stained glass and dark mahogany wood. The house itself was white with touches of the dark Mahogany on it’s trim. Millie opened the door and stepped inside. It was exactly

the way she had remembered it. Except for now, every piece of furniture had white sheets draped over them. Millie knew her parent’s estate lawyers probably had covered everything right after their death. She clenched her fist then closed her eyes when she thought about it. She missed them so much. They both had died in a horrible automobile accident when another driver had fallen asleep at the wheel. They were hit head on and killed instantly. The house had been left to her as part of her parent’s estate. She wiped the tears away and started pulling the sheets

off the furniture. Immediately, she felt like she was being watched, but she knew no one was there. After she brought the first floor of the house “back to life”, she opened a bottle of white wine to celebrate. Even though it was late March,

there still was a chill in the air. Millie fidgeted with the gas logs trying to get them turned on, but she had no luck. She was expecting her husband Jason to call at any minute to tell her when he would be there with their two daughters. Just as she had walked out of the living room, the gas

logs roared on. Millie froze. She rationalized to herself that she must have forgotten to turn the gas off. The ringing of the phone brought her attention back. It was Jason. He was only about 30 minutes away. He had stopped to get their daughters something to eat. He said, “I love you and I will see you shortly”.Millie raced up the winding wood staircase. She had just

enough time to get the bedrooms ready for her daughters. Both bedrooms faced the ocean and had a bathroom that connected them to each other. Millie loved these two rooms not only for the view, but because of the light airy feeling they gave off. Soft pastels colors decorated the rooms, and fluffy pillows accented the window seats. It was every little girls dream bedroom. All of sudden, Millie heard the huge wind chimes

downstairs blowing. She looked out the window to see there was a bad thunder storm brewing out over the ocean. She did not have time to worry about the storm because just then the voices of her daughter echoed through the house. “Mommy”, they both shouted in unison. Millie smiled, then turned to go downstairs. Just as she was about to take her first step, she saw a

shadow out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, nothing was there. “That is weird”, she thought. She was so glad to have Jason and her girls finally here. She


threw her arms around Emma and Brynn and kissed them all over. Eventually, the kisses turned into tickles as she let the girls go explore the house. Her attention then turned to her handsome husband

standing in the doorway. Jason was tall and muscular with soft blonde hair. He was her college sweetheart and she still fell more in love with him every time she saw him. He scooped her up and kissed her sweetly on the lips. “Nice job babe”, he said as he smiled coyly at her. Millie went to pour him a glass of wine as he brought in the rest of their bags. Jason knew Millie was still in a very fragile state since her

parent’s death. Millie was an only child. Her parents had been everything to her. However, he knew they had been through worse. Early on in their marriage, they had traumatically lost their first child to SIDS. Their daughter had died at 3 months old. Millie was inconsolable. He wondered if she would ever make it back to him. In the long run, it had brought them closer together. Three years later, their next daughter Emma was born,

then two years after that came little Brynn. Deep down he knew Millie still was hurting, but ever since having Emma and Brynn, she had slowly bounced back to her old goofy self. He sighed, “Now this…”. Jason was worried about Millie slipping away from him again if the grief of losing her parents consumed her. So far, she seemed to be processing it well. She even had taken his advice and was seeing a therapist twice a week to work through any issues she was having. Jason was convinced moving to the Outer Banks was just what the entire family needed.Lightening was streaming into the house from every

window. Nature was definitely putting on it’s finest lightshow. Millie could see Jason sitting on the couch downstairs using his Ipad in front of the fireplace. The soft murmur from the television was a welcome distraction from the storm. Millie decided to go ahead and make the master bedroom feel more like home. As she was unpacking her clothes, she saw the shadow again out of the corner of her eye and heard little girls giggling. “Girls, get back in the bed”, she said without turning her head. Then, she heard the giggling again. She quickly went to check on Emma and Brynn. They

