Books
Explore Darick Allan’s captivating books. Immerse yourself in narratives that celebrate the freedom of obscurity and ignite your passion for reading!
The Future Geniuses of America
Art Trucking in the 80’s
My appointment was with Bob Lennon, the owner of Artransport. He was from Mississippi and had been in the oil business. His desk was behind some red curtains at the end of the office, and D.E., the manager who led me there, wore an extreme frown. He lingered on the other side of the curtain. [read]
- I stumble into a shadowy niche of the art world.
- I meet the Red Queen.
- We’re sent to jail in Kentucky.
- My week with an anxious photographer.
- Sometimes you have to apologize anyway.
- Why most men are idiots.
- The Crab Trap, an experiment in Found Art.
- Lap’s masterpiece.
- Some dreams will kill you.
- The worst two words in the English language.
- Art education on the trucks.
- Collectors (and their bathrooms).
- Change the condition report.
- Openings.
- Stowaways.
- Saving money on the road.
- I want to fire Darick!
- Kevin rides to the desert.
- Kevin is abducted by aliens.
- Art and the military-industrial complex.
- Bestiality and Jesus.
- “That woman makes a living off her body.”
- Art is an accoutrement of power.
- The most segregated island in America.
- Artists and girlfriends and money.
- Is it warm back there?
- Lead soldiers and political murder.
- In and out of the limelight.
- Hit ‘n runs.
- The end of Artransport and John Douglas.
Epilogue
Books to be published
The Prisoner of Zone 22
The prisoners in the Zone 22 police station were short timers, which is to say that the worst offenders were soon transferred to a more miserable existence downtown. The rest were merely questionable characters who got into brawls or petty theft and were doing a little time off the street. Captain Javier Ixtlan knew most of them well. He pretended to look down on his charges and intimidated them easily because he was a big man; but the truth was that he only loathed himself. He was a naturally warmhearted person and sympathized with most people, traits he considered a terrible weakness in his line of work.
[to be published]
Anne Truitt in Her Studio
What are these beautiful, mysterious, objects? Regardless of how they are classified in art history—and they will be classified and re-classified, I’m sure—I think one has to start with the fact that the artist who made them was a spiritual being. Not just a person interested in ideas about religion, art, and politics—what are often called “influences” —but a spirit dealing with a body, in the world, in time. The wellspring of her work is elemental and pure. To Anne light, color and gravity were alive.
[to be published]
The Shepherd Boy
He did not understand why any of it had happened, and it left a variable impression on him. The memory of the gods approaching from the edge of the plateau mingled with the loneliness that followed his humiliation, and then the welcome given to him by his family and neighbors. The kindness of the doctor’s wife and the extraordinary gift of the lollipops even mitigated the awful experience of being sewn up. It was the last time in his childhood he was to ride on his father’s shoulders, and that privilege was one of the extraordinary things that made him look back on that day with a tingling mixture of injury and pride.
[to be published]
The Belly Button of the World
It had taken an hour to travel from Panajachel into the dusk: light glowed behind the three volcanoes along the south bay. As the ferry bounced on the whitecaps whipped up by the Xocomil, he thought about his future. He had been sent to find the American who had disappeared two weeks before in all that beauty: if he himself vanished, another person would follow him, or maybe not.
[to be published]
La Reforma
He thought: Who is this girl? Is it possible she likes me?
Sonia seemed to live in the sadness and the beauty of the song, and the room got smaller. Maybe it was because they were experiencing something together for the first time. But the intimacy didn’t die with the song. The moment held; she said: “Listen to the next one—oh, my God, it has sounds I’ve never heard before!” She leaned back on the bed to take it in and stretched.
“When I wake up early in the morning…”
Somewhere just outside the door Jaime heard shuffling again. He heard guitar licks in the song sliding backwards like thoughts on the edge of consciousness. Like the spy hovering at the edge of the room.
[to be published]