Friday, March 24, 2017

Art by Richard Schemmerer at Anne Bocci Gallery


Art Opening

Thursday, April 6 at 5 PM - 8 PM

Anne Bocci Boutique & Gallery
416 NW 12th Avenue, Portland, Oregon 97209

more info at


Art by Richard Schemmerer

Richard Schemmerer is an international artist, writer, designer who has exhibited world wide in many venues from blue chip galleries to independed spaces. His art is a reference to the past that shows us a way into the future

Contemporary Urban Art Paintings
inspired by the poems of Arthur Rimbault

Tracing the source of frequency

As we live in and contemplate the world around us we are faced with the reality that we are still in many ways the same people like in the Middle ages but technology is not. We have entered a paradigm shift with the digital revolution but our mind thinks still in analog terms of right or wrong. Our body-system reacts to impulses of the survival instinct and many times we interact on the base of the strongest takes it all.
In many ways we are bombarded with information these days that was never available to the ordinary human. That is a good and a bad thing depending on our needs to find balance in that Urban jungle we prefer to live in.
My paintings don't display a point of view or judge but they capture moods and ways of thinking to mirror these states of being and to help us reflect on the frequencies we expose ourselves daily. They are a primordial depictions of creation as it unfolds from a none descript mass into solid forms with assigned purpose.


36x36 $ 800
mixed media, Acrylic on paper mounted on card board


I have kissed the summer dawn. Before the palaces, nothing moved. The water lay dead. Battalions of shadows still kept the forest road.

I walked, walking warm and vital breath, While stones watched, and wings rose soundlessly.

My first adventure, in a path already gleaming With a clear pale light, Was a flower who told me its name.

I laughted at the blond Wasserfall That threw its hair across the pines: On the silvered summit, I came upon the goddess.

Then one by one, I lifted her veils. In the long walk, waving my arms.

Across the meadow, where I betrayed her to the cock. In the heart of town she fled among the steeples and domes, And I hunted her, scrambling like a beggar on marble wharves.

Above the road, near a thicket of laurel, I caught her in her gathered veils, And smelled the scent of her immense body. Dawn and the child fell together at the bottom of the wood.

When I awoke, it was noon.

Arthur Rimbaud


36x36 $ 800
mixed media, Acrylic on paper mounted on card board


In the blue summer evenings, I will go along the paths,
And walk over the short grass, as I am pricked by the wheat:
Daydreaming I will feel the coolness on my feet.
I will let the wind bathe my bare head.
I will not speak, I will have no thoughts:
But infinite love will mount in my soul;
And I will go far, far off, like a gypsy,
Through the country side-joyous as if I were with a woman.

Arthur Rimbaud


24x24 $240
acrylic on paper mounted on card board


The pigeons which flutter in the meadow,
the game which runs and sees in the dark,
the water animals, the animal enslaved,
the last butterflies!.. also are thirsty.
But to dissolve where that wandering cloud is dissolving -
Oh! Favoured by what is fresh!
To expire in those damp violets
whose awakening fills these woods?

Arthur Rimbaud


36 x 48 $ 1800
mixmedia, acrylic on canvas


From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas,
on pink and orange sands washed by the vinous sky,
crystal boulevards have just risen and crossed,
immediately occupied by poor young families
who get their food at the greengrocers'.
Nothing rich.-- The city! From the bituminous desert,
in headlong flight with the sheets of fog spread
in frightful bands across the sky,
that bends, recedes, descends,
formed by the most sinister black smoke
that Ocean in mourning can produce,
flee helmets, wheels, boats, rumps.--
The battle! Raise your eyes: that arched wooden bridge;
those last truck gardens of Samaria; those faces reddened
by the lantern lashed by the cold night;
silly Undine in her noisy dress, down by the river;
those luminous skulls among the rows of peas,--
and all the other phantasmagoria-- the country.
Roads bordered by walls and iron fences
that with difficulty hold back their groves,
and frightful flowers probably called loves and doves,
Damask damning languorously,-- possessions of magic
aristocracies ultra-Rhinish, Japanese, Guaranian,
still qualified to receive ancestral music-- and there are inns
that now never open anymore,--
there are princesses, and if you are not too overwhelmed,
the study of the stars-- the sky.
The morning when with Her you struggled among
the glittering of snow, those green lips,
those glaciers, black banners and blue beams,
and the purple perfumes of the polar sun.-- Your strength.

Arthur Rimbaud

24x24 $240
acrylic on paper mounted on card board


I am an ephemeral
and a not too discontented citizen
of a metropolis considered modern
because all known taste
has been evaded in the furnishings
and the exterior of the houses
as well as in the layout of the city.

Here you will fail to detect the least trace
of any monument of superstition.
Morals and language
are reduced to their simplest expression,
at last! The way these millions of people,
who do not even need to know each other,
manage their education, business,
and old age is so identical
that the course of their lives
must be several times less long
than that which a mad statistics
calculates for the people of the continent.

