CHAD ALLEN :: Chicago Based Artist

CHAD ALLEN

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PORTABLES

DOD

PUBLIC ART

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PORTABLE main

Umm Nur, an Empty Drawer and a Kern Street Rock Nest

2009-2010

PORTABLES

DOD main

DRAWING of the DAY

17 MAR 11

DRAWING

of the DAY

MIXED MEDIA

BLOG

BACK OFF MUSTACHE BLOG

PHOTOGRAPHY Inventory 24Jan2010 090.jpg

PHOTOGRAPHY

ABOUT

Chad Allen was born in the sweaty summer of 1980 deep in the east side of Waterloo, Iowa. His love for the arts stems directly from the paternal branch of his family weed with a great-uncle that cartooned for the Saturday Evening Post and a grandfather who was a renowned story teller and folk artist. After growing up in a river town that smelled like tomatoes and grain alcohol he left for the university to earn a degree so that he would not become that guy who still lived in his mothers basement. With a diploma in his pocket he began feverously creating art while simultaneously renovating a house with his red head wife, teaching himself how to cook, establishing a studio, opening a free bed and breakfast, becoming an amateur sommelier and a professional junk collector. Once the junk collection began to take over the attic he started to explore the possibility of portable artwork without compromising aesthetics or falling into a pit of cliché images and construction. He is currently shopping his work to prospective collectors other than his mom.
CONTACT

SEND ME A CARRIER PIGEON

MOBILE +1 319 404 1571 //// EMAIL backoffmustache(at)gmail.com

PORTABLES

Portable 001. $325
Portable 002. $325
Portable 003. $175
Portable 004. $1650. SOLD
Portable 005. $375
Portable 006. $175
Portable 007. $1050. SOLD
Portable 008. $100
Portable 011. $225
Portable 010. $475

PORTABLES

I find contemporary American culture and its lack of commitment to be the perfect audience for my portable work. It is this incessant need to keep on the move without a chance to breathe that sparked my development of Portables, altars built within found steamer trunks, suitcases and boxes. My Portables allow those in their possession to worship Catholic Saints wherever they find themselves, alleviating the need to for a cathedral or place of worship much like a cell phone alleviates the need for a land line or even rarer pay phone.
2D

Bird Series

Bird Series. $150 EACH

Regurgitating an Equinox
Lunar Excursion
Democracies: 010:159 Fogarty
Brunch with Mother
High Tea with Blue Hairs
Boys don’t have Eating Disorde

Paper

Paper Asemblages

Assemblage 001 $30 SOLD
Assemblage 002 $25
Assemblage 003 $35 SOLD
Assemblage 004 $25
Assemblage 005 $40
Assemblage 006 $35
Assemblage 007 $35
Assemblage 008 $40 SOLD

Mixed Media

Drawing and Painting

Fallopian NFS
Thirst NFS
heiße Wannefrau NFS
fünf leere deutsche Frauen NFS
Portuguese Intermission SOLD
detail: $800
detail: $800
Nepalese Hand me Downs SOLD
15 min. Per Slot $150

Photography

Inventory 24 JAN 11. 001
Inventory 24 JAN 11. 002
Inventory 24 JAN 11. 003
Inventory 24 JAN 11. 004
Inventory 24 JAN 11. 005
Inventory 24 JAN 11. 006

fünf leere deutsche Frauen

2007

48 x 60 x 2 3/4

Acrylic, India Ink, Cognac on Canvas

2D

BIRD SERIES

PAPER ASSEMBLAGES

DRAWING and PAINTING

PHOTOGRAPHY

DRAWING of the DAY

DOD

JAN 2011

JAN 2011. $10 EACH

30 JAN 11
29 JAN 11
28 JAN 11
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21 JAN 11

FEB 2011

FEB 2011. $10 EACH

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MAR 2011

MAR 2011. $10 EACH

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APR 2011

APR 2011. $10 EACH

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MAY 2011

MAY 2011. $10 EACH

Tutorial
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JUN 2011

JUN 2011. $10 EACH

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DRAWING of the DAY

Attempting to find some sense of routine in my crazy world I try to draw every day. What are you waiting for Sally, click a month.

JAN

february

APR

MARCH

My scanner broke in MAY, was laid off in JUL, hired in OCT and will buy another in NOV. Prepare to be flooded with SEVEN months worth of DOD.

