hidden treasure

Remember those stories about someone who picked up a non-descript framed painting at a yard sale, only to find that hidden behind the amateurish artwork is an original Declaration of Independence. Or someone purchasing a nice, inexpensive frame at a thrift store, discovering later that the copy of the Mona Lisa contained in the frame is the real thing? Well.... this isn't one of those stories.

My wife and I moved into our house in the late 1980s. Always a fan and frequenter of thrift stores, Mrs. P found one such establishment in a section of Northeast Philadelphia, jus a short drive from our suburban home. This was new and uncharted territory, as he had hit most of the other thrift stores within our area as well as the ones near her Queen Village apartment, where she lived when we met.

When we met, I was a second-year student at a fairly well-known and modestly respected art school in Philadelphia. I had dreams of becoming a world-renowned artist. Actually, I didn't. I did, however, hope that I could secure employment in my chosen field that would bring me enough money to support my soon-to-be wife and future family. (Over the years, that dream was both fulfilled and dashed at various times./ Such is the life of an artist.) As a student, working nights behind the counter at my cousin's health food restaurant, I could barely afford to purchase gifts when birthdays and holiday time rolled around. Instead of buying some useless trinket that would be tossed into a drawer and forgotten, I would offer family members a piece of my very own artwork. Of course, my homemade gift would be fawned over (before it was tossed into a drawer and forgotten) much to my feigned embarrassment. One year, I gave my aunt a six-color, hand-silkscreened (made with hand-cut stencils for each color) print of a character called "Flower Man." Flower Man was a guy who could be found ever weekend prowling the sidewalks of lower South Street in Philadelphia. South Street was a haven for quirky characters and, in the early 1980s, Flower Man was one of the quirkiest. Dressed in a rumbled tuxedo, his face covered in traditional identity-obscuring mime make-up, Flower Man toted a tray filled with single, long-stemmed roses. His shtick was, for a few dollars, he would trim and wrap a selected rose with innocent, but flirtatious, flair — all without the utterance of a single word. Before I met my wife, I was a veritable staple on South Street and would often bring dates to the hip mecca for dinner, maybe a movie — and always a little street-side performance by Flower Man. I was obsessed with Flower Man, He was the subject of a number of the pieces I produced at art school. I did block prints, paper sculptures and silk screened prints of Flower Man — even producing a few custom t-shirts with the image.

Mrs. Pincus had perused nearly the entire contents of the thrift store and finally brought her selected items to the front check-out counter to purchase. She got in line behind a woman who was holding her selections... including a large picture frame, the subject of which was facing away from my wife. When it was her turn, she placed her items on the counter and swung the frame up to show the cashier and ask a few questions.

"What can you tell me about this print?," the woman asked, as though the thrift store was an exclusive Park Avenue art gallery and the cashier was a highly informed art scholar. Mrs P glanced at the framed picture in question as the cashier rolled her eyes.

Then, Mrs. P let out an audible gasp. "I can tell you about it," she said. An expression of relief fell upon the cashier's face, happy that this customer was about to field any questions about the print. Mrs P continued, "The artist is my husband."

The customer and the cashier turned towards Mrs P, their eyes now widened. This woman looks to young to have been married to Pablo Picasso, their faces conveyed.

"I have no idea how this print ended up here," Mrs P explained, "but my husband made that print in art school." 

"Is your husband famous?," the potential customer asked. Mrs. P chuckled. "No, not really.," she admitted. Then she added, "But the frame is nice." The customer, now aware that she did not hold a museum piece, turned her attention back to the cashier. The transaction was completed and the customer left. She didn't even say "goodbye" or "thanks" or anything to my wife on her way out.

The mystery of my print ending up in a Northeast Philadelphia thrift store remains just that... a mystery. It's not unsurprising that some recipient of one of my homemade art school-era gifts tossed it among a pile of charity donations. 

