Frank the Fabricator
Abstract Paintings for Working Folks
Sometimes paintings tell me stories. In other instances, the act of painting informs me. I’d like to introduce you to Frank the Fabricator. Truth is, this story made me cry when I finished the first draft. And, the second. I’m not certain why this biopic affected me so deeply, maybe it’s because I know people just like these characters.
I have been every single one of these characters at one time or another.
My man Frank is a welder and fabricator. He’s been working in the same shop for ten years this coming June. No, his ass doesn’t hang out of his jeans when he bends over to pick up a new length of angle iron. HIs coveralls are tidy and his personal items are arranged ergonomically for easy access.
Nobody ever told him show up to work early. He observed that there was more work than could be completed during his allotted 8-hour day and planned accordingly. He packed his lunch each night and loaded the coffee maker. Just hit start.
The shop building was erected before systems to meld complex alloys were invented. The fifth generation operated the business as Goodson’s Iron and Metal Fabrication. The first generation just called it Goodson’s. The community already knew the family occupation. No need to put it on the sign, back then.
6:00 am
My man Frank was given a key 6 months after he started working at Goodson’s. He liked being the first person in the building. Opening the door, revealing the waking of sleeping machine, ready to do its job- produce. He liked to organize his work without distractions...review the day before...look at the schedule...people and job orders, but the moment of shop illumination was what he liked most. Renewal.
After he finished putting all his work in order, he sat down with his dented Stanley Thermos and made one more list. On a 3x5 card, he developed tonight’s practice schedule. He would revisit and tighten it during lunch. There’s no worse hell than being unprepared for eager 12 year old boys. To his mind, there was no bigger responsibility, either.
6:30 am
He was producing perfect welds on perfectly measured projects a full 90 minutes before the hangovers and clock-punchers parked their sloppy cars in the lot. Around 8:00, rarely at 8:00 and never before 8:00; the cacophonous drama of mostly mediocre craftsmen slid through the door. Their mouths ran faster than their feet as they waited for the coffee to brew, and they eased into their day by voicing complaints about their lives. The complaints seemed like every day working class problems, out of their control and unfixable. In almost every case, the complainer was unknowingly diagnosing the symptoms of their illness.
Frank had read a book in high school about Bobby Knight. He didn’t remember too much about it except the swearing, and one important saying: A failure to prepare is a preparation for failure.
The way I present Frank to you, the things I am showing you, may lead you to believe that he was judging them harshly. Yes and no. He had already judged them, but accepted their lifestyles. He grew up in this town. He loved them. However, their ways caused him to make conclusions. He didn’t want to live in that manner.
He never actively decided, but over time he determined that he must be more organized and thoughtful than others. In order to make a difference, to handle emergencies inevitably present while working with people who don’t value themselves properly, he must be radically ready. The prepared man is able to adapt. Overcome.
Frank smiled. He waved and said hello from a distance. His work area was physically and emotionally separated from the rest of the yahoos. One advantage to being a trusted and valued producer: people give you what you need to make them money. He policed his station with the tenacity of a Chef and his gear. Don’t touch my fucking knife. It applied to everything that affected his work and anyone and everyone who may encounter it.
He annoyed the others like an idiosyncratic older brother, and they affectionately teased him. “He’s so anal. He’s so unreasonable.” They’d say: “Frank is early again.” Frank don’t you have a home? Sarcastically: “don’t touch Frank’s workbench, he might shit rubber kittens...”
Throughout the day, the silly statements morphed into urgent questions: “frank, how do I fix this?”. “Frank, can you show me how to strengthen this span?” “Frank, have you seen my welding mask?” Of course, most of these questions were not questions at all. They were demands. Fix this. Strengthen my span. Let me use your mask. Tell me how, do my work, bail my ass out.
The worst demands where not considered, let alone spoken. These assumptions were the unfulfilled tasks of his coworkers’ passive-aggressive arrogance (or was it total ignorance?): Frank will do it. He always does.
If you’re a parent of more than two kids...you know this feeling.