both were already fast asleep. Millie was starting to think she was losing her mind. She went downstairs and joined Jason on the couch. He looked up and smiled at her. She started telling him about all of the weird things that had been happening since she arrived at the house. Jason listened with curiosity. Millie loved that about Jason. Nothing she could say would surprise him. Jason reminded her that it was an old House and she had just suffered a tremendous loss. It was only natural to feel jumpy in the house. Millie instantly felt better. She melted into his strong arms

and pulled a blanket up around her. He was right, she probably was just on edge because she was grieving her parents. The thunderstorm was like a lullaby, and she soon felt her eyelids too heavy to keep open. She vaguely remembered Jason scooping her up to carry her to bed. Millie wrapped her legs through Jason’s as she layed her head on his chest. Jason always smelled so good. Jason kissed her softly on the head and put his arms around her. They both slipped into a deep sleep as the thunderstorm crackled outside.To be continued… n

WS ARTS MAGAZINEPAGE 20

He was fed up with the smart-ass, bad-attitude kid that I

had become; I was no longer who and what he wanted me

to be.

The apple of his eye had started to go bad.

I was hanging out with the wrong kids. I had quit all the

sporting activities I had been forced to embrace. I was not,

according to teacher after teacher, working up to my potential.

In the gladiatorial arena of my life, the required acquiescence

had been replaced by a steady barrage of insurrection.

He demanded that I continue to sport the crew-cut that had

been mandatory my whole life. I wanted to grow my hair long.

It often seemed that the only thing we agreed on was that

we disagreed on everything.

Our daily father-and-son jousting was escalating in intensity.

Low Wages, Free Beer, and the

Search for Soul Salvation...

Part 3 The FeverBy Ed Bumgardner

I was bugged at my old man, and he was bugged at me. our

source of mutual dIsenchantment was easy to dIscern:

I was a rebellIous 12-year-old and, accordIngly, raIled

agaInst everythIng my father stood for, up to and

IncludIng the ground he walked on.

Hail, Hail

Feature Story


Mr. Bumgardner

Push was hurtling toward shove. It ended the night of March 6,

1968. That was when I killed him.

No act of violence was needed. No weapon was

brandished. No hand was lifted, no charges filed. I killed him

with five one-syllable words: “I hope you drop dead.”

I was sent to bed for this shouted act of vitriol; slammed

doors punctuated the finality of the sentiment. I can't remember

what started the argument; then again, we really didn't need

a reason beyond coexistence. It ended, however, with the

usual promise of deportation to military school and the new

assurance that calls had already been made. That was the last

straw. “I hope you drop dead.”

I can still see his face, red with anger, sparking eyes… hurt.

I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth;

for all our bickering, I loved him – but I could never let him know

that.

I awoke at around 9:30 p.m. and looked out my window. A

man was in the front yard. I walked downstairs to investigate.

My father was stretched out on the couch. My mom was

perched on a footstool. She looked up and calmly said, “Go

back to bed. Everything is fine.” I went back upstairs and

turned on the radio in my room. “Get Off Of My Cloud” by the

Rolling Stones was playing. Downstairs, my father's broken

heart had literally exploded.

Years later, my mother told me he had died moments

before I walked into the room.

I asked her about the man in the front yard. He was with

the Rescue Squad, she said. She was shocked that I had

not seen, when looking out the window, the two ambulances

and police car parked on the street and in the driveway, lights

flashing.

What? So where were all the paramedics when I walked

downstairs? They weren't in the room.Her reply left me stunned:

“They were in the room, five of them, plus a supervisor, all

working on your father.” Neighbors were also in the room. Four

of them. The room was crammed with extraneous people,

medical equipment, and a gurney. I saw none of it.

All I remember about the room was my father, my mother

and the almost electrically charged feeling in the room, which

was bathed in a weird light.