PUBLIC ART

Allen Memorial

Allen Memorial. WATERLOO, IA

Mural 001
Mural 001: Winter
Mural 001: Winter into Spring
Mural 001: Spring into Summer
Mural 001: Summer into Autumn
Mural 001: Autumn
Mural 001
Mural 002
Mural 002
Mural 002
Mural 002
Mural 002

Park

Park Community Church. CHICAGO, IL

Children's

Children's Memorial. CHICAGO, IL

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thirst.JPG
fallopian.JPG
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Allen Memorial Hospital Mural

Latex Paint

96 x 240

PUBLIC ART

ALLEN MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

PARK COMMUNITY CHURCH

CHILDREN'S MEMORIAL

WRITING

HOSTAS WAR of the HOSTASWhen we moved into Allen House Willimasburg it was hard not to notice the rundown U-Haul truck with a license plate that read Jelly parked in our neighbors' driveway. Being the antisocial group that we are there was not an introduction just nods and waves from a safe distance. Without a proper exchange of names they became known as the Jellies - a befitting name due to their immense girth. Fast forward eleven months my wife Julie in the front gardens weeding with the hot spring sun beating down upon her tube-top, cut-off jean shorts and a floppy hat - wait a second, thats what I wear in the garden she was wearing a tasteful pair of shorts and a t-shirt. As she yanked the filthy weed bastards from the earth she felt a slight tremor coming from the north. As she peered over her shoulder the sun was eclipsed by Mr. Jelly. Julie: Hello. Jelly: Your hostas and horse are on my lot and I need room to mow. Could you move them? Julie: I am not digging anything up, youll have to talk to that hot fella that I shack up with. You know the guy with the silky beard and strong legs? Jelly: Well you don't have to move them right away, but they are on my property. The line is eighty feet south of my foundation. Julie: I will be sure to tell my stud when he returns this afternoon from saving orphans in Darfur. Jelly: Have a good one. When I arrived home that evening after work anger filled my veins upon hearing Julie's account of the morning's events. I immediately ran up to the firebox we keep full of important papers and gold bars in the attic to fetch the Allen House abstract. In a section reminiscent of Gutenberg Press type font was the original land plat dimensions. It clearly states that our lot is 71.3 wide by 160 deep, so down to the workshop I ran in search of my tape measurer. After several measurements we kept ending with the same results, we were right and he was wrong. We took this information to all of the neighbors with land bordering our piece of heaven, each of them reinforcing our case against the Jellies. Three days after the Julie-Jelly talk I requested that Mr. Jelly accompany me in a true measurement of our plats. Turns out that the line is 72 south of his foundation, that fat bastard was trying to swipe my land. I grabbed my musket and forced him back into his den. A few weeks later Julie, her dad, aunt Kelli, uncle Farmer and I enced in our entire backyard with each post mounted directly atop our property line. The U-Haul was moved to their son's country home even though they were still fat. Last we heard, the hostas are thriving and our horse is still missing two of its legs.

MOTHBALLS MOTHBALLS and CHOCOLATEDelpha is an eighty-three year old horned-rim clad virgin who lives in a ranch house on a gravel road with Cookie VIII, a rat terrier bred from a long line of Cookies. When the first Cookie passed away Delpha's mother was in the hospital. Not wanting to burry Cookie until said mother could say her good-byes she loaded the rigor mortis ridden critter into her blue pleather suitcase and headed toward the hospital. After her smuggle and snuggle with Mother, Cookie was laid to rest below Delpha's bedroom window in a plot that would later hold Cookies I-VII. Afraid that Cookie VIII will outlive her she willed $3,000 to my grandmother a few years back to care for the pooch. My grandmother told her that she was going to spend $50 to put the dog to sleep and pocket the remaining cash - the will was quickly changed.Tuna cans held down with small stones are easily spotted as you pull into Delpha's driveway. Under each can is a cluster of cashews and almonds for the squirrels, the stones prevent mice from eating the nuts. Before your car even enters the lane she is ready and waiting at the door in her stained t-shirt with breasts hanging to her belt, the result of decades spent sans brazier. With a smile she opens the screen door without moving from the entrance so that you have to rub up against her breasts. Her door opens directly into a kitchen where the smells of baked goods have been replaced by mothballs, musty paper and Windex. A table large enough to accommodate several farm hands has been taken over by bread pans filled with coupons and boxes of day old bread, two chocolate brown freezers and a yellow refrigerator occupy the far end of the room, pots and pans that thrift stores would deny entry are piled upon the chipped boomerang Formica countertops and the walls are littered with memories of one John Fitzgerald Kennedy.She has lovingly carved a path from room to room out of newspaper piles that reach as far back as her day of birth in 1927. Two of the three bedrooms are jammed to the door making them nothing more than storage rooms. The living room contains two Lazyboy recliners; one for her and one for whichever Cookie is alive, a television and more newspapers. Retrace your steps to the kitchen and you will find that the best door in the whole house leads to the basement.As the basement door opens you are told not to touch anything without asking. I remember my first trip to Delpha's and thinking that I would not want anything from this house - that was until the candy store unfolded with each step taken. It looked as if you took the best parts of three 7-11 stores and crammed it into the basement of an 83 year old virgin. Pepsi chillers filled from top to bottom with glass soda bottles, including the unattainable Mt. Dew with fruit chunks in the bottom, lit the room allowing for complete inspection of all candy racks. This jackpot was what Delpha spent her pension checks from the Air Force and IRS on. Once a week she would load her Ford LTD up with convenience store stock and drive to Amish country where she would donate every last chocolate bar and sack of sweets to the children in straw hats and bonnets.Her philanthropic chocolate runs to the Amish almost makes me feel bad for stuffing my child sized husky jeans with sugary goods when she wasn't looking, but I guess that my adult chubby self is paying for it in the form of cursed man breasts.