And from my window I see new specters rolling through
the thick eternal smoke--
our woodland shade, our summer night!--
new Eumenides in front of my cottage
which is my country and all my heart
since everything here resembles it,--
Death without tears,
our diligent daughter and servant,
a desperate Love, and a pretty
Crime howling in the mud in the street.

Arthur Rimbaud


24x24 $240
acrylic on paper mounted on card board


A winding movement on the slope beside the rapids of the river.
The abyss at the stern,
The swiftness of the incline,
The overwhelming passage of the tide,
With extraordinary lights and chemical wonders
Lead on the travelers
Through the windspouts of the valley
And the whirlpool.
These are the conquerors of the world,
Seeking their personal chemical fortune;
Sport and comfort accompany them;
They bring education for races, for classes, for animals
Within this vessel, rest adn vertigo
In diluvian light,
In terrible evenings of study.
Arthur Rimbaud

Common Nocturne

24 x 48 $ 900
acrylic on canvas

Common Nocturne

A breath opens operatic breaches
in the walls,-- blurs the pivoting of crumbling roofs,--
disperses the boundaries
of hearths,-- eclipses the windows.

Along the vine, having rested my foot on a waterspout,
I climbed down into this coach,
its period indicated clearly enough
by the convex panes of glass,
the bulging panels, the contorted sofas.

Isolated hearse of my sleep,
shepherd's house of my insanity,
the vehicle veers on the grass
of the obliterated highway:
and in the defect at the top
of the right-hand windowpane
revolve pale lunar figures, leaves, and breasts. --

A very deep green and blue invade the picture.
Unhitching near a spot of gravel. --
Here will they whistle for the storm,
and the Sodoms and Solymas,
and the wild beasts and the armies,
(Postilion and animals of dream,
will they begin again in the stifling
forests to plunge me up to my eyes
in the silken spring?)
And, whipped through the splashing of waters
and spilled drinks, send us rolling
on the barking of bulldogs...
--A breath disperses
the boundaries of the hearth.

Arthur Rimbaud


24 x 48 $ 900

acrylic on canvas


On the slope of the knoll angels
whirl their woolen robes
in pastures of emerald and steel.
Meadows of flame leap up to the summit of the little hill.

At the left, the mold of the ridge is trampled by all the homicides
and all the battles, and all the disastrous noises
describe their curve. Behind the right-hand
ridge, the line of orients and of progress.

And while the band above the picture is composed of the revolving
and rushing hum of seashells and of human nights,
The flowering sweetness of the stars and of the night
and all the rest descends, opposite the knol
l, like a basket,-- against our face, and
makes the abyss perfumed and blue below.

Arthur Rimbaud


36 x 48 $ 1800
mixmedia, acrylic on canvas


'The flag goes with the foul landscape,
and our jargon muffles the drum.'
In the great centers we'll nurture
the most cynical prostitution.
We'll massacre logical revolts.

In spicy and drenched lands!--
at the service of the most monstrous
exploitations, industrial or military.
'Farewell here, no matter where.

Conscripts of good will,
ours will be a ferocious philosophy;
ignorant as to science, rabid for comfort;
and let the rest of the world croak.
This is the real advance. Marching orders, let's go!'

Arthur Rimbaud


12 x12 $ 120
acrylic on paper on card board


It has been found again.
What ? - Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.

From human approbation,
From common urges
You diverge here
And fly off as you may.

Since from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying : at last.
Here is no hope,
No orietur.
Knowledge and fortitude,
Torture is certain.

It has been found again.

What ? - Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Arthur Rimbaud


12 x12 $ 120
acrylic on paper on card board


On a brilliant morning, in a city of lovely people,
A wonderful man and a wonderful woman
Were shouting out loud, in the middle of town:
'Oh, my friends... I wanter her to be queen! '
'I want to be a queen! '
She kept on laughing and trembling,
While he talked to his friends about revelations,
And tribulations at an end.
They laughed and they leaned close to one another.
And, of course, they were royal...
All morning long, when scarlet draperies hung upon all the houses,
And even in the afternoon,
When they appeared at the edge of the gardens of palms.

Arthur Rimbaud

"The Soul"
20 x 28 $ 600

acrylic on canvas

The Soul

Eternal Undines, split the pure water.
Venus, sister of azure, stir up the clear wave.
Wandering Jews of Norway, tell me of snow;
old beloved exiles tell me of the sea.
Myself: No, no more of these pure drinks,
these water-flowers for glasses;
neither legends nor faces quench my thirst;
singer, your god-child is my thirst so mad,
a mouthless intimate hydra
which consumes and ravages.

