STORIES, ART, BLUES: FRIEDMAN DOES IT ALL

By Stephen Boykewich

Why is it that every time an artist takes to the road with a country-blues-inspired slie-show-and-storytelling tour, people act like there's something special about it?

If I didn't know any better, I'd think the whole world had forgotten about the original artist-storyteller, the great John Banvard, that titan of American art, the richest and most famous artist on the planet for a solid two decades in the second half of the nineteenth century.

But let's move on.

Andy Friedman, who appears at Gravity Lounge this Saturday, can draw like an angel. Or, as he says, "like Ingres, if he listened to Skip James and drank Thunderbird." He studied at the Rhode Island School of Design. He once spent three years on one painting. He's a contributor to The New Yorker.

Not necessarily the guy you'd expect to find telling stories in back-country bars.

Since March 2002, though, that's just what he's done. Friedman has been all across America, accompanied by Charlottesville singer/songwriter Paul Curreri, on "The Make A Living Tour." Friedman's half of the show consists of a rambling, partially improvised monologue accompanying slide projections of his recent artwork: mostly Polaroids taken through car windows.

Friedman may refer to his works as "tracks" and his books as "albums." The captions that accompany images may consist of stolen blues lyrics. It's true he named the company he founded to publish his first book City Salvage Records. But to call him a frustrated musician would miss the point.

This is a man who talks about Ingres and Thunderbird in the same breath. His new book offers his own version of Picasso's Demoiselles D'Avignon. He's as serious about the visual as a visual artist can be. He wants something in addition, though, something the conventional visual art world can't give: visceral connection with an audience that's the lifeblood of stage actors, stand-up comedians, and, well, musicians.

Whether Friedman knows it or not, he's right in line with old John Banvard, the man who painted a three-mile-long scrolling canvas of the Mississippi River and toured the world, delivering a rambling, partially improvised monologue while showing his work.

I'm all for Friedman making millions, as Banvard did. I'm all for the current Queen of England liking Friedman as much as Queen Victoria liked Banvard. I just hope Friedman doesn't wind up the way Banvard did: in a pauper's grave in North Dakota.

On the other hand, for a guy who loves the blues that much, it might be just the thing.