That evening changed the course of my life beyond the

obvious. Most of the memories of life with my father were

erased, something often associated with traumatic events. I

was transformed overnight into a withdrawn, depressed teen

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

with no self-esteem. I was the only kid I knew without a father,

much less the only one who had killed one. Shame and guilt

were always whispering in my ear.

It took more than 30 years, and some intensive therapy, for

me to shake the belief that I had killed my father with that one

blurted epithet.

But in a weird way, his death was also a liberating event. It

opened an avenue for me to explore a healing force that had

been pushing me for as long as I could remember. Music.

Music had always held an almost alchemical hold on me.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't aware of it, hypnotized

by the inexplicable lure and power of melody and rhythm.

My earliest memory is of my first birthday. My grandfather

gave me a toy drum, which I remember, and a toy horn,

which I don't recall. My mother said I drove everyone crazy

swacking that drum – everyone except my father, who I was

told encouraged it with a proud smile. He understood.

My father had been a pretty good drummer – something I

did not know until days after his death, when a friend of his – a

man who had played in a band with him, as it turned out –

came to the house and regaled me with tales of their musical

mischief. He and Dad had formed a jazz combo in high school,

and had played through college – where Dad began to mix

his love of music with a newfound passion for acting and a

natural affinity for photography. Years later, after the death of

my father's stepmother, I was given a table made out of a

bass drum from the 1930s. It was from my father's drum set.

Under the wood backing, the drum boasted a calfskin drum

head outfitted with a Vargas-style drawing of a scantily attired

curvaceous woman in full come-hither coil.

My father had done the drawing, much to the displeasure

of HIS father. I had to smile.

Ten years after his death, I began to know the man I had

never really known.

It turns out we were a whole lot alike. He was the rebellious

son. His father, E.E. Bumgardner – his namesake, and, in turn,

mine as well – was a very powerful man who cast an imposing

shadow over Winston-Salem. He was head of personnel at

RJ Reynolds Tobacco Company and a member of the board

of directors for Piedmont Federal Savings and Loan. That he

was of serious demeanor was understatement. I never saw

the man smile. He scared me to death.

My father and his four brothers went to work at RJR by the

time they were in their teens. They didn't want to. They didn't

have a choice. Three of the four worked there for decades;

only Jim, the youngest and a visual artist, escaped.

My father wanted to be a musician, as did my Uncle John.

They were told that was not an honorable profession. My

father didn't care. He wanted to play drums.

That dream ended after my father was drafted into the

Army/Air Force during World War II, and was stationed in

England, a place that he loved. He was a tail gunner in a slow-

moving B-24 bomber – an assignment with one of the highest

mortality rates of the war.

He came home a changed and profoundly damaged man,

deaf in one ear from the close-quarters sound of gunfire,

mentally damaged by the demands and horrors of war. He

could not tolerate loud noise – tough when you have two

rambunctious kids. And he rarely slept; my mother told me that

weekly throughout their marriage he would wake up screaming

and crying.

Mr. Bumgardner during WWII


He no longer had the spirit to challenge his father's

demands that he return to work at Reynolds. He gave up his

dreams for a job he hated.

It made an impression that has stayed with me throughout

my life.

Still, he never stopped loving music – a trait that we

shared. It was in our DNA, and he saw it emerging in me from

a very early age. My grade school report cards all make note

of the fact that I was constantly drumming on my desk; as

my second-grade teacher noted in the section reserved for

comments, “Eddie must really enjoy the tunes that only he can

hear; for the rest of us, it is a disturbance.”

I cannot remember a time when music was not ricocheting

off the walls of my world. My father loved jazz from the Big-

Band Era, particularly New Orleans jazz; my mother told tales

of my father knocking back an Old Fashioned or four while

visiting jazz clubs in New Orleans and New York, then sitting

in with various bands to the approval of the accommodating

musicians and audiences.

I knew nothing of this growing up. I knew that he loved

music only because he would often come home from work,

clearly beat, go to his den, adult beverage in hand, and relax

by turning on his stereo and playing favored selections from

his large collection of jazz and big-band records.