McGriddle INVENTOR of the McGriddleClose your eyes and focus your energy into the form of an elderly woman from Mobile Alabama. Now add psoriasis, long chin hairs, a green Pioneer Seed jacket and a hankering for Benadryl allergy medication. This lovely apparitions name is Mary Catherine McKee, also known as the Insomniac Squirrel Lady. During our inaugural year at Kern Street we were quite fond of alcoholic beverages, making mornings a bit hazy and smacking of cottonmouth. Rather than waking by the tones of an alarm clock our days started to the soothing ting of an empty tuna can being tapped upon the Insomniacs deck railing. Courtesy a metronome fashioned from a boney hand and tuna can she sang at the top of her southern lungs, Here squirrelly, squirrelly, squirrel. Here squirrelly, squirrelly, squirrel. Shockingly tree rats rivaling the neighborhoods feral felines in size would emerge from our silver maple and waddle over to her hillbilly jamboree. As they approached she would dig her scaly hand into the pocket of her Pioneer Seed jacket producing a fist full of nuts. With open palm she would feed her vermin army. The Insomniacs hours of operation were dusk until dawn on a good day. As the sun dipped below the east side of Waterloo her lights would flick on with scissors furiously clipping coupons from the stacks of newspapers and magazines that littered her dining room. You may be asking yourself how I knew what the interior of her home looked like, consider me a peeping Tom that fulfills his curious nature from the safety of his own home (our houses were a whole six feet apart). After a clip session she would collect the days QVC delivery from her front stoop adding the empty boxes to a toddlers dream world on the porch. On occasion the Insomniac would ask me if I would be kind enough to retrieve provisions from the supermarket for her, reiterating the fact that she would write me a check when I delivered the goods - the kind hearted soul that I am agreed to help an elderly woman in need. Upon my acceptance of said mission she would hand me a list written on the reverse of a cereal box top with brand names and sizes of each item. I would kindly tell her that I only make it to the supermarket twice a month so I would let her know when the trip was going to take place. Inevitably I would either find another cereal box top in our mail slot with more items or play a never-ending voicemail message asking for more items to be added. I failed to mention that each and every time a list was written it was made very clear that the four bottles of Benadryl were the most vital item, she used it nightly as a sleep aid. Two weeks and several lists into a shopping trip I delivered her groceries and received her check as promised. While I turned to walk away she told me that, I thought that you had forgotten about me Chad, I was out of bread and had to make sandwiches with pancakes. Yes, that is correct, the Insomniac invented the McGriddle.

BROWNIES BROWNIES and a RUBBER NOSEThe wife and I lived in sin for quite sometime before I marked her as my property via diamond. Our first home was a metal Lustron Home dubbed the Robins Nest due to its robin egg blue exterior. Our time in the Robins Nest was spent courting one another in a romantic exchange of niceties and chivalry. Our first dog (Lucile Vanderbilt), our second dog (Sir Winston Woo), our first chain link fence and our first theme party were all had under the metal roof. Robin Nest was set far enough back from the thoroughfare that most guests would drive right past it. To rectify the situation I buried a white mannequin leg thigh first in the front yard. Immediately everyone traveling down Mitchell Avenue noticed our little house of love. Shortly after settling into our nest we began to fill our necessary neighbor interaction quota with nods and waves. One afternoon we were greeted with brownies from the neighbors to our north. If any of you know me at all, it would not surprise you to discover that I am unable to digest goods from a kitchen in which I have not been. We thanked the friendly confectioners hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Who knew that you actually had to talk to someone in exchange for baked goods? After our conversation the only thing that was wedged into my craw was the fact that our new neighbor was a practicing CLOWN. Thats right, a creepy fucking fella who puts makeup on and wears floppy shoes. No thank you. At that point I was afraid to fall asleep knowing that only twenty feet separated my bed from a clown. After our interaction with the clown and his wife we began to notice that once a week well after the sun had buried itself into the western horizon the clown would whirl his lawn mower into action. The first time we heard the sound of grass being clipped I peaked over the fence into the darkness and spotted the clown pushing a lawnmower with a flashlight mounted atop its motor. Even though the noise would prevent sleep I was too frightened to confront a grown clown man hybrid. In the twelve months that we lived in the Robins Nest we never again talked or acknowledged the clown and his wife. We were sure to keep them just out of our periphery as not to excite them into baking us more goods to toss away.