However, that frame was pretty nice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

when I go out with artists

When I graduated from high school in 1979, I didn't know what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I had been drawing since I was a little kid, but the thought of making it a career didn't sit right with me and it especially didn't sit right with my father. My father was a hard-working, company-loyal, old-school, narrow-minded, Nixon-loving, World War II veteran who woke up early every morning to go to a job that treated him like shit. But, in his generation, that was the way things were. As far as my father was concerned, being an "artist" was no way to make a living.

My mother, on the other hand, was much more supportive. A free-sprit for most of her single life, my mom encouraged my creativity and natural talent — possibly living vicariously through me, silently pining for the carefree days that were stifled when she married my father. My mom let me know that it was okay to take a year after high school to decide the course my career should take. College would always be there, so rushing into things was not necessary. I toyed with various options. I thought about enrolling in culinary school, but tossed that idea aside when I realized that my "cooking skills" were limited to preparing a bowl of cereal and heating up frozen pizza (the latter of which I didn't do very well). I wasn't a very good academic student. Math concepts eluded me. History bored and confused me. I thrived in art classes, despite some of the older art teachers that were burned out and appeared to be going through the motions. I was motivated by a young student teacher who introduced free-form assignments and offered a fresh perspective. But, I still couldn't imagine making "art" my career. So, at my mother's suggestion, I got a job as a cashier in a retail clothing store in hopes of climbing the proverbial "corporate ladder" and making the wide world of retail my chosen profession. Except, I fucking hated that job. It was enough to send me over the edge and enroll in art school. But not just any art school.

Once my decision to go to art school was made, I began to research and determine my options. Philadelphia boasted several well-respected art schools. Some under the auspices of larger universities. Others were stand alone private institutions. Almost all offered a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree after completing a four-year course of study. One four-year school, however, only awarded an Associates degree. This school required no academic subjects, only art classes. No academic classes? Hot damn! That was the school for me! 

I arranged for an interview at Hussian School of Art. I was asked to bring recent samples of my artwork and have transcripts from my high school sent over. No SAT scores were required and they had no interest in what kind of student I was. These were my kind of people! I went to the interview with my mom and I sat across a big desk from the president of the school as he personally reviewed and assessed my work. My portfolio consisted of mostly cartoony drawings along with a few paintings I had done as a high school senior. Mr. Dove, a soft-spoken man in a light suit and flowered tie, quietly examined my work. Finally, with just the tiniest hint of a smile, he told me I would be accepted to join the next class in September 1980. He also added that the school's curriculum would knock this "cartoony stuff" right out of my system. They would teach me to be a real artist. 

Hussian was a very small school. Very small. It was housed on three floors of an office building in center city Philadelphia. They only accepted 80 freshman per year and, as I came to see, almost half would drop out before reaching their senior year. It was a tough school with some difficult assignments and teachers who demanded perfection. Their critiques were often brutal, sometimes sending some of the more sensitive students running from a classroom in tears. I, myself, experienced a smattering of anti-Semitism — some of it from teachers. But everything was done to prepare budding artists for the real world. In my early 20s, I didn't fully understand what exactly we were being warned about. At 62, and after 40 years in this God-forsaken business, I understand. Boy, do I understand!

My class at Hussian boasted a lot of talented artists. There were a wide variety of styles and ideas, mixed with a wider variety of personalities and temperaments. There was a lot of camaraderie and there was a lot of rivalry, bordering on animosity. By the end of four years, my class of 80 was whittled down to 43 — just as predicted. We graduated at an intimate luncheon in May 1984 that my father did not attend. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I was a professional artist. 

I have worked consistently in the general art field for my entire adult life. I've had many jobs and worked for more than my fair share of assholes. Hussian prepared me well. Sure, I have expressed frustration over the unqualified opinions of talentless superiors who couldn't identify a serif with a gun to their head. But, I have also learned that, contrary to my father's beliefs, I could make a living as an artist.

I was surprised to learn how many of my classmates form Hussian chose not to pursue a career in the field of art. Some have successfully gone into such diverse alternative lines of work as home construction, nursing, corporate administration and even music. A handful have followed their chosen course of study and even ended up teaching others. Admittedly, I use very little of what I learned at Hussian in my everyday work, but there is no denying the positive foundation they forged at the very beginning.

from the Hussian website.