That stereo was crazy magic to me. He would load a stack

of discs on the spindle, then hit a switch. I would almost gasp

with pleasure as the record would drop and this gizmo, this

mysterious mechanical arm, would crank to life, moving up

and sidewise to a mechanized soundtrack of chugging clicks

and whirs before lowering onto the album.

I can still see the smile on the Old Man's face as the music

blared.

It was…GREAT! There was protocol for the Young Observer

to follow. I was not to touch the stereo or his records. Never.

Ever.

Nor was I to disturb Dad while he was listening to music.

If I was quiet, I could listen to the music and sit and watch the

disc spin around – which I loved (and still do). My usual running

commentary was not tolerated. A sample …

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Is this sound magic?”

“No … well … yes … now be quiet and let Daddy listen.”

“Daddy?

”What did I just tell you …”

“But, is this machine a robot?”

“Be … quiet ….”

“But where does the music come from ….”

“Son, HUSH. You know the rules …”

“But why doesn't that record spin so fast it flies away like a

spaceship?”

“SSSHHHH.”

“But…”

“GO TO YOUR ROOM.”

At which point I would run off down the hall crying. Mom

would come in to read everyone involved the latest abridged

version of her Riot Act…The whole ritual, a tempest born of

curiosity, frustration and cheap theatrics, would repeat anew

the next day.

Seems like ONE of us would have learned. Years later, I

understood my dad's pain. All he wanted was to forget the

dulling horrors of his rigid work day. He was stressed. All he

wanted was to come home, drink a beer, sink into his favorite

chair and let Duke Ellington or Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman

or Louis Armstrong carry him away for just a little bit.

Louis Armstrong

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

Yes, the Old Man loved his music. It was his source of

refuge, a balm for his soul. He was happy, really happy, when

he was listening to music. That left a big impression on me –

but not big enough for the dedicated household pest to leave

him alone.

I couldn't wait to be old enough to play a record. So,

naturally, I didn't. I began to sneak into Dad's den during the

day, and, when Mom was out of sight, turn the stereo on and

off. I would put a toy car or plastic soldier on the turntable

and watch it revolve. Then I would take out my favorite of his

records – Louis Armstrong's “Jonah and The Whale” – and

stare at it.

For those keeping score, I was now flagrantly violating two

cardinal rules – touching the stereo, touching the records –

on a daily basis. Sometimes several times a day. I knew the

consequences would be dire if I was caught. But I wasn't

going to get caught.

Of course, the day soon came where thinking about playing

a record was no longer enough. I moved on to the bigger

thrill, the ultimate crime – I decided to play the cherished Louis

Armstrong record. How hard could it be? What could possibly

go wrong? I dragged a chair up so I could reach the shelf

where the stereo beckoned. I flicked the switch. The

stereo came alive. It was like a shot of adrenaline.

I was now all but jumping up and down in

spastic anticipation. I took the 78 r.p.m.

disc out of its paper sleeve and, hands

shaking, placed it on the spindle. So I

thought.

To my horror, the shellac disc, which

was leaning up against the spindle on

the revolving turntable, began to teeter

and wobble. Then, as if captured in a

series of stopmotion photographs, it

tipped, fell, bounced off the desk and,

with the grace of a drunk chicken falling

off a barn roof, plummeted to the floor

with an ominous crack. Time stopped. My

pounding heart sank. Elation was replaced by

panic, then a smothering sense of dread. One

half of the disc sat at my feet. Another chunk was

under the chair.

I quickly and willfully disturbed the crime scene. I scooped

up the pieces of evidence and, casting glances to make sure

the coast was clear of parental authority, dashed into my room,

slamming the door – making plenty of noise (no time for subtlety

when you are 5 and on the lam). It would later be noted later in

the kangaroo court that convicted me that I left the stereo on

and the disc's abandoned paper sleeve out in the open.

