In last year’s Artomatic, there was an installation that featured a taxidermied coyote. There were pictures of the coyote around town, along with lots of imagery that had no rhyme or reason (to my eyes, anyway). I found it highly amusing.

The artist was known only as “Xavier Beltran” and, contrary to popular opinion, Xavier’s identity was a mystery to all of us.

One day, Sean posted on the artdc forum, asking if anyone knew a few of the artists who he hadn’t met, including Xavier Beltran. I had a few minutes to kill so I took the bait:

I’m glad you asked, Sean. I’ve known Xavier since the late 60s, when we met in college. We both dropped out to devote our time to protesting the United State’s repressive foreign policy. Our protests caught the attention of The Man and eventually, we did a nickle in Folsom Prison (for Vietnam War protesting). That was in 1971. After we got out of the Big House we hitchhiked to Kansas City to try to make a clean start.

Airplane glue and cough syrup were plentiful in KC and we found it hard to stay on the straight and narrow. I became a woman and moved to Maine, eventually owning and operating a string of highly profitable lobster boats.

After a few stints in rehab, Xavier got clean and moved to Quebec to start a mission for displaced and homeless goatherders. We tried to keep in touch but eventually drifted apart. You know how that is.

From time to time, I would wonder where Xavier is and occassionally thought of googling his name. I was always stopped by the purity of my memories of our time spent speaking truth to power. I was afraid that time (and my inevitable submission to the Capitalist Machine) would, if we were ever to reconnect, cheapen those memories for the both of us.

Late last year I was in the Social Safeway in Georgetown in the express lane behind Trent Lott, who was buying 11 cartons of eggs. He was arguing with the gentleman in front of him over whether this could feasibly count as 10 items or less. Eventually, Lott was chastened by the power and quiet dignity of the man’s argument on behalf of supermarket shopper equality and moved over into a regular aisle.

I was relieved to be able to empy my basket on the counter. I only had 9 items but they were heavy. 8 large cans and a 23 pound turkey. As I unloaded my basket I thanked the gentleman and as we made eyecontact I realized it was Xavier.

We went to Au Pied and caught up over 7 pots of coffee and a plate of crullers. Eventually, our talk turned to art. Xavier is now an art therapist and works for the US Fish and Wildlife Service, teaching young coyotes who’ve been orphaned how to express their rage on canvas.

“The pups have made tremendous progress and their work with squirrel entrails…” Xavier choked up, tears of pride swelling in his eyes. He couldn’t go on. He pulled out a small portfolio and spread it on the table.

He was right. Their work was more advanced than any cannid art I’d ever seen.

Well, I couldn’t let him slip back out of my life so easily, so I invited him to join us at Artomatic. He and the pups have got an installation piece on the 8th floor and he couldn’t be prouder.

If he doesn’t take a transfer to Yosemite to work with Bison struggling with PTSD at the end of the year, he has agreed to take on the role of Co-Chair of the Steering Committee, but only if Arthur Monday is willing to accept the other chair.

Xavier’s a good guy. I’m pleased you want to know him better.

It was all completely untrue, of course. Nevertheless, I still get the occasional message asking if I’d like to give a talk about shrimping. So far, I’ve declined.

I’m not really posting this for any particular reason, other than that it popped into my head in the middle of a Board meeting for no good reason and I almost started laughing. (I do know the true identity of Arthur Monday, but if I told you that I think I’d have to kill you or something).