Colussus By David Henderson

Dead artists rule the art market. Picasso, Dali, Warhol go for millions. The wealthy buyers feel safe spending money on bona fide masterpieces, because they don't have the time to develop passion about living painters, sculpturers, or writers.

I'm dead broke.

My wallet has $20 in it.

My refrigerator has food and two beers.

For today I'm okay and I spent time seeing Dave Henderson's sculptures at Valentine Gallery in Ridgewood, Queens.

Dave's sublime tapering of his carbon-fiber cones has catapulted him high in my esteem over the last years.

To see his work and that of Patricia Satterlee and Jude Talliches, trek out to Valentine at 464 Seneca Ave, in Ridgewood, Queens. The show will be up through March 9.

The Miracle Of Unconsciousness

Sunday morning Camp and I left his house for breakfast. His daughter was in the back seat. On the way down the dirt drive to the main road we passed the wreck of a Nissan sedan. The chassis was bent in a U and the front end twisted by the accident's centrifugal forces. Tangled wires and strips of metal tailed off the body in all directions. The rear was the only intact part of the car. "That looks like a John Chamberlain sculpture." The American sculptor was famous for his auto-shop masterpieces. "My next-door neighbor had an accident." Camp rode past the totaled vehicle without a glance. "With what? A tank." I looked back at the ruined car. "No, the car went off the road and fell into a ditch." "That's all." I'd never seen a car that destroyed before. "He didn't live, did he?" "He was stuck in the car six hours before anyone found him." "Dead?" "No, not a scratch on him." Camp checked both directions before turning left toward the bakery. "What time was this accident?" I figured midnight after a lot to drink. "No, noon time." Camp kept the car to the speed limit. He had two tickets awaiting judgment at the local traffic court. "Noon? He didn't go to sleep. He was on oxycondins and passed out. He probably had no idea what happened to him until he came out of his stupor." It was the only way that the driver could survive the crash. "How old is he?" "23." "I rest my case." Anyone sober would have died in that wreck once more that if there is a God, then he loves a down freak more than a drunk.