Jim Lamoreux

J.M. Lamoreux was born in Los Angeles, California December 19, 1949. He was raised in Buena Park by his parents Dorothy and Chuck, and enlisted in the Army in 1968. This included his stint in Vietnam.

He is currently a resident of Reno, Nevada, an area rich in historical and urban folklore, much of which shows up the context of his work. His short story, "The Egg" won best fiction for 2005 in a contest sponsored by the Truckee Meadows Community College literary and art magazine "The Meadow".

In addition to his writing Jim also is an illustrator, book designer digital artist and photo restorer.

Visit Jim's website to find out more about the artist and his work:  www.jmlamoreux.com

Please check out more of Jim's talent and items for sale at Cafepress. All proceeds from Cafepress items for sale will benefit VSA arts of Nevada's programming, thanks Jim!!! 

http://www.cafepress.com/jmlpodcast

 The Title of this piece is "Music For An Open Heart." This is a celebration of music and humanity, like some of Picasso's Bacchanals. The images are a mix of influence of modern artists from Chagall to Matisse. The colors and shapes are mythical as well as lyrical. The style is a "Nouveau Baroque."

"Lovers" is done entirely in vectored shapes like the Matisse cut-outs. It is Nouveau Baroque in its style and modern in its application. Once again the influence of Chagall can be seen with suspended figures and wildly magical colorations. There is some mythical Egyptian influence with the hands on the rays of the sun as well as hands reaching towards the lovers, the essence of the man, almost child like in the woman's hands.

"The Lost Wife," is important because it uses scanned traditional materials to create a computerized combination of the effects of lithography and etch. It is a contemporary portrayal of the tale of the dead wife and the husband driven mad with loss. The shapes are reminiscent of old book illuminations with a modern look and feel.

"The Dark Taj Mahal of Reno Nevada."

Inspired by Patty Caferata's "Lake Mansion."

The Lake Mansion rose up

Among Alfalfa fields

Its windows with wooden brows

And recessed doors.

It had a "widow's walk"

Or "railed platform."

This sad place is where wives would watch

Over stormy seas over the Atlantic, in vain

For their husbands to come home.

But what would Jane Lake see

Coming from the reddening horizon

Of land locked Reno?

The house sat coiled

On three sides

By a pillared veranda.

Who stood on those wooden floors

Looking out across those fields

And the busy evolution of Reno Nevada?

Shhh children, don't touch the drapes.

The white castle is set on a stone foundation

The house straining to see.

Who were the owners looking for?

Up the granite steps

To the receding door.

Whose hand knocked

And whose ear heard

And trembled when they heard?

Whose fingers touched the door's frosted windows

Before unlocking the brass lock?

On the tooled Newell post

At the foot of the stairs

Large fingers brush the carved wood

And a man coughs with emphysema.

A piano is silent,

A music box absorbs the sunlight

Where there is no noise

Until the curses come.

Before entering his mansion,

I think his eyes would scan the wood frieze

Above the door

And wonder what she had been up to today.

And she would wear her bruises,

Thick and purple,

Like courage.

Fire burns in the shallow brick fireplace

And dishes rattle in the dining room behind it.

Later Jane would bring the water

To course through inside plumbing

But his voice, his curses,

Would have long faded away

From those tortured walls by then.

Why did this house rise

Out of the Alfalfa fields?

What was its purpose?

Could it have been a bribe

To an abused wife someday,

A fate the builder didn't see?

A Taj Mahal to keep the victim

Trapped and in striking distance?

Later she tended her gardens

Her hands fluttering around in the greenery

Like pale, busy butterflies.

The phone by the door would echo

With the scratchy voices of people

Who lived in Reno back in "those times."

Every day,

His feet would move up the stairs

His body the weight of a prize fighter

And one day he would cough himself

Into oblivion.

I wonder if

Jane Lake would later

Watch from that "widow's walk,"

Waiting for whom or what?,

(As Reno evolved around her,

Hungrily.)

No one can tell us now.

By J.M.Lamoreux