I had moved the corpse but left the weapon and the box it

came in.

Tucked away in my room, crazed and delusional, I decided

that I could fix the disc, as it was only broken in half. I had tape.

I had glue. And I used them all. Yeah, yeah. Heh-heh-heh.

Good as new. Dad will never notice. What a Boy Genius am I.

Years later, whenever my Mom recounted this pitiful tale –

which was often – I could swear that she would shudder, just

a bit, before erupting into laughter.

Yes, my Dad came home, swizzled up his stress-reduction

beverage and went straight to the frantically revolving stereo,

the aforementioned paper sleeve on the floor and, criminal


450 North Spring Street, Winston-Salem | (336)[email protected] | www. SpringHouseNC.com

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aa

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for

mastermind that I was, his favored disc, laying next to the

record player where I had returned it to dry, clearly broken, but

fitted back together with caked layers of glue and a dispenser's

worth of tape.

He noticed. Oh yes. He noticed.

“EDDDDDDDDDDIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE! GET IN HERE.

NOW.”

I would love to think that Dad got no satisfaction from the

spanking he gave me, but I can assure you that it did not hurt

him more than it hurt me, nor did he pretend that it did.

And yet ….

One week later, he came home from work with a box,

which he handed to me. Inside the box, a child's record player,

and a 45 r.p.m. single, which, more than 50 years later, now

occupies a place of pride in the jukebox that sits in my music

room.

It was a Disney record by Professor Ludwig Von Drake. The

song was “Green With Envy Blues” – a New Orleans styled

song, replete with serious Dixieland arrangement, scatted by

the scatterbrained hipster duck. He smiled at me and assured

me that he would not play MY record player if I would not play

his.

He understood. I was successfully bribed. My lifelong

obsession with music was launched.

The boy had met his muse. n

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

UNC-SA News

Jennifer Haire

loves making

movies in North

Carolina. As

a student in

the School of

Filmmaking at the University of

North Carolina School of the

Arts (UNCSA), she worked

on TWO SOLDIERS, filmed in

Winston-Salem (which went

on to win the 2004 Academy

Award for narrative short film), and

DIVINE SECRETS OF THE YAYA

SISTERHOOD, filmed in Wilmington.

Now, she is one of five UNCSA Film

alumni working in Charlotte on the feature

film CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR.

"I've been trying to get back to North Carolina on

a show since I graduated," said Haire. "I really feel at home,

being a hop, skip and jump from UNCSA."

Filmmaking Interim Dean Susan Ruskin said she hears

similar sentiments from many alumni. "We have graduates

working in the industry all over the world, but they love coming

back to North Carolina," she said. "It feels like home to them,

and we are proud to see them come back."

Ruskin said UNCSA film graduates and current students

are working on several projects around the state, including

television productions of Eastbound and Down in Wilmington

and the pilot for Sleepy Hollow in Charlotte, as well as the film

THE WORLD MADE STRAIGHT in western North Carolina.

According to the state Commerce Department, North Carolina

is one of the top 10 location destinations in the U.S. for film and

television productions. The North Carolina Film Commission

website lists 10 film and television productions currently under

way in North Carolina, and 26

projects that wrapped up in the

past year.

As production coordinator

for CAREFUL WHAT YOU

WISH FOR, Haire manages the

production office, or "control

tower" of the project, acting

as liaison among employees

at various levels, vendors

and insurance carriers. Since

graduating in 2002, she has

worked on location in Montana,

New York, Tennessee, Hawaii,

California, the country of Jordan, and

on cruise ships. Haire said that out of-

state vendors are eager to work in North

Carolina. "I've gotten many calls from my usual

Los Angeles vendors who heard I was on a show here

and wanted to bring their business to me," she said. "Plus,

many vendors are seeing the demand for resources in the state

and are bringing company branches closer."