Franks projects were best produced 90 minutes before people arrived until 30 minutes after they ambled through the door; when they decided to touch their own work.
You see where this goes? I know you do. It goes there every day, doesn’t it.
The two Goodson brothers had bought 51% of the business 3 years ago from their father. The dad came to the shop each day and bitched at employees and laughed with the customers, assuming he wasn’t driving his fifth-wheel to Florida for the winter. The boys’ uncle was the head of sales. Their grandma had been managing the invoices for forty years. In her mind, the business got sloppy every time she left for Ft. Myers.
Frank and John, the younger brother, were best friends since Kindergarden. They had hung in this shop since the 8th grade. Making go-carts or fixing their broken cars in the middle of the night before mom could observe the damage and begin her inquisition. Drinking beer with girls after prom before the camera system was installed. Sitting on the tables. Learning about life.
I have set this stage for you, though I’m sure that you already recognize it, to show you one simple and incontrovertible fact of the working man: Good workers always get the shaft. This is not a labor union statement. Not rich versus poor. Nothing political or remotely socio-economic. I think it’s science.
I propose that it is the unpublished 5th law of thermodynamics. Good work begets more work. Everyone else willingly lives off the tit...of the producer.
It’s the squeeze between working for your boss and picking up the slack for the clock punchers. Working for the boss is natural thing. Working with your coworkers is a natural thing. High productivity, skillful work, honest, willingness to help are all symptoms of one thing: caring a little more. Caring too much becomes a slavery, to the boss and the employee.
When you become foundational to whatever process you exist in, you become a solid place for people to pile their shit on.
But mostly, it is about time- the only commodity of any true value.
Noon.
By lunch, Frank accomplished his schedule and fixed everyone else’s problems. He reviewed the basketball practice plan. He thought it was solid basis for his players’ improvement. Practice at 430. He wanted to arrive at 4 to greet the kids as they arrived...set the tone for practice from the jump ball.
He occupied the end of the lunch table separated from the 6 other men eating. He worked his plan while they commiserated...complained...gossiped and made unreasonable statements about people. Smart people talk about ideas. Regular people talk about events. Dumb people talk about others. Commiserating clock-punchers form alliances of complaint without solution or action...even if you love them. Frank liked to talk as much as anyone, but he was often frustrated, because he wanted to talk about new processes and bettering the business.
As Frank was leaving the table, John came into the breakroom. He needed to fit an emergency repair to today’s plan for a long-time customer.
“It shouldn’t take long, but the damage may be our mistake and I want to get it handled fast. I’m going to send Phil out to pick it up and bring it to your station. As soon as he finishes lunch, he’ll go.”
There were two projects that had to be finished to make room for the emergency. The first was simple, a couple welds and some grinding. The second was waiting for Phil to finish rough cutting aluminum. He walked to Phil’s work area...no Phil, no aluminum. Lunch area? Nope. He had to find him before he left the building to run to the customer’s house.
He asked 7 people regarding Phil’s whereabouts. 4 different answers. Bathroom. Smoking. Office. 4 Idunno’s. He resorted the search to brute force. He yelled at the top of his lungs: “PHIIIILLLLLLLLLLLL”. Granny poked her head out the office door and screamed back: “I’m on the phone up here, Phil went to the pharmacy for me.”
1 pm.
Frank applied the two needed welds while watching the door. As he finished the grinding and smoothing, the door opened and Phil walked though the door with no particular place to be. He held a pharmacy bag, an large MacDonald’s sack, a over-sized cup of soda, a phone charger and an expensive travel-ing water bottle in one hand; with the other he held his iphone out to continue a terse face-time conversation with his ex-wife.
“He brought everything but aluminum sheers.” Avoiding his first reaction of the fury he felt at Phil’s state of readiness, Frank gave him the familiar nod: “I need you as soon as possible.”
And then it hit him. The straw that broke. Phil couldn’t legally drive the company work truck. DUI. Two weeks ago. shit
2:00 pm.
