Finger Painting

June 29, 2012 @ 8:22 PM, I had 120 seconds to paint three dancers. John White gave me the details and asked if I was interested in doing a show for Pamela Pilkenton. I told John I’d have to get back to him—then immediately asked my wife how she would feel if I painted three nude dancers. I explained I would be touching these women, but not inappropriately. I’m not sure if my wife believes in God, but I know she believes in me.

Well, I am just too tired, too lazy, or too beat up to write any more about last night.

Thank you:

Juan (to me) Carlos (to you) Velasquez

for keeping the boys busy at Greasy Rat's--

I eat the pizza up! 

John White

for the referral and teaching me, by example, 

the principals of Performance Art. 

Pamela Pilkenton

for trusting my vision and 

inviting me to be a part of yours.

(I used washable tempura paint.) 

Angelina Salinas (Mrs. Wao!)

for smiling when I am too tired to. 

Steve Aguilar

for filming even though there was terrible contrast. 

Raquel Varela

for being kind enough to introduce yourself to me 

when other people wanted to call the cops. 

Kerri Krizer

for being Life.

Sam Pope

for being Creativity. 

Lauren Gilkey

for being Love. 

Doing it for the Arts,

F. Albert Salinas

a.k.a

Master Wao (Wow!)


I hope this slideshow sums up whatever I missed.

Metrosexual?

I am not a straight man with a beauty regime. I am an old guy who wants to look his age. I stopped wearing baseball caps, but it’s getting to the point where I have more hats than women have shoes in their closet. I do not comb my hair more than once a day, use hair straighteners, wear eyeliner or pluck my eyebrows (anymore). I do not wear skinny jeans, but sometimes hand me downs fit a little snug. I have worn the same pair of Doc Martens for three years. I am not upset when my grandma buys me socks and underwear for Christmas (anymore). I admit, when I go out to a venue or perform/recite/read, I strategize my wardrobe (I almost typed, outfit). Remember Bloods and Crips, or the movie, Colors? Sometimes, the colors you wear matter.

For the Mayor’s reception, I wore a hemp fedora, a white T-shirt under a Ventura County Jail orange and blue rolled-up long sleeves button up, Calvin Klein blue jeans, and of course, my Docs. I walked up to the microphone with my hands behind my back. The microphone and sound was terrible. I was not able to hear any of the readers before me. I wished I had borrowed Phil’s megaphone. Phil Taggart was the first person to encourage me to submit my poem to Art Tales. I told him there was no way the poem I wrote would place, but he replied, “You never know.”

I looked around for the Mayor, but he was a no-show. I looked around for VC Star, but did not see them either. I stepped out from behind the podium with my hand behind my back, stopped and faced the Art Tales display board, explained why, and then, performed. I think one woman commented, “We don’t hear this kind of stuff on the Children’s floor too often.”

People, who looked at me with fear in their eyes only two minutes and thirty-seven seconds earlier, smiled and congratulated me. Richard came up to me after the award ceremony, shook my hand and thanked me for showing people how to read poetry. One of the other winners, blonde and blue eyes, smiled at me, shook my hand and told me, “I think your poem was the best.” 

I wish I had asked her why. Maybe it was my hat. 

You had to be there.

June 1, 2012 - 8 pm

John White’s 5x5x5
Marsha de la O, Alisha Shapiro, F. Albert Salinas,
Rachel Lily White, Cole Smothers and William Litwa

Sylvia White Gallery
1783 East Main Street
Ventura, CA

I’ve known I was going to die in August of 2012, since my daughter was in fourth grade. I was living in Santa Barbara in someone’s office space above his garage. My daughter and I were goofing around with the special features menu of the Final Destination DVD and there was an option to predict our date of death. When the exact time and date of my death was revealed to me, I decided not to let my daughter use the feature.

This is not the first time I’ve known when I was going to die. Back in 1991, I did a candle reading and predicted my death was going to be the following day (That’s what I get for using a black candle). That night, I wrote my farewell letter and left it on my bed. The next morning, I sat in the Food4Less parking lot and told my dad I was going to die that night. I planned on going to LA to hang out with a friend of mine. He was one of my best friends at the time—at least, I thought he was.

My dad asked, “If you know you are going to die, why are you going?”

I told him I didn’t believe in fate or destiny, and something about possibly being immortal. What can I tell you? I was young, and wrong. I died that night. I remember looking up at a planet or star in the sky and the last thought I had was, “Forgive me.”

This wasn’t the first time I cheated death. I’m hoping I did it again on June 1, 2012. John White asked me to present at his first Fridays, 5 X 5 X 5 at 8 pm. I told people my plan was to be driven to the gallery via hearse, carried in via coffin, perform, be placed back into the coffin and then driven away in the hearse. I intended the performance art/poetry piece to represent that when I am not creating, or performing poetry, I am dead. As my coffin was carried in, people were supposed to be celebrating my life, wearing bright colors and dancing. After my performance I was to step into my coffin, people were to open their umbrellas and follow me out to be placed in the hearse and wave, “Until, next time.”

That’s not how the performance turned out. While I lay dying, hands and feet duct taped, a pillowcase over my head, I realized, I had no control over the next 10 minutes of my life. Stuffed in a Dutch oven—a widow maker, carbon monoxide filled the trunk and it seemed like a good idea to take a nap. Elijah Imlay taught me that conscious breathing replenishes the subconscious. I decided to do some unconscious breathing. I didn’t have time to die. I had a show to do.

Sleeping in someone’s trunk is nothing like what you see in movies. The trunk was far more comfortable than Missy Church’s backyard lawn, but only slightly more quiet—peaceful. If you ever find yourself stuffed in a truck, hope for a Ford Crown Victoria. They have better legroom than some couches I’ve slept on.

Thank you for coming to my funeral and resurrection. Johnny Depp and I will be celebrating our births in a few days. Will the celebration of my birth be the last celebration of my life? I guess we’ll find out in September.

Yours Truthfully,

F. Albert Salinas

A.K.A

Mr. Wao (Wow!)