Just this week, a surprise announcement broke in the local press. The University of the Arts, a beloved amalgam of creative intuitions dating back to the 19th century, will abruptly close its doors forever in the wake of losing its accreditation. UArts is the second art school to announce a closing in Philadelphia this year (the other, The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts will close at the end of the 2024-25 academic year). Over the past few years, The Art Institute of Philadelphia closed, The Delaware College of Art & Design closed and the suburban campus of the Tyler School of Art closed, although the program still exists on the main campus of Temple University. I was also made aware of the quiet closing of Hussian School of Art in August 2023. With no fanfare, no media coverage and no announcement to alumni, Hussian's board of trustees determined that they were unable to continue, based on the current financial outlook and declining enrollment.

I maintain that working commercial artists are one of the most misunderstood and disrespected groups. If you are not an actual working artists, you can never fully understand that it is indeed a job. It's a job just like a mail carrier or a waiter or a bus driver or even a doctor. It's not just a "fun extension of a hobby." It is work. It takes concentration and effort and energy just like your job. Artists don't want to be presented with a "fun project." If it's done for commercial purposes, it is work. Do accountants think it's a "fun project" keeping financial records for a candy store? Gee! That sounds like a "fun project, Mr. Accountant! On a daily basis, I deal with two inexperienced young ladies — fresh out of marketing classes at the University of Whatever — in the corporate office of a small chain of supermarkets. In designing their weekly advertisements, I am relentlessly instructed to move a photo of a pile of pork chops to the left a little more..... a little more.... a little more.... a little more. Never mind. Delete it.

It is sad that a city the size of Philadelphia cannot support art education. Art is everywhere. Everywhere. And artists are responsible for that art. Mechanics of art can be taught, but an "artist's touch" cannot. 

You'll be sorry. You'll see. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

do you know where you're going to

It's June. I graduated from high school in June. Not this June, of course. A different one. One that was forty-four years ago.

I don't have fond memories of high school. I dreaded every day. I didn't like going there or being there. Despite the Jewish population of the student body tallying nearly 85%, I was subjected to my share of anti-Semitism. I wasn't an especially good student. I didn't bring home good grades. I experienced the ache of unrequited love and, conversely, avoided some female classmates who came on a little too strong for my liking. However, I met some people who, for four years, grew to be inseparable friends, but whose camaraderie waned post-graduation... only to re-connect decades later via the magic of social media. I even re-connected with some classmates with whom I wasn't particularly close. But, time is the great equalizer and once you breach your 60th year on Earth, you begin to understand what was meant by the old adage "life is short" and you finally see just how short it is.

A classmate
wearing the winning button.

Recently, a few silly "snapshots" from my high school days popped into my head. I recall in my sophomore year, an open solicitation to design the "official" Class of '79 button was announced. The winning button design would be mass produced and distributed among our class, where it could proudly (proudly?) be displayed on a shirt, jacket or other piece of clothing. Even back in my teenage years, my budding art career was beginning to emerge. Art classes were the only ones I attended with any interest. In other non-art classes, I found myself doodling in the margins of American History tests or lengthy algebra equations. I was somewhat excited at the thought of having my design grace the "official" button representing my class, having all 1100-plus of my classmates sporting a 3" metal circle of my original artwork. I made a bunch of sketches and after rejecting several preliminary ideas, I settled on a mystical-looking wizard waving his hand above a glowing crystal ball, with the phrase "Class of '79 - We Make It Happen" floating in a semi-circle above his pointed blue, star-spangled cap. I'm not one to brag, but it was pretty good for a 16 year-old. Unfortunately, the rest of my class did not agree. In lieu of my design, they selected a strange depiction of two silhouetted figures standing on a royal blue hill before a bright yellow sun (our school colors) along with the sentiment "Class of '79 Walks Tomorrow's Paths Today" in a swirly, hand-written font. I don't like to knock other artists' work, but there were other designs — that weren't mine — that were waaaaay better than the one that was chosen. I would have been okay with not having my submission chosen. Just not this one. In my opinion, it was poorly executed and the slogan didn't exactly roll off the tongue... and that's not just sour grapes. Although, I retained some keepsakes from my tumultuous high school years, my button currently rests at the bottom of the man-made lake beneath the roller coaster at Great Adventure amusement park in Jackson, New Jersey. Great Adventure was the destination of my year-end Sophomore Class Trip. A friend picked the button off my shirt and flung it skyward with the gusto of an Olympic discus thrower. I wasn't terribly upset.

