Newspaper Page Text
n
’S IW/Ok humans get too caught up in the world. Take Elvis
%kWMmakk Presley, for example. I can't say for certain, but
I'm pretty sure Elvis would've been satisfied with his git-fiddle,
one or two hit singles, and his good gal. Instead, they handed
him the free world... which then proceeded to devour him like he
was a three-cheese Hot Pocket. So it goes. Sometimes artists get
famous and make a lot of money. Usually, they don't. Either way,
it's commonly ac r eed that an artist should pretty well know how
to function and be happy without the recognition and validation
of the public eye. We all know this, of course, but history tells us
that the sweet fruits of selling out are hard to resist. It's for this
reason, I suppose, that we tend to favor those artists who labor
in obscurity their whole lives. We like knowing that our artists are
for real, and not just in it for the loot, groupies or hero worship.
(Being an "American Idol," after all, is a cinch compared to being
Emily Dickinson.)
It's easy to see that while Americans might carry the reputation
for being greedy and materialistic, we somehow manage to keep’
the image of the renunciant ascetic at the center of our cultural
shrine. Some might say this paradox is emblematic of a national
pathology, a kind of Jekyll & Hyde split of the psyche. Maybe so,
but somewhere within that paradox, navigating the endless hairpin
turns, dead ends and crossroads, you'll find every American art
ist who ever lived—including a strange one from middle Georgia
named Eddie Owens Martin.
itaftx?
If you haven't heard that name before, well, suffice it to say
that he's just about the weirdest cat you never met—so weird he
refused to be airbrushed, alloyed, snow-jobbed or beaten into con
formity by the forces of authority that get to most of us early on.
So bizarre that he took to the open read rather than subject him
self to the tyranny of a cruel and oppressive father. So eccentric
that when he finally settled down, he tried to make a homestead
for himself that suited him and embodied his highest ideals...
pretty sane and sound-minded, in other words. Of course, I haven't
gotten to the part about his bizarre "visions" or his eccentric
beliefs yet, but it doesn't matter. However eccentric Eddie Owens
Martin might've been, the fact remains that his natural responses
to this world gone wrong are among the more brave and artful that
you'll ever likely come across. His personal story and life's work,
inextricably intertwined, stand as a perfect example of Southern
ingenuity and elan. What's more, his magnum opus, Pasaquan,
is—I promise you—the most poignant and stunning thing you'll
hear about this year.
Eddie Owens Martin was born into a world of pain and poverty
in 1908. His parents, Lydia Pearl and Julius, were Georgia crackers
from Marion County. They were cotton and sugarcane sharecrop
pers who worked a meager subsistence out of red clay. Eddie was a
thoughtful child, though he loved adventure and was fascinated by
people—regardless of what side of the tracks they were from. The
way he saw it, the more colorful the better. But by all accounts,
Julius Martin was a cruel and physically abusive man who didn't
exactly prize his son's natural curiosity ana introspection. By the
time young Eddie reached the age of 14, he had seen enough hard
times and violence to know that he'd better get out of Dodge while
he still could. So he did, saving both his hide and spirit, and haul
ing them both North, into the great wide open. He was still only a
kid, but he had already learned what he needed to know: The world
is a marvelous enough place, but it can sure be hard and mean.
Eddie Own Martin’s travels landed him in New York City.
Unfettered at last, he loosed himself upon the city's museums,
libraries and art houses. He explored ancient cultures, mythology
and world religion. Meanwhile, he painted, sculpted and studied
art. He walked on the Wild Side, too, and dressed in drag, often
sporting flamboyant garments he had stitched together himself.
Martin juked, jived, appropriated and survived, scratching out a
new home for himself in Bohemian America. Somewhere along
the line, he even learned to read palms and tell fortunes. It was
a good hustle. (Or was it? He certainly knew how to make ends
meet, but there's enough reason to believe that Martin was a bona
fide future-seer. He had a steady stream of dedicated clients, after
all, in a field where repeat business depends largely upon predic
tive accuracy.) His natural interest in the occu*t found expression
in New York as well, foreshadowing a most peculiar string of tranc
es and visions—visions that would inform, inspire and, at times,
plainly dictate Martin's artwork and way of life.
eaw
Martin's first vision came on strong, some time in the late
1930s. He was still raking and scraping in New York, but had be
come bedridden with the flu. His illness dragged on for days. And
then it happened. Feverish and sickly, with beads of sweat on his
brow, Martin quietly slipped beyond the veil and found himself in
the presence of three giant otherworldlies. They explained that
they were visitors from a futuristic realm known as "Pasaquan,"
and that their intention was to help ease humanity's suffering.
Martin was to be their chief diplomat, a medium between consen
sual reality and the world of Pasaquan. The visitors, who called
themselves "Pasaquoyans," then bestowed upon Martin a new
name, one that would reflect his budding vocation. From then on
he would be known as "St. Eom," pronounced "Saint AUM," as in
the sacred Sanskrit mantra chanted by Hindus and Buddhists the
world over.
For Eddie Owens Martin, this event must have been what's
called a "peak experience"—a spiritual high point in one's life
that gives meaning and order to everything that has preceded, as
well as all that is to follow. This is an important point, because
modern psychology tends to regard sacred visions as such with
much skepticism—and with good reason. After all, there's a fine
line between "vision" and "hallucination" or "delusion," especially
when you add up the facts that Martin was a hipster of the high
est order, known to enjoy his fair share of cannabis, and who also
happened to be in the throes of a high fever when his visions
first came on. Now, hallucinations are common in fevered states.
And we all know that, with heavy and prolonged use, marijuana
definitely has the capacity to crack open an astral plane or two.
But I'd like to offer another take on these visions, one that doesn't
confine St Eom to the realms of lunatic, addict, charlatan or fool.
Rather, I'd like to suggest the possibility that what happened to
Martin that day was the Real Deal, a shamanic experience right
Win
8 FLAGPOLE.COM - MARCH 28,2007 NEWS & FEATURES I ARTS & EVENTS I MOVIES I MUSIC I COMICS & ADVICE I CLASSIFIEDS