Owen Carey

Farewell to the Tangerine Window

In his final days, the beloved set designer and artist Tim Stapleton hosted a steady flow of friends. Now, his final artwork is on display.

“To get to the Tangerine Window you had to go on a bit of a spirit journey,” as Mary McDonald Lewis puts it.

The window in question was at West Hills Health & Rehabilitation, a nursing facility in Portland’s Multnomah Village, with low-slung yellow-brick buildings and well-manicured lawns. “You’d walk down the narrow side of the building, through a gate and into a little courtyard of small lawns, park benches, little gardens,” McDonald Lewis continues. The anodyne surroundings are scrupulously, pleasantly plain — except for one section. There, little bursts of color catch the eye — flowers in sky-blue planter pots, a yellow rubber duck in a rusted iron bird feeder, large ceramic carp glazed in brilliant cobalt blue, seeming to swim along a dry stream of stones. And then, instead of the standard-issue white curtains of the other rooms, a flash of bright orange appears like a welcome.
“It’s like a window that you’d expect to see on ‘Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.’ A window that glowed like monarch butterfly wings. But then, inside, is a very ill man. And yet, within moments you’re caught up in his eyes, and in his stories, and then it’s just Tim. You’re with Tim.”


Photographer Owen Carey, who shot this portrait of Tim Stapleton in 2013, joined forces with Stapleton on many a play and many a cocktail. Carey says that in one of his last text exchanges he asked if he should bring anything on his next visit. “He asked for ‘some Pirate’s Booty, your booty, and a Negroni in a sippy cup.’”

Timothy Wayne Stapleton, an accomplished and beloved figure in the Portland arts scene, died on Sept. 7, at age 71, from the effects of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, or ALS, the motor neuron condition commonly known as “Lou Gehrig’s disease.” For the last several months of his life, pushing against the isolating effects of both the COVID-19 pandemic and his progressively debilitating illness, many of his many friends made pilgrimages to what everyone called the Tangerine Window.

Continues…

Tattoo you: art in the flesh

Gallery 114's "InkBodySkinPaint+Fire," with paintings by David Slader and photos by Owen Carey, looks at and below the surfaces of self

A week ago Wednesday evening, the night before the official First Thursday opening at Gallery 114 of the artist-run gallery’s March show, InkBodySkinPaint+Fire, the basement space at Northwest Glisan Street and 11th Avenue was hopping. It was the pre-opening opening, insiders’ night, and the place was packed. Actor and longtime theater teacher Bob McGranahan was outside at the corner, an early bird just flying off after checking the scene. At the stairway entrance a vendor for the weekly homeless-advocate publication Street Roots, which had a cover story by Emily Moore on the exhibition, was offering papers for sale.

Rusty Tennant: jump for joy. Photo: Owen Carey

Down the stairs to the landing a photograph of actor/director/producer/tech whiz Rusty Tennant hangs like a vivid greeter or bouncer at the door, tattooed as ornately as the stage set for a Victorian drawing-room comedy with a tree-earth mother gracing his brawny upper arm. Inside, a congenial and varied mob of theater people, art people, and friends of the artists was milling around, chatting, sipping wine, taking in the work of the two artists: painter David Slader, a gallery member (he also has a large long sculpture in the show), and his invited guest artist, photographer Owen Carey.

Continues…