A classmate
wearing the winning shirt.

My Junior year in high school brought about a similar art-related project. This time, the task was designing the Class T-shirt. This was a big deal. Everyone's wardrobe was comprised almost exclusively of t-shirts. Concert commemoratives, sports teams, "peace" signs held over from the 60s — t-shirts and jeans were the accepted "uniform of the day" throughout the 70s. Even those students whose wardrobe was influenced by the burgeoning disco trend could sometimes be spotted in a t-shirt emblazoned with a glittery iron-on decal. Once again, I repurposed my "also-ran" button design of the wizard. I embellished my original design with more stars, brighter colors and a more detailed main figure. Again, my design lost out to a reworked take on the cover of Steve Miller's Book of Dreams album. Done in the school colors, the shirt featured a near-identical to the album depiction of Pegasus surrounded by stars, beneath the words "Flying High" in capital block letters. I will admit, it was a good design. It certainly was good enough for Steve Miller. It just wasn't an original design. However, the school "powers that be" including the principal, several administrators and an English teacher who served as our "class sponsor," debated the insinuated "drug" overtones of the slogan and mulled over the message that it conveyed. After many heated "back-and-forth" squabbles, a compromise was reached. The slogan would be changed to "Class of Dreams" before the shirts went into production. I believe the designer played dumb regarding any potential drug reference in the original design, only to create a custom-made short run of the original design for him and his pot-head friends. He wasn't fooling anyone.

The next item on the class agenda was choosing a song as our Senior Prom theme. Traditionally, the "prom theme" is a ballad that accommodates slow dancing. A number of songs were nominated with Billy Joel's "I've Loved These Days" declared the winner. A track from Joel's 1977 album Turnstiles, "I've Loved These Days" expresses the heartfelt feelings of a man reflecting on his life's accomplishments — a fitting narration for the end of high school and, of course, an opportunity to hold your prom date close... however awkward. But.... just a few weeks prior to the prom, the same committee that forced the alteration of the class t-shirt, got around to actually reading the lyrics to "I've Loved These Days." Four verses into the unfeigned sentimentality, someone discovered the line "we soothed our souls with fine cocaine." Frightened that this single line would turn the innocent prom into a deranged orgy abundant with narcotics, a meeting was held. Then another. Until another compromise with the incorrigible Class of '79 was reached. Billy Joel's composition on reminisces would be replaced with Diana Ross's 1975 hit "Theme from Mahogany" — a song priggishly subtitled "Do You Know Where You're Going To." I believe the school administration was making a backhanded assessment of my class's actions up to that point. A day or so before my senior prom, there was an afternoon luncheon where speeches were made, awards were presented and yearbooks were distributed. A few of the more musically-inclined students performed for their classmates. One young lady brazenly treated us to a rendition of "I've Loved These Days" — waving her acoustic guitar in the air at its completion in sort-of last ditch exhibition of her middle finger.

In June 1979, my years-long stretch in public school came to a close. My rambunctious class caused its share of controversy through music selections and  t-shirt designs. We thought we were tough little rebels, going toe-to-toe with "the man" and doing our best to "stand our ground." Over the course of four years, there was a certain amount of shoving and name-calling and maybe even a physical scuffle or two. But no one brought a loaded gun to school and I never hid in a closet, huddled with classmates, silently fearing I would never see my parents again.

