He's the Channel District artist whose painting of severed legs and sketch of a man with a cord around his neck were banned from Orlando City Hall. Mayor Buddy Dyer said the pieces were too disturbing and too weird.
Several months later, Whipple finds himself banned again, this time from Channelside - the bar and restaurant complex a half-block from his studio/home on 12th Street.
ONE FRIDAY NIGHT last month, Whipple was enjoying a beer on his deck when he heard the "Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire" gang drive by with a statue protesting President Bush. Intrigued, he grabbed his new digital camera and headed toward the noise.
By the time he reached Channelside, it was gone, presumably on its way to Ybor City. Instead of going back home, Whipple decided to check out Splitsville, a new bar and bowling alley.
"I don't like to hang around bars by myself, but I was curious," he said.
He also wanted to experiment with his camera in dark settings.
Whipple hung around the bowlers for a bit, then headed to the bar. He snapped a few shots of people playing pool and a bartender pouring drinks. "Nothing in particular," he said.
BAR OFFICIALS SAY Whipple stepped over the line. He never said what he was doing and gave the female bartender the creeps. After a few minutes, she alerted a manager.
A security guard marched over and told him to leave. Taking pictures of the bartender was a no-no, he said, especially ones of her bending over.
Stories differ on what happened next.
Splitsville co-owner Guy Revelle said Whipple identified himself as an artist and argued that he had a right to free speech. When he refused to leave, they called Channelside's security.
"It was kind of weird," Revelle said. "This was nothing against him. I was protecting my employee. If he had just played by the rules and left, nothing would have been done."
Whipple said he tried to explain what he was doing but didn't get a chance. Off-duty sheriff's deputies stormed in, twisted his arms behind his back and shoved him outside, he said.
The bar crowd clapped and cheered. One less drunk to deal with.
Whipple thought the deputies would release him in the courtyard, but they didn't. Instead, he said, they pried his $1,200 camera out of his hands and took him to an office in a corridor behind the Channelside businesses. They asked him a bunch of questions and looked through the photos.
What they saw shocked them: Whipple, posed with several dignitaries at MacDill Air Force Base.
Possible security threat? Terrorist?
Things suddenly went from bad to worse.
Whipple explained that he had been at MacDill a few days earlier to take part in the dedication of the base's new Gen. Benjamin Davis Jr. conference center. MacDill had commissioned him to paint a portrait of the Tuskegee airmen leader to be displayed in the building.
The deputies put two and two together and let him go. His departing gift: a written warning that if he returns to Channelside within six months, he will be arrested.
Three weeks later, Whipple is still fuming. He finds it ironic that Channelside, located in the heart of Tampa's alleged budding artist community, would be so artist-unfriendly.
"Look, I don't care if I ever go to Splitsville again, but what if I want to go to the movies?" he said. "I don't want to go to jail."
Already, he's feeling the sting. Last week, after attending some events in the Channel District, Paul Wilborn, Tampa's creative industries manager, invited him to grab dinner at Channelside.
Whipple had to decline. Wilborn scratched his head. They ended up eating turkey sandwiches at Wilborn's house in Seminole Heights. Whipple retold the whole story of his latest controversy.
THE LAST DROP: Whipple, who is also a playwright, debuts his latest short film,Chicken Feet, March 19 as part of Hillsborough Community College's Festival of the Moving Image in Ybor City. The movie is about a college professor who becomes obsessed with a woman he meets while doing research on people obsessed with chicken feet. He came up with the idea after seeing a lot of chicken feet at the meat counter of Oceanic Market on N Tampa Street. Expect a lot of silliness and, of course, weirdness.
