James Mueller

James Mueller, an esteemed author and artist, holds an Honorary Doctor of Arts degree, a testament to his significant contributions to the arts. His artistic journey has taken him globally, with notable solo exhibitions in Paris, New York, Washington, D.C., and Miami. He resides in Arizona, maintaining a life of anonymity, known only to his three children, Tashua, Ali, Lizzie, and the IRS.

James Mueller is the author of “Confessions of St. Augustine,” published by Iconoclast Publishing. The book is comparable to “Catcher in the Rye,” an extensive collection of his art.

In 1988, Mueller’s work caught the eye of Robert Abplanalp, a wealthy business tycoon, who sponsored a solo exhibition at the prestigious Gallery Chardin in Paris. Despite a postal strike that hindered the invitations’ delivery, the exhibition drew key critics, resulting in glowing reviews. These reviews and Mueller’s paintings remain integral to his book promotions.

Initially hesitant to embrace his radical ideas, Mueller’s alma mater later recognized his achievements with an honorary doctorate, the first in the institution’s history. This honor, a testament to his unwavering dedication to his craft, marked a turning point in his career, leading to further accolades and solo exhibitions.

Beyond his artistic endeavors, Mueller dedicated over twenty years to working and living with individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities and crafting his trilogy of novels in a monastic environment. This lifestyle allowed him to focus on his writing, free from the pressures of the art world.

For the past decade, Mueller has lived and worked with the Apache Indians on a small mission, deeply integrating into their culture and being asked to serve as their youth director and baseball coach. This bond has enriched his artistic and literary work. His art career took a miraculous turn in 1976, just two years after he started when a trustee of Miami University showcased his work. An influential man with companies in 19 countries bought his entire collection, leading to one-person shows, a gallery for the New York State Indian collection, a portrait of Nixon, and numerous international exhibitions, including a Paris show. These experiences have solidified Mueller as a distinctive and influential figure in the art world.

Confessions of St. Augustine, obviously a reference to the original, is a modern-day take on the intellectually hip bad boy for whom nothing is sacred (initially). Like the original, it becomes both a cautionary tale and a manifesto when followed to its logical conclusion. But with one catch: our narrator is an unreliable one—more prone to comic exaggeration and hyperbole if it gets a laugh.

Ever since I can remember, I have turned pain into comedy. If you were to read an excerpt from my book that would better explain this, it would be the second chapter of the second novel of the trilogy, The Militant. The first chapter starts with what appears to be another story but is merely a story the father is making up for his daughter based on his more recent paintings. But at the end of that short chapter, the main story begins because the second chapter is a 9:00 to 5:00 story, A Day in the Life of the Artist, where our narrator faces every artist’s biggest challenge: the empty canvas.

So if you want to draw parallels (no pun intended), the more the pain, the more the comedy, until in his case, the comedy in the second chapter reaches a fever pitch as his mind wanders over EVERYTHING but what it should: the empty canvas in front of him as he starts out talking to you the reader, then himself, then his ex-wife (in his mind), then his neighbor down the hall who’s constantly pounding on his door when her husband “Crazy Eddy” is away – the local hit man or so he imagines – as does his mind – in this day-long interior monologue talking to everybody, you the reader, himself, his ex-wife, his neighbor down the hall who’s always coming on to him, and everybody else in his life that comes between him and that canvas – and eventually GOD – in desperation. So if it’s all reminiscent of some stand-up comedian’s routine or the plot line of some Walter Mitty-like character out of a 40’s screwball comedy – it’s not by accident. Nor is the parallel behind it.

Because the bottom line is that I have to create, it’s not a rational decision – no more than breathing is. From my earliest memories, I created – drawing, building, writing – whatever it took to make my dreams come alive. Paint the picture you always wanted to see and write the novel you always wanted to read – but for me, it even went further: paint the world and write the novel you always wanted to live in. And therein lies the catch. Because you can’t, of course, unless you settle on a world that can never be.

But Catcher in the Rye changed all that. That was a reality I could live with. At that point, I was determined to continue where Holden had left off and write the “Great American Novel.” But it wasn’t until I read Portnoy’s Complaint that I knew how I would do it. Before that, I merely dabbled in satirical caricatures, comedy skits, and playwriting – initially inspired by Twain, John Osborne (Look Back in Anger), and comedians. Still, it wasn’t until Salinger and Roth that I found my “voice,” and it all came together. From then on, everything I did was merely a means to achieve that goal. Even my painting was initially just a means to write. What I didn’t expect, however, is my paintings would become as successful as they did. And that’s when I decided to incorporate my paintings into my novel.

So, what’s my main reason for writing my trilogy, Confessions of St. Augustine? Because I believe the arts have the greatest power to influence people. That’s the rational side of me. Ironically, the other side of me – the natural source of my creativity – would instead rather write the “perfect novel” and never be read, than write a hundred lesser ones and have everybody read it (to get back to my opening statement). But like The Secret Life of Walter Mitty or The Hands of Orlac, my mind and my hands would eventually betray me, and anything less but more practical was doomed to failure because I would rather create that one great masterpiece that would take a lifetime of complete dedication than all those one hundred lesser ones that I knew would guarantee me a life of fame, fortune, and ease.

So when people have asked me over the years why I never pursued my painting when I could have had it all—fame, fortune, and comfort? My answer is simple: because I never would have created that novel I always wanted to read, just those paintings I always wanted to see.