Phil finally finds his way over to Franks workbench, but instead he locating him there, he sees him working the aluminum.
It took 20 minutes for John to locate Phil tell him his role in emergency error pickup. It took 15 more minutes discussing Phil’s driving record and this led to a question of why he decided to drive Grandma’s car to the pharmacy. All this, and still nobody was en route to the customer.
Frank’s rough cut on the aluminum took twice too-long due to working in Phil’s cluster-fucked work area.
2:45 pm
John peeled out of the lot in the work truck and headed to the customer’s residence. It was a 15 minute drive each way. But there was a problem. There is a difference between a worker and an owner talking about a problem with a customer. This would add at least 30 minutes to the trip, assuming the machinery loaded into the truck easily. Nobody had time for this...
3:15 pm
Frank had kept a lid on his anger. He worked through the problems. He finished the project that included the aluminum and organized his work area to make room for the emergency repair. Pretty normal day, frankly. He finished and waited.
He yelled: “FUUUCCCKKKK”…to nobody while he waited.
When a producer, a honest and careful productive worker, is forced into dead time waiting for people to overcome their inefficiencies, and thereby making him unproductive; and multiply that by the prospect of being late for the only thing in the world that they enjoy for their own pleasure...and in doing so, the producer’s ability to affect his own outcomes have been eliminated by avoidable circumstance, you have officially sandpapered a wildcats ass.
In this observer’s opinion: you deserve what you get, however it comes.
Stewing. Boiling inside, he knew that he would be lucky to make it to practice by 430, let alone be early enough to set the tone.
He composed a text message to his assistant coach:
“Hey- I’m going to be late. Here is a photo of the practice schedule. Listen, I need you to be there at 4. Make sure you greet every kid and tell them to warm up. Be positive! Basketball is fun. Improving is fun! When you get the balls out, make sure that they are practicing things they will do in the game according to their position. Don’t let them fuck around and grab ass. Participate with them. Make it fun, make it learning. I should be there by 435 or so. thanks a million.”
The reply came rather quickly....”can’t get there til 4:30”.
He picked up the phone to check John’s ETA. “Where the fuck are you, dude?”.
“this motherfucker talked to me for 40 minutes about how Daddy would have never let this happen. Like a damn lecture. I’ve been working on his stuff for 20 years. Who does he think did the work when Dad ran the joint? Anyway, I’m about five minutes out. You need something else?”
“Nah. I just wanted to be to basketball practice at 4.”
“Oh shit, I forgot, man. I’m sorry. I’m glad you reminded me. Can you pick up John JR. on the way to practice? I forgot to ask you earlier. I have to stay late and Cynthia has a thing.”
“No problem, homie. I’ll already be late...what’s a couple more minutes.”
Knowing laughter.
While they were talking, Frank opened the overhead door so John could back the truck in when he arrived. Maybe they would get lucky and be able to fix the unit without taking it off the truck.
3:50
As expected, John saw the rolled-up door and knew what Frank had in mind. He backed it in perfectly like the ‘69 Nova from High School. He got out, slammed the door...took off his suit jacket and tie...
“let’s get this fucker done”
They became 16 year old boys again, working with the urgency that they learned fixing that Nova before their parents found out. John touched any tool he wanted with impunity and put it back any where he wanted. Frank didn’t care. It was John. He actually knew where John would set the wrench. He knew before where even before he was done wrenching.
It seemed everyone showed up to watch them work. Phil watched closely and didn’t understand why he was interested. Granny wanted to know how the invoice should read and how much. Grandpa Goodson walked by and asked how they could let this happen to Mr. X. The oldest brother ended a phone call and asked if he could help. Then he asked if he could return the unit back to X. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind...
4:05
Frank threw all the tools and pieces and extra material on his workbench. He’d come in early tomorrow to organize it. He washed his face and hands, removed his coveralls revealing a perfect, straight out of the 90’s Nike sweatsuit. Flight. His coaching whistle had been hanging from his neck the entire day. He should have used the whistle to find Phil.
