One morning I wake to find my paintings and paints have been stolen. This is a long time ago, in a life far far from the present. I live in New Orleans. My work is figurative abstraction. To avoid hauling paintings to my third floor warehouse studio, they stayed the night on the street in my Dodge Ram van.
As the reality that my artwork is gone sinks in, I wander through a range of emotions. I start with anger, move through self-pity and blame, to frustration, then eventually land on pride. Somebody thought my work was valuable enough to steal. I wonder who is going to buy these paintings, and where. I call the police and file a report, just so things are in place if any of the work actually surfaces. I replace my paints and canvas. I get a new staple gun. I get back to work.
Months later, I receive a phone call, a woman asks if I am Ken Frink. I say I am. She identifies herself as being a police officer at some precinct in Mississippi. My mind races, what have I done, am I guilty? She asks if I had some artwork stolen. I say I have. She tells me where it is being held and what I have to bring to claim it. With an empty van, I drive to Mississippi. I go to the station, speak with the property clerk and sign a few forms.
An officer appears, she leads me some muddy miles down a country road to a storage lot for impounded vehicles and stolen goods. She opens up the back of a U-haul and asks me if the contents belong to me. At a glance I can see that they are my canvases, acrylic paints and business cards are scattered from my supply bag. Shocked, I confirm they are mine. I sign another form. I enter the U-haul and then add, "They weren't quite like this." She leans against her car smoking a cigarette. I'm a little embarrassed, I'm sure I look crazy. To say anything more would just make things worse.
I quietly sort through what is there. All my pride about the discerning art thief choosing my excellent work evaporates. The thief had been living in the stolen U-haul at a rest-stop. He had apparently been living in it and adding to my paintings. Mostly, he added golden moustaches and underpants, (red oxide or phthalo blue briefs) to all the figures and added some hands grabbing bottoms. He highlighted bottoms in yellow ochre paint straight from the tube, matching the new moustaches and long curly blond hair, while obliterating any nuances within the figure-ground relationship.
Of the dozen or so paintings the thief revised, there was one that made me really sad. It was a painting of a former roommate, Bosco, who had recently died. He was also an artist. He sold his work on the street. Now, a symbol of him was being grabbed by some crudely rendered red hand.
I load these objects into my van and drive away with someone elses artwork. Who owns the copyright to paintings made with stolen goods? I wonder about the thief, he must be mentally ill. Does he paint often? I hope his time painting was therapeutic. Whatever, when I get back to my New Orleans studio, I gesso over most of them. I needed a blank canvas.