Art by vincent rinehart

VINCENT R. RINEHART Vince Rinehart has been painting since the 1970's. Paintings follow flowing lines, evolving into impressions, images, colors, and shapes. His work explores and conveys the look, feel and mood of a range of human experiences, using an Expressionistic as well as Visionary approach. Rinehart studied oil painting for several years under Tom Brown, Irvine Art Center, CA, as well as at The Art Place in Marietta, GA , under Kip Rogers and Karl Kroeppler. Rinehart has been selected three times by a juried panel to exhibit in the annual Metro Montage at the Murietta Cobb Museum of Art, Georgia. In 2022 and 2023 he exhibited, through Ongoing Conversation, at the Roswell Visual Arts Center. In Aug. 2023 a painting by Rinehart was on display at the Atlanta Contemporary Art Center. The Cincinnati Art Club (formed in 1890) selected Rinehart’s painting “Guidance” for a juried exhibit in Sept., 2023. The Charleston Museum (org. 1773) accepted the painting “Charleston” for their collection in 2023. Gallerium Exhibit and publication featured the painting “Guidance” in their Lights, Shadows and Reflections exhibition in 2023. Red Bluff Art Gallery featured “Meet Me at The Lighthouse” and “Guidance” in an exhibition in 2023. Las Lagunas Gallery in Calif. featured “Men after Work” in their Storytellers Exhibition in 2023. Gallerium – Spirituality featured “God Only Knows” in their 2023 exhibition. Biafarin selected “Sea Pebbles” for their “Awards” exhibition in 2023. In May 2024 Rinehart with Karl Kroeppler held an exhibition at the Roswell Visual Arts Center. Rinehart, along with Kroeppler and Dana Gioia, former Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, were interviewed by Lois Reitzes of WABE-NPR “City Lights” in April 2024. Rinehart graduated from Cal State Long Beach in 1972. In the late 70s, obtaining a California Real Estate Brokers License, he started a mortgage banking firm. He received a Commendation from the City of Long Beach, CA, the Long Beach JC Person of the Year, and a Commendation from the Calif. State Legislature. He resides in Marietta, GA, with his wife Barbara, a sculpter, near their children and grandchildren. VINCENT.RINEHART@GMAIL.COM WWW.VINCENTRINEHARTARTIST.COM WWW.PAINTERSOFPOETS.COM INSTAGRAM: the_poet_and_the_painters

GUIDANCE

NIGHT WALK

CHARLESTON ..... at the charleston museum

MEET ME AT THE LIGHTHOUSE 2

Piano Man

JUDY

CHRISTINE

JACQUELINE

THERESA

RAY

INTERNMENT

VILOMAH

IN THE GARDEN

THE POET AND THE PAINTERS

The Poet and The PaintersComprises as a series of expressive oil paintings by Vince Rinehart, an Atlanta area concept artist, created to convey the look, feel and mood of poems written by Dana Gioia, and Karl Kroeppler, a well know Atlana area painter and teacher. Karl Kroeppler's guidance, inspiration and his own paint brush added to all in this series. The paintings would not be half as good without Karl. As we wander through a dozen poems by Dana, who is an internationally acclaimed and award-winning poet and critic, we seek to express our emotions by creating a story as it moves onto canvas. The use of lines, moody colors, emotional scenes, shapes and images allow the paintings to obtain a life of their own, extending beyond the work of Dana Gioia, Karl and Vince, where the viewer sees their own interpretation of the poems and paintings.
The Collaborative ProcessVince Rinehart and Karl Gustav Kroeppler (https://kroeppler.weebly.com)(Marietta, GA/ Woodstock, GA)Painting with a collaborator brings the enjoyment of human interaction- an added dimension to the joy of creating. Stories inside narratives overlaid with my own experiences as well as my collaborator’s are fused into a non-precise collage of paint and objects to bring to life human emotional experiences. Each viewer may see different stories than we intended. So much the better! Working on different sizes, starting with lines, boundaries and boxes, then free painting randomly with general, fuzzy themes, or very specific thoughts, such as poetry, finishing after many scenes have evolved, changed and transformed into a final mosaic. Free- loose- and fun…painting with a partner brings a special joy to the journey and hopefully extends that joy to the viewer.Vince Rinehart