Maybe my time in high school wasn't as bad as I remember.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

love for sale

I suppose today's post on It's Been a Slice is the equivalent to an infomercial. For however long this blog has been raging on (it's been thirteen years, but who's counting?), I have referenced Mrs. Pincus's eBay store and the many places that have been my employer. Today, however, I offer a blatant plug for a little side hustle I got going. Perhaps you have seen it on Instagram or Twitter or Facebook if you are one of the tens of people who follow me and my internet antics. For those of you in the dark but still reading this far, I'll fill you in.

My first sale!
(No longer available.)

For the past few months, I have been selling t-shirts on a great website called TeePublic. I have been sitting at home, watching TV of contributing to my blogs (yes, that's plural. I have two) and wondering how I can make a few extra dollars from my silly little drawings and my slightly off-kilter sense of humor. I began to explore some options and decided that TeePublic's set-up made the most sense for me. One Sunday afternoon right around Thanksgiving, I created a few designs and selected a few drawings from my illustration blog (see? I do have another blog!) and uploaded them to my newly created storefront on the TeePublic website. Because I have a background in advertising and marketing, I also created a few graphics to promote my new business venture on several social media outlets. Almost immediately, I made a sale... giving me a false sense of security. It turns out, my first sale was to someone I knew. Nevertheless, a sale is a sale! I thanked her for her purchase and sat back, waiting for more sales to roll in.

They didn't.

However, I did get an email from TeePublic, that one of my designs was taken down for copyright infringement. A day later, I received a similar email and another one of my designs was removed. TeePublic is rampant with non-licensed designs of copywritten properties, yet I got busted right out of the gate. Still determined, I added a few more designs to my storefront. I chose designs of recognizable images and characters, trying my best to be discreet.

A few days after my first sale, I made two in one day. I began to think this little endeavor was gonna be great! Both, I found out later, were to someone else I knew personally.

Then, my entire store was pulled by TeePublic. Just four days after I "opened for business," I received this sad little email that began...

This is to notify you that, as a result of a violation of our terms and conditions, we have removed or disabled access to the material that appeared at www.teepublic.com/user/Josh Pincus and have deleted your account.

I stewed for a little bit, but I was determined. I rethought my approach and, with a different email address and a slightly altered name, I boldly relaunched my business as "JPiC Designs" on TeePublic. I scoured my website for drawings that I had done that were not overtly recognizable or could be altered so movies and names or references if they too drew much attention to a particular celebrity, movie or the like. I also began a series of illustrated song lyrics. Sure, that sounds like trouble in the making, but I was careful to select lyrics that did not mention a song's title. I figured these would appeal to true fans of a particular band. I also mixed in some famous movie quotes, again, careful not to use the actual title of the movie, but slyly employing recognizable typefaces and using images that could be.... well.... anything.... nudge, nudge.

I launched my TeePublic store 2.0 a week or so before Christmas. I made my first sale in the early weeks of the new year. I started the reboot with about two dozen designs and slowly added more each week. I have not bee sticking to any particular theme or style. I try to create what I think will sell, not necessarily what I like... but what the people will like. You know... give the people what they want! If you visit my storefront, you'll find movie quotes, song lyrics, goofs on famous works of art, silly drawings featuring both Jesus and Satan and a lot of designs depicting food.... because everybody like food. There are even a few designs aimed to please my fellow Philadelphians. Besides t-shirts, TeePublic offers a wide variety of other products, including hoodies stickers, buttons and mugs. Everything can be emblazoned with your favorite Josh Pincus created design.

So, there you have it. A word from our sponsor. Go take a look at what I have for sale. At last count, there are 240 different designs available. Some are drawings you may have seen on my illustration blog. Others are unique to TeePublic. I add new designs fairly regularly. Maybe there's something to fill that hole in your life you didn't know needed filling.

Or something like that.

CLICK HERE  >>>> JPiC DESIGNS TEEPUBLIC STOREFRONT

 

We now return you to your regularly scheduled blog post.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com