Vendors on a film project include suppliers of grip, lighting

and camera equipment, rental vehicles, hotels, office and

production supplies, as well as utilities such as phone and

internet service. Beth Petty, who has two degrees from UNCSA

and is director of the Charlotte Regional Film Commission,

agrees. "We've worked with a lot of people who are thinking of

coming here, and we will do everything under the sun to help

them," Petty said.

Petty, who has hired two UNCSA graduates to work in her

office, said the school is an important partner in the state's

flourishing film industry. "The taxpayers invest a lot in training

people in this state to work in the film industry," she said.

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR is a thriller starring Dermot

UNCSA ALUMNI WORKING ON FILM IN CHARLOTTE

FIvE FILM GRAdUATES ANd ONE HIGH SCHOOL dRAMA GRAdUATE ARE ON LOCATION OF CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR


Mulroney, Paul Sorvino, Nick Jonas, and

Isabel Lucas. Alexandria ter Avest, a

2011 high school graduate of the UNCSA

School of Drama, appears in the film.

Additional UNCSA Film alumni working

on the film include Mariangelica Velasquez

(2012), office production assistant; Clint

Buckner (2009), 2nd assistant director;

Glenn Peison, Jr. (2008), on-set dresser;

and Andrea Crampe Braswell (2004), first

assistant accountant.

"It's great to see UNCSA alumni

involved throughout the project," Petty

said. "An alumna (Petty) recruited the

film. You have an alumna as production

coordinator, another on the accounting

staff, and still others in various important

roles. And a high school graduate

appears in the film. That's very cool."

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

centers on Doug (Jonas), who gets

more than he bargained for when he

starts having an affair with Lena (Lucas),

the young wife of an investment banker

(Mulroney) renting the lake house next

door for the summer. The husband's

suspicious death reveals a substantial

life insurance policy and everyone is a

suspect. Sorvino plays the sheriff. n

Dermot Mulroney

UNC-SA News

NaNcy aNd Paul GwyN Recieve uNcSa'S GiaNNiNi Society awaRd

The University of North Carolina School of the Arts (UNCSA) has named Nancy and Paul Gwyn of Winston-Salem as the recipients of the 2013 Giannini Society Award, one of the school's most prestigious honors. The Gwyns were recognized at the School of the Arts University commencement at the Stevens Center on May 4. They were cited for years of steadfast service to UNCSA and passionate support of its student productions. In 1999, the Gwyns established an endowed scholarship in the School of Music. They have been members of the UNCSA Associates, and Nancy served as president of the volunteer group. For many years they have been Giannini Society-level donors. The Gwyns are past co-chairs of the Giannini Advisory Committee. They recently were appointed to the UNCSA Board of Visitors.The Giannini Society was established in 1989 and was named in honor of Vittorio Giannini, a founder and the first president of the School of the Arts. It is a group of dedicated ambassadors who seek to provide support for the training of UNCSA student-artists. Previous recipients include founders, board members, alumni, volunteers and former chancellors.

About the Gwyns

In 1962, Nancy Hooper, from Elizabeth City, N.C., met Paul Gwyn, from Elkin, N.C., at Duke University Hospital. Nancy was a nursing student and Paul, a surgical resident. Paul had already received an A.B. degree in Chemistry (Magna Cum Laude) from Princeton University and an M.D. degree from The College of Physicians and Surgeons at Columbia University. Nancy received her

