RETURN TO THE COFFEEHOUSE ARTICLES

What do the KKK, The Puerto Rican Porno Mafia, drugs, and a stepladder have in common? They all at one time or another fucked up Fred Burkhart. Let me explain.

I like to sit and talk with the old men at bars. They know something, if nothing more than how to survive. The kids, they’re complaining about their jobs at the local watering hole where they shlep drinks all night. At least they’ve got a job where you drink for free. They’re starting record companies with their iMacs, a CD burner and a download site and wondering why they’re poor. They’re bitching about Bush. I like bush. Oh…you mean the president. But I digress. Politics will reach another article. Fred would be upset with me if we leaned too far in that direction. You see, he prefers that people come to his place with art in mind, music in the heart, poetry in the soul. That they be born with this silver spoon of creativity above all else.

There is little more telling in life, few things that bring you a greater perspective than communication with someone who has learned through the hard truth of experience. You can read all the Kerouac you want. Get on the road with the old drunk and then tell me what a genius he was. Fred Burkhart has lived this way. He is the long road to unlimited devotion to his art and life. Find him and listen. Shut your opinionated young mouth, educated from bytes of what you are told is right and cool, and listen. Forget your leanings. Throw out the notions, and enjoy the potion of love for what an old man has done. An aged man who is truly full of real youth and a special kind of liberalism—the non-political kind.

Eleven weeks ago, on June 29th, Fred was seriously injured when he fell off his ladder while hanging a sign for his underground café, appropriately called The Burkhart Underground. This is really the basement of his two story rented yellow house stashed like a hillbilly’s hold out amongst the town homes, tea rooms and Yupbars of long since gentrified Lincoln Park.

“I rented the space 19 years ago, to give birth to and make a home for my daughter, Trinity Valentine, although my home has always been a gallery and studio,” he explains, “The coffeehouse grew out of the vacancy that was caused when my daughter was prematurely taken from my home seven years ago. The coffeehouse and its many young people are not a substitute for her, but it is truly made out of the love she left here. It keeps multiplying, and someday I expect her to come back home and pick up the interest that others have created in her behalf.”

This is what I’m talking about. When you sit with Burkhart in one of the well-used old chairs anywhere in his gallery…er…home…um….gallery…you get the idea…you can easily be taken aback. First by his Henry Miller directness, then by his unexpected depth. The ancient raconteur will assail you with amazing fish stories even as you reluctantly make your way to the door. He is beatnik without pretension, hippy without the politics, artist without hesitation, and has lived life for the scars and all.

Since his accident, which literally broke his back, Fred has been recovering faster than expected. However, he has not been able to work to either keep the Underground going or to take in paying work. Fortunately, many people chipped in and covered his rent and expenses to some degree. There has been talk of a fundraiser, but nothing much has materialized. The Reader did a piece on him. Still the bills are coming in and this old man is convalescing with no real means to pay them until he gets back on his feet.

Telling me more about his recovery he said this: “Although I continue to approach my situation like a kid, I must do so inside this 63 year old body, there are long months ahead.”

Fred Burkhart is a highly talented photographer and visual artist with a wealth of work in his studio and to his credit. He has documented enough to span thirty years of life with all its nooks and crannies with no filter for the queasy, and has captured people in all walks of life and in all their beauty.