rinehart kroeppler comp 1

Rinehart kroeppler comp 2

Dana Gioia is an award-winning poet and critic. He has published five celebrated volumes of poetry and three critical collections. For six years he served as Chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts. He is now the Judge Widney Professor of Poetry and Public Culture at the University of Southern California and serves as the Poet Laureate of California. "The Poet and the Painter series has been much fun. It is strange to see my words turned into shapes and images. It reminds me of the experience I had of hearing a composer setting my words to music. My poems change into a new work of art." Visit "DanaGioia.com"
HOT SUMMER NIGHT Let's go downtown. It's a hot summer night. Lover's are sitting in sidewalk cafes- Breaking up, making up, hooking up, cooking up Plans for tonight that leave them amazed. Let's go downtown. It's a hot summer night. Let's not stay at home and get in a fight. Let's eat spicy food in a dark little dive And let our bodies know we're alive. Summer has come. The young are on fire, And every tattoo spells a word for desire. They're strolling as naked as custom allows. They never say later. They only say now. Let's live in the flesh and not on a screen. Let's dress like people who want to be seen. Don't bring me home till the dawn's early light. Let's not waste this hot summer night.
EQUATIONS OF THE LIGHT Turning the corner, we discovered it just as the old wrought-iron lamps went on- a quiet, tree-lined street, only one block long resting between the noisy avenues. The streetlamps splashed the shadows of the leaves across the whitewashed brick, and each tall window glowing through the ivy-decked facade promised lives as perfect as the light. Walking beneath the trees, we counted all the high black doors of houses bolted shut. And yet we could have opened any door, entered any room the evening offered. Or were we so deluded by the strange equations of the light, the vagrant wind searching the trees, that believed this brief conjunction of our seperate lives was real? It seemed that moment lingered like a ghost, a flicker in the air, smaller than a moth, a curl of smoke flaring from a match, haunting a world it could not touch or hear. There should have been a greeting or a sign, the smile of a stranger, something beyond the soft refusals of the summer air and children trading secrets on the steps. Traffic bellowed from the avenue. Our shadows moved actoss the street's long wall and at the end what else could we have done but turn the corner back into our life?
The Voyeur ... and watching her undress across the room, oblivious of him, watching as her slip falls soundlessly and disappears in shadow, and the dim lamplight makes her curving frame seem momentarily both luminous and insubstantial - like the shadow of a cloud drifting across a hillside far away. Watching her turn away, this slender ghost, this silhouette of a mystery, his wife, walk naked to her bath, the room around her so long familiar that it is, like him, invisible to her, he sees himself suspended in the branches by the window, entering this strange bedroom with his eyes. Seen from the darkness, even the walls glow- a golden woman lights the amber air. He looks and aches not only for her touch but for the secret that her presence brings. She is the moonlight, sovereign and detached. He is the shadow flattened on the pavement, the one whom locks and windows keep away. But as he watches here is his own life. He is the missing man, the loyal husband, sitting in the room he craves to enter, surrounded by the flesh and furniture of home. He notices a cat curled on the bed. He hears a woman singing in the shower. The branches shake their dry leaves like alarms.
PSALM OF THE HEIGHTS I. You don’t fall in love with Los Angeles Until you’ve seen it from a distance after dark. Up in the heights of the Hollywood Hills You can mute the sounds and find perspective. The pulsing anger of the traffic dissipates, And our swank unmanageable metropolis Dissolves with all its signage and its sewage— Until only the radiance remains. That’s when the City of Angels appears, Silent and weightless as a dancer’s dream. The boulevards unfold in brilliant lines. The freeways flow like shining rivers. The moving lights stretch into vast And secret shapes, invisible at street level. At the horizon, the city rises into sky, Our demi-galaxy brighter than the zodiac. II. Surely our destinies are written in this zodiac, Whose courses and conjunctions govern us. Look down and name our starry constellations— Wilshire, Olympic, Santa Monica. In speeding Comets or sleek Thunderbirds, We traveled the twelve Houses of the Heavens Ascending Crenshaw, Sunset, or Imperial, Locked in our private worlds of lust or laughter. Who will cast the charts of our radiant sorrow, Or trace the secret transits of our joy? The traffic shimmers in its fixed trajectories, Dense and indifferent as nebulae. Though you resist the gaudy spectacle, You can’t escape the city’s sortilege. III. Move away, if you wish, to the white Sierras, Or huddle in the smoky canyons of Manhattan. You’ll miss the juvenescent rapture of LA Where ecstasy cohabits with despair, Lascivious and fitful as a pair of lovers. Let someone else play grown-up. Here the soul sings like a car radio, and no one Asks your age because we’re all immortal. Inhale the spices of the midnight air Drifting from Thai Town and Little Armenia. Here on the hilltop, the city whispers to you, “Come down and play in the traffic. Merge into the moving lights, our myriad, The luminous multitudes that surround you. Join their fiery orbit. Shine with us tonight. Where else can you become a star?”