B.S.N. degree from Duke University in the spring of 1963. They married in the fall of 1963 while Paul was serving in the U.S. Air Force Medical Corps. Following his service time he resumed his surgical training first at N.C. Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem and then at Norfolk General Hospital in Virginia.In 1970, the Gwyns returned to Winston-Salem, where Paul started his practice as the first "in town" plastic surgeon. During his 37-plus years of practice, he was a member of numerous local, regional and national medical and surgical associations. He is a founding member and a past president of The North Carolina Plastic Surgery Society.Once their three children were established in school, Nancy returned to school and received her Bachelor of Music in Organ Performance from Salem College in 1988. Many of her classes were at the then-North Carolina School of the Arts. She worked for approximately 20 years as a church organist.The Gwyns are long-time supporters of the arts in Winston-Salem, and specifically, the University of North Carolina School of the Arts.Additionally, Paul and Nancy have each served as board members of Piedmont Opera. Nancy serves as a board member of the Friends of Music of Salem College, and Paul has served on the board of the Southeastern Center for Contemporary Art. Paul is a member of the Music and Arts Ministry at Centenary United Methodist Church, where they both volunteer for the DAYBreak Respite Care. Nancy also volunteers in the NICU at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center.In their spare time, they enjoy their six grandchildren, traveling, and their beach house on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. n

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

Cigars & Spirits

PAGE 28

Tatuaje Black:

ThE Champ is Here

By:Ed Hanes

W e’re going to get right

to the point on this one:

The Tatuaje Black is one

fantastic cigar. This full-

bodied corona gorda

more than stands its

ground within the ever growing hype of the Tatuaje brand.

From the packaging (ceramic) to the unique nature of an

unclipped foot, this cigar is made to be noticed.

There is even more to why this cigar stands out. As a limited

production this corona already holds a special place in the

humidors of your local cigar shop. Its status as creator Pete

Johnson’s “personal cigar” puts the Black in rare air. Only other

highly thought of brands such as the Opus X and Ashton’s VSG

enjoy the public knowledge that the masterminds behind their

brands choose a particular stick as their favorite. The Black has

another distinct advantage: its price tag. Entering the game at

around $13, this Nicaraguan masterstroke is far more attainable

than either of the aforementioned. Its value status among the

elite, however, does nothing to taint its inherent excellence.

Like a predawn stroll down Reynolds Drive, I found no surprises Tatuaje Black Cigar creator Pete Johnson


WS Arts Magazine has designed and implemented a ratings system where cigars receive an E.D.S (really...I didn't name the rating system after myself) of 1-5.

Each review explains, in easy to understand terms, why we chose that particular rating for a given cigar. Our ratings system is described as follows:

1 E.D.S - These are cigars of last resort. They are questionable even if only mowing the yard or planting a garden.2 E.D.S - These cigars make tolerable companions while you wash your car. They aren't looking for attention, nor should they!3 E.D.S - These are pretty respectable cigars but may still fall short. We recommend them for the golf course, the back porch with one of your uninitiated friends, or for the after wedding party (for the husband of your best girlfriend who thinks he knows everything about cigars).4 E.D.S - Now we’re talking. Enjoy these fine cigars after a delicious meal or with your favorite cocktail. Again, I prefer Fridays at Single Brothers (or my Cigar Room). Join me!5 E.D.S - Respect your elders! These complex treats are true works of art. They deserve Coltrane, good friends, and your favorite adult tasty treat. Only the best! n

in the pre-light aroma of the wrapper: consistent…classic….

predictable…there were no surprises around the corner.

The cocoa colored wrapper was smooth to the touch.

There were no large veins obstructing the feel of the soft but

confident stick.

With a sure slice from my v-cut style guillotine and a touch

from my triple flame torch (overkill for sure), once lit the cigar

rushed the palate with pepper and leather. Robust, zestful,

and interesting, the taste would titillate and tease throughout

the cigars 40 minutes of life. Among the complex and often

shifting flavors I encountered, leather, cocoa, and even

ginger where the most prevalent. When woven together in a

tapestry of blending that can only be called brilliant, the flavor

palate became simply remarkable.

This 46 ring gauge stick had a remarkably perfect draw

from torch to rest. The burn was as straight and stately as an

Avalon oak and required no attention. The ash was needle

firm, requiring a quite deliberate tap to loosen it in the ashtray.

The finish was a walk in the park: long and satisfying.

