Artists create in a bubble, a womb constructed with their hearts, minds and souls. This freedom-loving habitat is a protective space, a defense against the contrarian outside world. Influences might receive a wary invitation to enter. That beautiful bubble may float and flourish in a Siberian gulag, an awful marriage or a dull suburb. By chance or a blessing from a god, my bubble has been bouncing in the middle of the Pacific for longer than I would have imagined.

Life itself presents an obstacle course; all we can do is keep moving and consciously growing. After a busy and rambunctious life in the Los Angeles arts, the thrill was no longer meaningful. The Shining City by the Sea had grown too small and too familiar. I was losing my audacity and the stretched canvas of my life, figuratively and literally, held no color, mark or line. C’est la vie! I sailed to Hawai’i on an opportunity. But I had to scuttle the ship.

One who writes understands the treasure in a tale. There are not enough pages in this essay to detail my sad shanghai and hilarious mutiny. Long story short, the lyrics of my shipwreck sing of a warm Thanksgiving celebration at a posh Black Point estate with friends, family, a boisterous clan of Hawai’i ali’i and actor Bill Murray. But I digress.

This captain’s log offers a much-abbreviated history of my creative survival from that shipwreck.

Every outsider who steps foot on the isles of Hawai’i arrives with their own set of luggage. There is a long and colorful history of this colonial gentrification, from staid New England architecture, to a taboo on surfing, to the forced modesty of the muumuu. This outsider is no exception. Coming from the dynamic clan of the LA art world, I hoped to find a similar embryo, a familiar pasture. I did not. So I wrote about the island art scene for the Huffington Post, with recommendations aimed to coalesce an arts community that had no gallery scene. The article attracted no attention but my own.

With a warm nod to proto-hippie, poet and artist Don Blanding (1894-1957), another island interloper, but one who scored far higher in sensitivity than me, I began a weekly column “Hula Moon” in the Huffington Post. Little this’s and that’s of island life. My favorite bit was an investigation to determine the favored smoking spots of our 44th President, a grad of the elite Punahou school; stoners love scenic ambience. The series attracted no attention but my own.

My bubble was a busy place. Missing the camaraderie of Los Angeles, I published Gen F. The cover describes, “An anthology of short stories for our times, an ensemble of comic tragedies and humiliations for those displaced by a reversal of fortune, the toxicity of failure, psychological downsizing, class disparity, vanished industries, outsourcing, mortgage collapse, bank bailouts and stimulus recovery for the wealthy.” (The premise is still timely!)

The pool of thirty authors featured painters, writers, editors, poets, an Italian journo and an Academy Award nominee. Long before Covid’s remote-working fad, I produced a series of six readings across the mainland city.

Sensing momentum, I began to collect the library of my art magazine columns into a series of three books followed by Aquarius Rex, a wry, apocalyptic novella. These efforts led to publishing work for mainland clients, which covered the rent on my bamboo shack and the gastronomic delights of Andy’s Sandwiches, Zerg’s Mexican and Da Spot.

Hawai’i is best lived by the spender and harsh on the earner. A quick look at the Hawai’i economy forecloses on all opportunity. The starched dress code of the US military is in contretemps to my breezy sarong lifestyle. Though my business resume is accomplished, management jobs are a locals-only affair. Hawai’i is the domain of monopolies; it’s hard to scootch in anywhere. The best-hoped for entrepreneurial opportunity lies with tourism. A quick survey found that the nightlife menu was embarrassingly sparse: a Vegas show import and a flurry of “cultural” extravaganzas.

Bingo! With over a hundred credits producing live theatre on my curriculum vitae, I went big. “Aloha!” would be a hand-clapping spectacular. Sobering to the fact that I was an unconnected outsider, “Aloha!” went into the trash can and a much smaller, rational notion was born. My busy bubble shot forth a low budget epic with a catchy marketing campaign.

The simple show featured an affordable cast of one and a jazz quartet. To stand out in the marketplace, the script was a wee-bit edgy; Hollywood would rate it an “R” and gamers an “M.” Marketing materials championed the lead character, Benny Bropane, as “the newest cat on the Waikiki Strip and the star of his own show, The Greatest Comedian in the Pacific.” Hotel proposals offered a description, “Like a mixed-race John Belushi, our local boy Benny Bropane is a manic, rumpled, sweaty fireplug. He loves his cigars and his bling. The comedian is ribald, raunchy and very funny. The Jazz Transporters, a quartet of gender-bending musicians and vocalists, entertain us with a “Musical Tribute to Quentin Tarantino.” Slam dunk!

The production attracted no attention but my own.

A ‘cold call’ is a mainland salesman’s term, where one telephones a desired stranger, introduces oneself and tries to make a sales pitch. In Hawai’i, this crass notion demands three letters of recommendation, a small gift and knee pads. I would have had better luck proposing an autobahn between Honolulu and Los Angeles.

I still believed in Benny Bropane. The marketing and merchandising were hilarious and quite savvy. The Japanese-language version was even better: A tour bus would arrive at your hotel to ferry the group to the show. Your cute, bubbly tour translator would, surprisingly, become the co-star of the show!

If you can’t tell ’em, show ’em. I even held two casting calls to find my Benny. No luck. The Greatest Comedian in the Pacific might have a better chance in the middle of the desert, like Las Vegas.

In Part Two of BOUNCING IN THE ARTIST’S BUBBLE, words are written, wounds are licked and a daring new arts concept, which does not involve K-Pop, porn or pickleball, leaps forth like exploding lava. Click Here!