Arthur Rimbaud


20 x 28 $ 600
acrylic on canvas


Problems put by, the inevitable descent of heaven
and the visit of memories and the assembly
of rhythms occupy the house,
the head and the world of the spirit. --

A horse scampers off on the suburban track,
and along the tilled fields and woodlands,
pervaded by the carbonic plague.
A miserable woman of drama, somewhere in the world,
sighs for improbable desertions.
Desperados pine for strife, drunkenness and wounds.
-- Little children stifle their maledictions along the rivers.
Let us resume our study to the noise of the consuming work
that is gathering and growing in the masses


24x48 $ 990
mixed media, acrylic on canvas


Everything seen...
The vision gleams in every air.
Everything had...
The far sound of cities, in the evening,
In sunlight, and always.
Everything known...
O Tumult! O Visions! These are the stops of life.

Departure in affection, and shining sounds.

Arthur Rimbaud


24x48 $ 990
mixed media, acrylic on canvas


Clear water; [stinging] like the salt of a child's tears,
the whiteness of women's bodies attacking the sun;
silken, in masses and pure lily, banners under the walls a maiden defended;
The frolic of angels - No… the current of gold in motion moves its arms,
dark and above all cool, of green. She [the weed] sinks,
and having the blue Heaven for a canopy,
takes for curtains the shade of the hill and of the arch.

Oh! The wet surface stretches out its clear bubbles!
The water covers the made beds with pale and bottomless gold;
[it is as if] the faded green dresses of little girls
[were] playing at willows, out of which leap the unbridled birds.
Purer than a gold louis, yellow warm eyelid, the marsh marigold -
thy conjugal faith O Spouse! - at noon sharp,
from its dull mirror, envies the rosy beloved
Sphere in the sky wan with heat.

Arthur Rimbaud

Sunday, March 19, 2017



"Just a normal day in paradise"
photography and head piece by Richard Schemmerer

Okay lets give this a try and interact. Portfunia Unleashed is a page I started awhile ago but it never got of the ground. Maybe the time is now in the ye of the impending end of good times. Portfunia is looking for the last remnants of the signs of the time the signs of the unleashed. As we are all herded around the daily news bowl and chow down what's served up piping hot we lost track of the creatively outrages inspiring uplifting works many are still engaging in or conspiring to do. The Arts are being cut not just like in circumcised but basically chopped like in Bobbitt of the Art body which is us.
Doing art is always an act of resistance to a system that is mostly enamored with control of mind body and our wallets. This doesn't have to an act of cry babe but can empower what we wrongly term soul but is in actuality a part of our intellect that is always searching for ways to express itself. If this channel is blocked by ourselves or others disease can manifest.
PORTFUNIA will go out on the streets of Portland and keep this queer light alive. WEIRD is good but not enough to be weird just for its own sake is narcissism. What I am looking for is a PULSE that is collective in Nature .
A sorts of renaissance of our highest ideals and greatest hits of human potential.
Yes that's a lofty goal but we have been dumbed down so we have to make up ground. Art is the holy ground we can meet on and prosper together.
Art not for arts sake but art that has a budget that can be used to counter act the upheaval the future is presenting us with.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

"The end seems closer in the rare view mirror" by Richard Schemmerer

"Self portrait of an terminal optimist" art by Richard Schemmerer

The end seems closer in the rare view mirror by Richard Schemmerer

I lost some identity by pleasing cultural trends and now while the Empire crumbles I want out. The masquerade ball is over and in brought daylight the lines on my face are showing the way. Usually men shave their heads or buy a fast car and I might follow that route later but first I give it one more push to push me into the lime light. It is time to loose the old mans attitude and to bring out my game face.

Nothing has unraveled yet all the factors are still in place. There is still a future in waiting a hope to draw strength from. No I am not forgetting the past but I am also not continuing to live it. I want to experience myself in a new way the way of tomorrow. I want to meet the unknown me the undefined one to make me once more raw in the head instead of hung up and smoked out.

I want to remember again with every breath of who I am what label I wear what cologne enhances my masculinity which hair cut lets me be a player and what books are tickling everyone’s funny bone. Feed me to the wolves if you want to and I'll come back stronger to tell about it. I want my tongue to taste life again like a first lick of blood that taught me what I like or don’t like. I am pushing all my silly buttons at once and watch the Jack in my Box bounce with excitement. I am having my Grace Jones moment I never left but I am still having a comeback and it will make Kenny Scharf’s world look pale in comparison.

I am the fish the salmon that returns to span for one last time for one last hurray to return forever in the eternal ocean.

The pieces are there now I have to set them in place to serve as my back drop. This is going to be a celebration in the midst of chaos and what ever will happen will be left I’ll use to rebuilt the world maybe not as we know it but as we get to know it.

My juices are boiling with a historical fire I learned about while this knowledge was still available. It was transmitted from person to person mentor to pupil and is not currently available for sure not on the Net.

I can make myself feel good by not holding back the best parts of my self not holding back of who I am because I can’t please everyone anyway. The final frontier is not space but it is the brain and its juice factory.

Attitude is the calling card tolerance the mantra.

I am developing into a human being not a human doing. I am designed to inspire so I might as well do it.

The end seems closer in the rare view mirror so its time to leave it behind.