Jim Pirtle in New York!
Hi Jim.
story on Glasstire: CLICK HERE
For those of us growing up or living in Montrose and the Heights, notsuoH was, and continues to be, an institution. My friends and I often found ourselves there well into the morning, playing chess with a handful of tattooed strangers and, after enough coffee, a few playwrights. The space belonged to painter and performance artist Jim Pirtle, and was nestled in a vintage 1893 three-story walk-up, in what was then a quiet, untouched and rail-free stretch of Main Street in downtown Houston. The space itself was an ever-changing mind-fuck of found objects—beer bottles, bikes, ancient magazines, Christmas lights, a sea of wooden coat hangers—and hundreds of other things which, when seen together, appeared more like garage sale items than peripheral décor.
"It's a graveyard of sorts," says Macias, who quit his job and sold his car for the opportunity to come up with Pirtle. "Here, nothing is what it seems, nothing is arbitrary and nothing is accidental."
Hi Jim.
story on Glasstire: CLICK HERE
For those of us growing up or living in Montrose and the Heights, notsuoH was, and continues to be, an institution. My friends and I often found ourselves there well into the morning, playing chess with a handful of tattooed strangers and, after enough coffee, a few playwrights. The space belonged to painter and performance artist Jim Pirtle, and was nestled in a vintage 1893 three-story walk-up, in what was then a quiet, untouched and rail-free stretch of Main Street in downtown Houston. The space itself was an ever-changing mind-fuck of found objects—beer bottles, bikes, ancient magazines, Christmas lights, a sea of wooden coat hangers—and hundreds of other things which, when seen together, appeared more like garage sale items than peripheral décor.
"It's a graveyard of sorts," says Macias, who quit his job and sold his car for the opportunity to come up with Pirtle. "Here, nothing is what it seems, nothing is arbitrary and nothing is accidental."
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