CINDER CINDER LINEThe University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics Behavioral Health Services division labels my hometown of Muscatine, IA as one of the three points that marks Iowa's mental health triangle. As such the town is full of folks in need of medication and psychotherapy. One oddity of Muscatine is the pocket of normal neighborhoods intermingled with dumps. My childhood home was located near Weed Park in a neighborhood torn straight from a copy of the Saturday Evening Post. Summers were spent chasing lightening bugs, playing kick-the-can with a herd of neighborhood kids, walking to the Weed Park swimming pool, riding our bikes down Orchard Street hill and watching the old man across the alley fight with my dad. The old man looked like a cross between Bud Melman and Harry Caray in a crisp wife beater, creased black slacks, shiny loafers and jumbo glasses pressed into his face.Mom operated a daycare out of the house, directing children from the front yard to the backyard to the kiddy pool on the driveway up to the deck for lunch and then back inside for naps all the while wearing a 1980's neon bikini top and cut-off jean shorts. Like I said it was the 1980's so her daycare uniform was accepted. One sweltering afternoon we were all splashing and tossing water balloons in the pool when the old man across the alley stopped at the foot of the driveway. While keeping his toes on the cinder thoroughfare he shouted, "Whore!" promptly returning to the rundown camper sitting in his driveway. No more than thirty minutes after his performance a cop car pulled up and informed mother that they had received an anonymous call from a concerned citizen that she was topless in front of the children.A few days later my father was in a rare sober moment completing yard work when the old man across the alley approached the property, again keeping his toes on the cinder. He told dad that he was married to a whore. Dad told him to get out of his face and to knock the shit off. The man pointed his finger in dad's face and told him to make him. Aunt Glenda called the police while freaking out form the safety of the deck. She shouted down at the fools about her call, again the old man returned to the rundown camper.Our whole family was returning home in our oversized red conversion van one day when we spotted the old man working in his front lawn. Dad honked his horn while fingering him - the old mans response was to stroke the air in front of him with great vigor (six years ago it dawned on me that he was masturbating an enormous imaginary cock).Three years after the masturbating incident the old man climbed into his rundown camper for the last time with his shotgun.Moral of the story: rather than bitch about a lady prancing about her yard in a bikini you should embrace it.

OBESE OBESE CITYIn one of my many former lives I was privileged enough to be called an Olive Garden Host. My duties included but were not limited to taking fatties to their tables, telling pushy soccer moms that their wait-time was extended due to attitude and falling face-first in packed full dining rooms feigning injurySure it was a glamorous job filled with your run of the mill tomfoolery, but there was one time of the year that still holds a special place in my blackened heart - The Never Ending Pasta Bowl. Each year bus loads of fat fucks holding hands with white trash would shuffle up to my host podium and demand punch bowls of pasta and laundry baskets of breadsticks. During my second year of getting paid to make fun of people I developed a concept for a musical unlike any musical every written. This is where I tap onto stage in a white tuxedo with a top hat and cane with full orchestra chiming in. On everyone's lap is a Playbill with the title Obese City, an epidemic written by Chad AllenYes friends, you heard right, its a musical about fatties. Follow through the rough concept with me.Opening number with fat folk jumping around a set comprised of short squat buildings with extra wide doors, nothing more than one story tall, a few fatties are in Rascal Scooters, one man is riding an obese Shetland pony.Chorus: Who has big fat sweaty titties?Men: We've got big fat sweaty titties!Chorus: Who has big fat sweaty titties?Women: We've got big fat sweaty titties!Chorus: We've all got big fat sweaty titties!Restaurant set:Fat host: H-I-L-L-B-I-L-L . . . . . why?Because they're fat and they're rudeand they eat a lot of foodits the never ending pasta bowl.Love scene takes place in a 1920's tube radio in an old timey voice from the era:Fat man: I was dancing in the sunshine when my lover came to sayPark it in the driveway and show me what you've gotFat lady: Yams are sweet potatoes by a different nameI like to play Monopoly, tis my favorite gameClosing number with fat folk jumping around a set comprised of short squat buildings with extra wide doors, nothing more than one story tall, a few fatties are in Rascal Scooters, one man is riding an obese Shetland pony.Chorus: Who has big fat sweaty titties?Men: We've got big fat sweaty titties!Chorus: Who has big fat sweaty titties?Women: We've got big fat sweaty titties!Chorus: We've all got big fat sweaty titties!

Drivel

BLOG

WAR of the HOSTAS

MOTHBALLS and CHOCOLATE

INVENTOR of the McGriddle

BROWNIES and a RUBBER NOSE

CINDER LINE

OBESE CITY

Chad Allen CV.pdf
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