On being a fan of Charles Bukowski…

Most people when asked about their favorite author, or favorite genre of books will ramble on about the newest incarnations of the vampire or something involving dystopian futures, and the ridiculously contemptible – “mommy porn” (still trying to figure out what that means). Often included are a list of who’s who of literary heavies; the Kings, Pattersons, and Rowlings of the literary world. Not very often do you find on that list a dirty, old, misogynistic drunk from West Hollywood.

I first became aware of Charles Bukowski sometime in the early part of college in the mid 1990’s. It was a period where I spent countless hours in seedy college bars, playing pool, drinking beer, and…well…mostly just that. At the same time this lifestyle had a direct reflection in the artwork I was creating. My canvases had thick dark oil paints, piled in grotesques shapes, representing these blue collar barflies, who spent most days in the dark confines of the local over 21 establishments. Art imitating life was a definite understatement. During a class critique, I will never forget the words of my instructor who commented somewhat disgustingly, “That looks like something out of a Bukowski novel.” I took it as an indifferent comment, not knowing who this Bukowski fella was.

I immediately made my way after class to the local used bookstore and got my hands on a collection of poetry by Bukowski called “Love Is A Dog From Hell.” I poured through the pages, synthesizing, recognizing, and lauding the words. His writing had an honesty, that when taken in a certain context of artistic merit – one can overlook his rants about drunken stupors, mistreatment of women, and overall disgust with humanity. If you let it, his writing speaks to a visceral level of the human condition that most people try to ignore, and rarely embrace.

It really is a love him, or hate him relationship when it comes to Charles Bukowski. I stopped long ago trying to explain some of his literary acumen to haters. For me though, his work struck the proverbial artistic chord. There are those writers, artists, musicians that we find entertaining, and those we let have a lasting impact on our life. I’m not saying I long to spend my waking hours in bars, living in the gutters, and the decrepit underside of Hollywood, but I respect and admire the work of a man who did – and lived to write about it.

-Ryan