Smoke the Black today. For its full body, firm ash, and

brilliant blend I would put it up among the best cigars in the

world. Powerful to the end, the Black is for those special

moments when ordinary just won’t do. I cannot fathom

one reason the Tatuaje Black deserves anything less than

5 E.D.S n

WS ARTS MAGAZINE

Art Scene

Artworks GAllery Presents A two-Person exhibit of book sculPtures by MAry blAckwell-chAPMAn, And Mixed MediA MAintinGs by betti PettinAti-lonGinotti

Artworks Gallery, Mary Blackwell-Chapman and

Betti Pettinati-LonginottiJune 4 - 29, 2013Meet the Artists: Friday, June 7

at the Gallery Hop, 7 - 10 pm

Public Reception: Sunday, June 9,

2 - 4 pm

This exhibit is free and open to the public

www.maryblackwellchapman.comwww.plstudioartglass.com

www.Artworks-Gallery.orgArtworks Gallery

564 North Trade StreetWinston-Salem, NC 27101. Gal-

lery phone: 723-5890Gallery hours are: Tue.- Sat. 11-5.

Mary Blackwell-Chapman is showing a variety of sculptures involving hand made book forms. She says, "As I began this

body of work, an homage to Trees, I was thinking simply of my love for trees, their beauty, majesty, variety, their strong presence. As I worked I thought more about the convergence of trees or forests with humanity and civilization, how our relationship with trees has reflected our history, our changing definition of our Self. An old proverb says something like "I want to be part of a society where a man can plant a tree and his grandchildren will find shade under its branches." Can this be said of our society? Even with these thoughts, I always returned in my work to the beauty and joy and peace that trees bring me. "Blackwell-Chapman is a sculptural artist from Forsyth County, North Carolina. She earned a BA in English Literature from Goucher College, and an MA in Motion Picture from Northwestern University in Chicago. She has studied sculpture,

both ceramics and book arts, at Penland, UNC-G, Arrowmont, Shakerag, and the Sawtooth Center for Visual Design. Her works are in collections in Virginia, West Virginia, Washington, DC, North Carolina, Georgia, and France. She has exhibited annually since 1993 in juried and non-juried shows in North Carolina, and has been a member of the artists’ collective, Artworks Gallery in Winston-Salem, NC since 1992. Betti Pettinati-Longinotti is showing "28 Prayers for 26 Victims", a group of mixed media paintings that are a requiem or homage for the victims of Sandy Hook Elementary School, in Newtown, Conn., and the massacre that took place there on December 14, 2012. She states: "At the crossroads of a controversial intersection of prayer and the political, this work makes a statement about the horrific culture of death our nation and world encounter in this generation. It confronts me, as to many, with profound grieving. My grieving asks questions of our society, that allows this kind of unspeakable horror as reality, and my questions unanswered become visual prayers. I state 28 prayers because I believe the young killer and his mother were also victims. The aesthetic and conceptual content of my work connects to inspiration by the abstract expressionist paintings of Richard Pousette-Dart. In a 2010 exhibition of Pousette-Dart, "Predominantly White Paintings", at the Phillips Collection, Washington D.C., the artist remarks that his paintings are visual prayers. As a contemplative artist, I appreciate the connection of prayer to the creative process, and a vehicle for both to co-exist, as well as an instrument for the Spirit to groan through my visual expression." Pettinati-Longinotti received a BFA from the Maryland Institute College of Art, and her MA from the University of the Arts, Philadelphia, in Art Education

with a studio major in Glass. Recently she graduated with an MFA in Visual Arts through the Art Institute of Boston at Lesley University. Her work has been shown internationally and she has done commissions and collaborations in architectural glass for site specific or public art installations. n

Mary Blackwell-Chapman, "Books On The Wing", contorted filbert, crepe myrtle, paper, feathers

Betti Pettinati-Longinotti, "Prayer for Sandy Hook", mixed media painting

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