Biography: From www.czarofthebizarre.com: Johnny Meah began his art career at the tender age of 9, when his father, an editorial cartoonist, took him out on the fair and exposition circuit as "The World's Youngest Portrait Artist." Meah became fascinated with the circus and particularly its performers, so at age 14 he spent his summer vacation with the celebrated Zachinni Family, traveling with the King Bros. and Cristiani Circus. Hugo Zachinni, the original "Human Cannonball," was also a fine artist and helped Johnny "chart a path connecting the mind, eyes, and heart that would eventually allow me to paint dreams."

Johnny's first full year of circus trouping began in 1954, when he joined the Hunt Bros. Circus as a clown, an occupation he still pursues on an occasional basis. "Clowns and art are almost synonymous - good clowns, like good art, touch all the senses and emotions."

From the late 1950's to the present, Meah painted approximately 2,000 canvases. Amazingly, however, very few of the old banner survived the indifference of time, and the ones that have are generally revered by collectors as representative of a truly unique art form. "They were generally regarded as disposable advertising in the 40's and 50's. It was not uncommon to see old banners used to catch oil leaks from trucks or to cover equipment deemed far more important than the banner itself. 'We'll buy more' seemed to be the attitude."

from James Taylor (excerpt of an unpublished essay, "How I Spent My Carny Vacation," 1998):

I probably have no better friend in the sideshow business than Johnny Meah, last of the old-time banner painters, one-time carnival and circus lot man, professional clown, stand-up comic and expert sword swallower. His knowledge of the business - from carnival to circus to thrill shows - is encyclopedic, and it's a twisted, hysterically wacky encyclopedia at that. Because I just knew he'd have heard of a show I'd thought was mere rumor, and be able to confirm its existence for me, I asked him about it while my constant traveling companion, associate editor Kathleen, and I sat in Johnny and his wife Joan's kitchen. The attraction, for which I sought Johnny's confirmation, I'd been told had billed himself as "Jesus" and worked a sideshow in the early '70s. The lecturer in the show would do the pitch for the blow-off, the tip would step into the annex, and "Jesus" would pick some kid who'd be given a hammer and instructed to pound a 20 penny nail through the performer's hand. Of course the crowd went screaming from the show, which didn't hurt business one tiny bit. "Oh, that happened," Meah told me. "It was on Jimmy Dickson's show." I tried to appear nonplused (having questioned him about the act fully expecting him to debunk it), then I asked him whether the guy had his hands pierced previously or whether the act was some type of elaborate gaff, some magic trick. "No," Johnny said, "he was just some lunatic. The office closed that show after three days."

Johnny then proceeded to tell us that, in his opinion, the most perplexing show he'd ever seen wasn't "Jesus" but a show billed as "Man's Inhumanity to Man." Typically, a sideshow with such a banner would feature a torture show, probably displays of rusty iron implements as would've seen duty in the Spanish Inquisition, maybe an iron maiden, assorted tableau with dummies tricked out as victims and victimizers with blood everywhere. Instead, "There was nothing in the show but a display of knots," half hitches, sailors knots, something a Boy Scout troop could've done. "We spent the rest of the season trying to figure out what that show was about." Pity us poor rubes on a night like that.

(1998)