Johnny Francis Wolf is an Autist –– an autistic Artist. Designer, Model, Actor, Writer, and Hustler –– Yes. That.
Worth a mention –– his Acting obelisk –– starring in the ill–famed and fated, 2006 indie film, TWO FRONT TEETH. The fact that it is free to watch on YouTube might say an awful lot about its standing with the Academy.
Homeless for the better part of these past 8 years, he surfs friends’ couches, shares the offered bed, relies on the kindness of strangers –– paying when can, doing what will, performing odd jobs. (Of late.. Ranch Hand his favorite.)
From New York to LA, Taos and Santa Fe, Mojave Desert, Coast of North Carolina, points South and South East –– considers himself blessed.
Johnny’s love of animals, boundless. Current position working on a hacienda in Florida as laborer and horse whisperer has recently come to its seasonal conclusion. Greyhound and the Jersey Shore are drawing him North.
Some of all this Bio is true –– most of Wolf’s tales as well. Those illusory are hung on stories told him by dear friends or his own brush with similar, if not exactly the same.
”Might I offer something cool..” I tendered, canvas ‘tween. – Longest time his hand lay raised, as if the air itself unsure.. When hence deemed through as flex of thew, urged to keep it thusly, prayed –– for twisted lumens, bicep taut. Until his fingers opened, more unfurled, unwrapped, and splayed –– – “I think I’m well... Presume be shorn of shorts, again?” Knew the drill and still would rouge fore every pose of bare and near. As hung, the gloves, behind him swayed.. with nape of neck in gilded frame competing for my palette smear –– Front as back endeavored, fought, sparring me my bid. – Silent boy with stomach flat and yielding pecs, purview plied –– Limbered pigment, brush and lithe, ye wonders whereby paint his glow.. As send two willing eyes to fall. What cleaves above to formless low –– beneath that finds one apt to show, as patch of hair and nether down –– easel hides (but he doth not). Lingers glim –– of staring, glaring, daring camber rise. To Ovid lips and Roman nose o’er shoulders chiseled, angles forged. Whittled drifts of sculpt and carving, hew of hands to harden, hold an ever–slowing heart –– and all the other things I bleed, if only could such things be cede. – But now with gaze of model’s whist an artist mustn’t fix –– too deep. His brow and lids unmoved amidst a breath of hum and kiss –– asleep. To keep, the canvas in–betwixt... ‘til palette blue is twilight mixed. When boxer wins as fight resumes and ebon lights the dauber’s room.