Jay Bashant Eccentric Brilliance — by Denise Copeland
cluster of art cottages on the south side, and across to the north, sits the main cottage Jay Bashant has nicknamed “The Ritz… Cracker.” That alone tells you plenty. Each cottage is painted in its own pastel, contrasting one another but somehow working together. Jay welcomed me to follow him down a Chicago brick pathway behind the Ritz; we wound through palms and a yard full of purple, pink, yellow and lush green
at what appeared to be part of a trumpet. Jay laughed when I pointed it out. He said he found it in the back of a metal salvage truck. And when he asked the salvage guy what the metal was worth, he wasted no time in offering 30-something dollars for it on the spot. This part of my story is an interesting contrast to usual articles addressing animal rescue, as I appreciate Jay’s valor and eccentrics. The studio sits behind the main cottage, a large metal “barndominium” tucked out of view. As we stepped inside, the space opened into a mix of organized chaos (his words, not mine). In the distance, handmade paper hung from the far wall. A quick scan of the room unveiled bright pops of color, neatly displayed canvases on easels, and a gray leather couch that felt like an open invitation to sit down and pick up the conversation where it last left off. Stories of the past came quickly, slipping into laughter just as easily. Jay and my publisher, Glen, grew up together, which helped the banter roll naturally. No formalities, just entertaining stories that surfaced each time he gravitated towards another piece of art. He talked about growing up, running around Stuart, and taking trips to the Bahamas. He didn’t over explain it, just enough to paint a mental picture of a fun carefree life. Sun, water, long days, trekking to West End with nowhere else to be. Jay graduated from Martin County High School in 1978, having arrived years
T he wind kicked a brisk coolness into the afternoon, cutting through the late day sun just as I spotted the white picket fence hosting the address to my destination. The white gravel drive crunched under the Jeep’s tires, defining my arrival. The property is divided by an east-west 2 lane road, with a small
foliage—a low-lying landscaping layered in without much concern for rules. As we approached the studio, an abstract metal dragon peeked through a bush, watching. I
questioned if it was constructed from discarded musical instruments as I looked curiously
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