A Game Of Cosmic Poker

This piece was originally supposed to be included in the Magic Issue of Purple Magazine, however due to unforeseen circumstances it wasn’t published. In a time when the world around can us seem quite ominous, I thought it would be nice to release it here as my first piece for Substack. Enjoy!

For the last few years I’ve been working on a memoir about my time in New York City during the 1990’s. The book tracks my adolescence, having been deeply involved in the subcultural scenes of 1980’s, then through my career as an artist, curator and gallery owner in lower Manhattan during my twenties. As so much happened during those decades, it’s a complicated story to say the least. While searching for a through-line to make sense of the tangled web that was my life in those days, my mind kept coming back to a personal practice that started when I was a teenager. I call it Cosmic Poker.

When I was seventeen, I ran away from home. I was living in a welfare hotel on Skid Row in downtown, Los Angeles. Playing guitar in an acoustic punk band called Cat Furniture, I was frequenting the seedy bars and dingy clubs in an area that is now called the “Arts District.” Jobless and broke, I spent my days wandering the boulevards alone, writing mediocre poetry and drawing funny designs in my sketchbook. As I walked those sordid streets, I always looked down at my feet, which eventually led me to notice a strange phenomenon happening beneath my stride. Almost every day I would find random playing cards on the sidewalk. Sometimes there was a single card lying alone in the gutter and at other times groups of them were strewn across my path. I ignored them at first, but then the sheer volume forced me to take closer notice. I began to pick them up and put them in my shirt pocket. At the time, I supposed this could have all been random. Yet, I started to realize that with playing cards, if you take a single card out of the deck the entire game is ruined. How were these cards getting there? I began to ruminate on the idea that maybe something deeper was going on. Something spiritual. Something magic.

What if these cards were actually messages from the cosmos? Could they be talismans sent from another dimension to guide me along the treacherous path of teenage life? Incredibly, at that young age, notions like that made perfect sense. But how would I figure out the meanings? I figured out that playing cards were derived from the ancient Tarot, so I went in search of answers. One afternoon in a used bookshop, I found a tattered paperback on the Tarot and began to carry it around in my bag. When I found my cards, I’d immediately reference their meanings in the book. Surprisingly, the results were always remarkably telling and relevant to my experience. The nine of hearts signaled a wish come true. The ace of spades a rebirth. Three of clubs showed that one must forge a new path. Once I was able to accept the fact that I was being cosmically guided, so many other things in my life began to make sense as well. I began saving each card I found in a small drawer near my bed. Sometimes, late at night, I would pull them out and randomly choose one. I’d close my eyes and ask a question and in turn the card would tell my fortune. This went on for years and over time I had amassed almost enough examples to create an entire working deck

Finding cards on the street, which has since become even more frequent over the years, no longer mystifies me. Instead I find them strangely comforting. Rather than the vast, mysterious universe being a source of intimidation, it has instead, on most days, become my partner in crime. Early on, beyond the mystical qualities of my found cards, and being that my collection had grown so large, I also became enamored with the artwork on each one. I had never paid much attention to the designs of playing cards. I’m not a gambler, so the creative legacy of card-making occupied only a peripheral place in my vision. Then one night in New York City during an LSD trip that all changed. I sat on my bed in my fourth-floor walkup on West 14th Street. Just as I started to trip, I pulled out my cards. Rather than reading the fronts and looking for meaning as I usually had, this time I focused on the backs. As the acid took full effect, the artwork began to explode outward from the cards and animate the walls and ceilings of the room. Soon I was swimming in super graphics and ornament. I had made the transition from the realm of the real to the universe of Cosmic Poker.

As though it were imparted to me as a divine gift, I understood then and there that I needed to paint these designs. It was not a desire. I felt it was a duty. The next day I went out and bought art materials and executed my first piece. I sprawled out on my floor and laboriously rendered a large work of acrylic on paper based on the Ace of Spades. The painting was rough around the edges, but I had discovered something that has become a central part of my artistic practice ever since. I understood that being a Symbolist Painter was my defined genre. Not in the 19th Century France sense (though I do love Baudelaire), but more of a modern take on it. Understanding that graphic symbols are perhaps the modern world’s most omni-present tool of communication, it made sense to me that I should speak in that language through my art.

Over time, my work has developed. I no longer paint playing cards, yet the same basic premise has continued throughout my career. At times, I’ve tried to hide my inspirations, assuming that my peers wouldn’t take my work seriously and relegate my paintings to the realm of “visionary art.” Ascribing magical influence to artworks can be a huge faux-pas in academic circles. For me, however, the power of Cosmic Poker has never been stronger. I still continue to find cards on the street. Now they seem to come in waves as opposed to the constant barrage of my youth. Yet, just as before, I’ll be strolling along casually, turn a corner and there they are, beckoning me from the pavement. I’ve never been able to ascertain exactly who is sending them to me. It’s actually not that important. When people ask me I tell them it’s the universe. Just me and the stars in a casual conversation, playing an intimate game together for which only we know the rules.

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