Cruising With The Beach Boys So strange to hear that song again tonight Traveling on business in a rented car Miles from anywhere I've been before. And now a tune I haven't heard for years Probably not since it last left the charts Back in L.A. in 1969. Every lovesick summer has its song, And this one I pretended to despise, But if I was alone when it came on, I turned it up full-blast to sing along- A primal scream in croaky baritone, The notes all flat, the lyrics mostly slurred. No wonder I spent so much time alone Making the rounds in Dad's old Thunderbird. Some nights I drove down to the beach to park And walk along the railings of the pier. The water down below was cold and dark, The waves monotonous against the shore. The darkness and the mist, the midnight sea, A perfect setting for a boy like me, The Ceil B. DeMille of my self-pity. I tought by now I'd left those nights behind, Lost like the girls that I could never get, Gone with the years, junked with that old T-Bird. But one old song, a stretch of empty road, Can open up a door and let them fall Tumbling my throat for no reason at all, Bringing on tears shed only for myself.
Elegy For Vladimir De Pachmann "How absurd," cried the pianist de Pachmann to reporters from the Minneapolis Dispatch, "that my talents or the talents of a Liszet were confined to so small a planet as the earth. How much more could we have done given the dimensions of a fixed star?" He began a prelude quietly, then stopped. "Once Chopin could play this well. Now only me." When he brought his socks into the concert hall and dedicated that night's music to them, or relearned his repertoire at sixty-nine using only the fourth and fifth fingers of one hand, the critics thought his madness was theatrical, but the less learned members of his audience, to who he talked while playing, knew the truth. Porters and impresarios told of coming on him, alone in a hotel suite, his back curved like monkey's, dancing and sceeching in front of a dressing mirror, or giving concerts for the velvet furniture in his room, knocking it together afterwards for applause. "Dear friends," he whispered to it. "such love deserve an encore." Now relegated to three short paragraphs in Grove's Dictionary of Music and one out-of-pocket of Chopin, he appears only by schedule in a few selections broadcast on his birthday, music produced by rolls on a mechanical piano where no fingers touch the keys as each piece goes to it's predictable finale.
Corner Table You tell me you are going to marry him. You knew almost at once he was the one. Your hands rest on the quilted tablecloth. "Such clever hands," I used to say. I gave them names I never spoke aloud. You tell me how you met and where you'll live. It's easier to watch your lips than listen. Your eyes flash in the candlelight like knives. The waiters drift by with their phantom meals. Tonight the dead are dining with the dead. You twist the wineglass slowly in your hand. And I speak of other things. What matters most Most often can't be said. Better to trust The forms that hold our grief. We understand This last mute touch that lingers for farewell.
At The Crossroads Here are the crossroads where old women come Under the quarter moon to cast their spells, And where young lovers meet to argue out The secret terms of their surrender. It is a place that each see differently- The saleman scouting, soldiers tramping home, The scholar napping by the riverbank While someone else's fortune drift downstream. But if you stand at crossroads long enough, Most of the eager world comes strutting by- Businessmen, preachers, cats- all going somewhere, Even the Devil striking up a deal. I used to wonder if they ever got there. Be careful here in choosing where to turn. You learn a lot by staying in one place But never how the story truly ends.
Sea Pebbles: An Elegy My love, how time makes hardness shine. They come in every color, pure or mixed, gray-green of basalt, blood-soaked jasper, quartz, granite and feldspar, even bits of glass, smoothed by the patient jeweled of the tides. Volcano-born, earthquake-quarried, shaven by glaciers, wind-carved, heat-cracked, stratified, speckled, bright in the wet surf- no two alike, all torn from the dry land tossed up in millions on this empty shore. How small death seems among the rocks. It drifts light as a splintered bone the tide uncovers. It glints among the shattered oyster shells, gutted by gulls, bleached by salt and sun- the broken crockery of living things. Cormorants glide across the quiet bay. A falcon watches from the ridge, indifferent to the burdens I have carried here. No point in walking farther, so I sit, hollow as driftwood, dead as any stone.