He sprinted to the car. It did not start on the first crank. Shocker. He realized he had the bag of basketballs in the back seat...even if his assistant could’ve helped him, it would’ve been for nothing.
Second crank: boom...slammed it in reverse, slammed it in drive.
He picked up Jr.
4:20
He and Jr. walked into the gym and turned on the lights. The click click click of each zone of lighting turning on. Renewal. He had a rushing anxiety that builds when you have ten things to do before you go somewhere you want to be. You can’t be out-of-focus around kids, you gotta be a rock for them. He took a beat and erased the day. The kids began to arrive shortly after. Squeaking gym shoes and bouncing Wilson Jets always removed his stress.
He started in on them...
“Hey billy...hey jimmy...hey joe....are you ready to get better today? You’ve done a great job recently, keep it up. Hey- I need you to work that hard all the time. Excellent. Good job. Did you work on you left-hand dribbling this weekend?
Dude, you forgot your shoes? Failure to prepare is preparation to fail! I used to put all my gear in my bag the night before practice. That way I could take my time to remember everything. I wouldn’t have to worry after school if I have everything i need.”
Goodson Jr. was at a basket with his best friend. The friend was the team’s best player. He was not the best athlete and he hadn’t been playing long, but he worked harder than everyone. He listened and tried to emulate his coaching with intense purpose. He had a wonderful attitude.
“Hey Philly- saw your Dad today. I told him how good of a player that you are becoming. Keep it up, dude!”
My man, Frank…
About Jason Keusch, Million Dollar Garage, 999 and more…
Ten years ago I wasn’t an artist. Now, I’ve sold work all over the country for big money. For the last five years something about that has not sat right with me.
My art is expensive. I’m proud that it fetches such a price, but it is not affordable to people like me. The people I grew up with. The people who ride Long Island trains to work. The people who build houses, pour concrete, run CAT scans, adjust claims, keep places running.
The folks who do what they say and say what they do.
Those are my people. The practical ones who would rather have a paid off truck, a good fishing spot, and a yard they are proud to mow every week than another shiny thing (unless it’s a new mower). This is us. In some way it is almost everyone.
So I am making a change. Not to the work. To the price. I am going to put my effort toward the Jimmies and the Joes, and yes, I want to be a millionaire too.
My studio newsletter is called Million Dollar Garage. It started as a smart ass name for the garage where I paint every day. Now I want to make it literal.
Turn Million Dollar Garage into a 1,000,000 dollar garage.
The goal is basically impossible. Even at New York prices it would be a stretch. To hell with it. It will make a great story.
Here is the plan. I am going to sell 1,000 large original paintings for 999 dollars each. In five years. That is 200 a year, about 17 a month. I want to make real, high quality paintings for my neighborhood and yours, all under 1,000.
A thousand dollars is still a serious buy. It should hurt a little. It is not HomeGoods. It is a commitment to this story. Right now the middle full time American worker makes about 1,196 dollars a week, so 1,000 dollars is roughly one week of pay for the middle of the country. That is who I am aiming around.
What I want you to know is this: I am trying to make paintings that people actually connect with. Not because they “get” abstract art, but because it hits something they already feel. Thoughts and feelings we all have but cannot quite say out loud. Like a language nobody speaks but everybody understands when they hear it.
The change is this. From now on, I am making these conversations for you, which means for us.
You might not want a painting. You might not like abstract art. Spoiler: there is nothing to get. You like it or you don’t... It makes you feel better about things or not...or, more importantly, it makes you feel something and you like the story behind the work.
This plan is not just about selling 1,000 paintings. It is about finding out if regular people and one stubborn artist can make a story together.
I am giving it one year to prove the concept. If I go all in and fail, I will quit the art world. I will be the guy at Speedway telling stories about when he tried to build a million dollar garage while selling fine art at reasonable prices.
If, somehow, with your support, five years from now we hit 1,000 paintings, then we get to tell a different story. A story about the American Dream, again.