MEET ME AT THE LIGHTHOUSE Meet me at the Lighthouse in Hermosa Beach, That shabby nightclub on its foggy pier. Let's aim for the summer of '71, When all our friends were young and immortal. I'll pick up the cover charge, find us a table, And order a round of their watery drinks. Let's savor the smoke of that sinister century, Perfume of tobacco in the tangy salt air. The crowd will be quiet--only ghosts at the bar-- So you, old friend, won't feel out of place. You need a night out from the dim subdivision. Tell Mr. Bones you'll be back before dawn. The club has booked the best talent in Tartarus. Gerry, Cannonball, Hampton, and Stan, With Chet and Art, those gorgeous greenhorns-- The swinging-masters of our Wesy Coast soul. Let the All-Stars shine from that jerrybuilt stage. Let their high notes shimmer above the cold waves. Time and the tide are counting the beats. Death the collector is keeping the tab.
Summer Storm We stood on the rented patio While the party went on inside. You knew the groom from college. I was a friend of the bride. We hugged the brownstone wall behind us To keep our dress clothes dry And watched the sudden summer storm Floodlit against the sky. The rain was like a waterfall Of brilliant beaded light, Cool and silent as the stars The storm hid from the night. To my surpise, you took my arm- A gesture you didn't explain- And we spoke in whispers, as if we two Might imitate the rain. Then suddenly the storm receded As swiftly as it came. The doors behind us opened up. The hostess called your name. I watcehed you merge into the group, Aloof and yet polite. We didn't speak another wood Except to say good-night. Why does that evening's memory Return with this night's storm- A party twenty years ago, Its disappointments warm? There are so many might-have-beens, What-ifs that won't stay buried, Other cities, other jobs, Strangers we might have married. And memory insists on pining For places it never went, As if life would be happier Just by being different.
BALLAD: THE STARS ON SECOND AVENUE I'd say it was the stars Reminded me of you. But I can't see the stars From Second Avenue. The shimmer is just neon Reflected in the rain From the little corner deli Where memory comes with pain. I'd say it was the moon That made me lose my head. But I never saw the moon In the window by our bed. It was just the streelamp Shinning in the dark Above the empty bench In the empty park. I'd say it was the wine That eased by heavy soul. But I never take a drink. I never lose control. Maybe I should blame myself, Maybe I should blame you. The stars won't tell me anything Here on Second Avenue.
GOD ONLY KNOWS if Bach's greatest work was just an improvised accompaniment between two verses of a hymn, one that stopped the burghers squirming in their pews and made them not only listed to the organ in the loft but actually hear the roof unbend itself and leave the church wide open to a terrifying sky which he had filled with angels holding ledgers for a roll call of the damned, whom they would have named, had not the congregation started up the final chorus and sung to save their souls.
THE BURNING LADDER Jacob never climbed the ladder burning in his dream. Sleep pressed him like a stone in the dust, and when he should have risen like a flame to join that choir, he was sick of traveling, and closed his eyes to the Seraphim ascending, unconscious of the impossible distances between their steps, missed them mount the brilliant ladder, slowly disappearing into the scattered light between the stars, slept through it all, a stone upon a stone pillow, shivering. Gravity always greater than desire.
CALIFORNIA HILLS IN AUGUST
I can imagine someone who foundthese fields unbearable, who climbedthe hillside in the heat, cursing the dust,cracking the brittle weeds underfoot,wishing for a few more trees for shade.
An Easterner especially, who would scornthe meagerness of summer, the drytwisted shapes of black elm,scrub oak, the chaparral, a landscaprAugust has already drained of green.
One who would hurry over the clingingthistle, foxtail, golden poppy,knowing everything was just a weed,unable to conceive that these treesand sparce brown bushes were alive.
And hate the bright stillness of the moonwithout wind, without motion,the only other living thinga hawk, hungry for prey, suspendedin the blinding, sunlit blue.
And yet how gentle it seems to someoneraised in a landscape short of rain -the skyline of a hill broken by no more trees than one can count, the grass,the empty sky, the wish for water.
MEN AFTER WORK
Done with work, they are sitting by themselvesin coffeeshops or dinners, taking up the booths,fillling every other seat along the counter,waiting for the menu, for the water,for the girl to come and take their order,always on the edge of words, almost without appetite,knowing there is nothing on the menu that they want,waiting patiently to ask for onemore refill of their coffee, surprisedthat even its bitterness will not wake them up.Still they savor it, holding each siplukewarm in their mouths, this last taste of evening.
OTHER COLLABORATIVE WORKS WITH KARL KROEPPLER
I’m a paragraph. Drag me to add paragraph to your block, write your ohttps://youtu.be/FgPiI2BPGNkwn text and edit me.

WWW.VINCENTRINEHARTARTIST.COM WWW.PAINTERSOFPOETS.COM VINCENT.RINEHART@GMAIL.COM MARIETTA, GA 714-866-6928

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