So easy to get lost amid each and every brush stroke. Adding new color or shape to what stands before promotes a tension-there is a balance here (even if that balance is a white, untouched canvas)-you gonna upset it or continue to walk a thin line, retaining the symmetry but keeping the rest moving. Almost impossible to move backwards to regain a feeling, once you lose the gesture of freshness. Erasure is a friend to me in my other work-not so here. As with infidelity, there is very little real forgiveness.

The successes or failures here make for either a loud triumph or a whimpering, pitiful withdrawal. The continual tension produces real fatigue, hard to wish away or drown with caffeine. It is easy to work on several paintings at once, switching over to temporarily change the subject-but there is always an insistence on returning: postponed doubts or ineffectual solutions haunt this painter. For better or worse, "sleeping on it" is rarely satisfactory-for me, it seems less painful to just white the canvas out and completely "destroy" the problem.

Spose it's obvious, but I'll say it anyway. This work with brush and paint is so very different from my work as a sculptor.

As I mentioned before, I started making these heads in December, using the wood from a fallen willow tree as a base to nail into.

Practical advice for non-canines

1. Buy Fabriano brand watercolor pads-27 X 35 cm-I paid $20 for this pad of paper-75 sheets of approx. 10.5 X 14" HEAVY (140 lb) watercolor paper-what a deal! This paper is the thick stuff.

2. If you have to wear glasses, try Zenni optical-I just bought regular (single focal length) glasses for $20. As long as you have yer prescription, you can get these glasses on line for (and I repeat) $20-they have a ton of styles-well, at least several hundred!!!

3. Buy used books offa Amazon-you pay $3.99 for shipping, but most paperbacks are cheap as hell used-if you need to find specific titles, used is the way to go (if you don't have the toniest library, that is!). I wish that there was an easy way to trade stuff (let me know if I can borrow yer copy of "A Magic Stronger than Death", ok?).

4.Reuse paper coffee filters-as long as they aren't torn or ripped, they actually get stronger with each use-Imagine that!

5. Reuse anything you can, for that matter. Used plastic bags are actually better than new ones-this is true for (many, but not all) used cars as well.

6. Start a "free" pile at yer library: magazines and books that you want to pass on will feed this pile very nutritionally.

Now that you know all about my "hippy" tendencies, I'll shut up for a while.

Happy Holidays and all the best for the new year: Let's make it a good one!

Prostitution?

I've decided to market myself a bit more boldly in the next (rapidly approaching) year and have come up with a line of "wholesale" pieces. I tried this a few years back and wasn't too crazy about it, but have decided that it might be worth another shot.

I'll make about 6 pieces for this effort-all priced around $200. I realize that this might be too high of a price point for many, but it's in keeping with the range I'd like to be in.

I have three or four pieces almost finished-I'm going to go to Dave Coulter, who helps me with in photographing my work and get the pcs shot as soon as I feel I'm ready. What I'd like to do is to produce an online line sheet, which will primarily be emailed out. Any business requesting a printed version can print the thing out for themselves. The end of January is my goal for the line sheet.

Earlier in the year, I requested info for a wholesale show (in order to show new work) and was knocked over by the prices of the booths. It seemed to me as if they had doubled since I'd last been there (and that was just not THAT long ago). At that point, I decided that I'd use my old mailing list and see what kind of interest I could drum up for my work.

What I don't like about the idea (I had a hard time with this when I tried it before) is the notion of selling two types of work: one-offs and "multiples". Especially hard for me is "educating" potential buyers. I hate to go through my litany of facts: that each and every thing I do is by hand and when I say this, I mean MY hand. Since this is true for the "multiples" as well as the one-of-a-kinds, it makes making the distinction between them somewhat tougher.....and more annoying to me, since I see people totally happy to throw money into Giclee prints or work done by anonymous "others" and signed by the "artist". But I won't wake this dog up.

Interesting to talk about commoditizing my work, as I feel as though another part of me is drifting off artistically to areas unknown. I'm not sure that I could give a name or description to my new direction ("Let's Get Lost"comes to mind). In looking through my CD "archives" the other day (I was searching for a high-res image of a favorite piece), I realized that I'm pretty satisfied with the work done in the past few years. It certainly has a look all of its own. But this only gives the question a louder voice: "Where to now, Columbus?"

My painting (which, truth be told, is almost as much in my mind as it is on actual canvas...as they say on TV, not that there's anything wrong with that...) has led me to some interesting places-almost mirage-like in that their substance exists partially in concept and partially in reality. Maybe it's the physicality of sculpture or (probably) the fact that I sell my work, but substance-or let me put it in another way-saleability has become a habit for me. It may be a soft leash, but it's a leash nonetheless. It's a good thing to be aware of, but quite another to break out of-or even to decide to break-the ego and the pocketbook both need to be fed. There's irony here, too. I used to work part time so as not to have to think about selling work, but, of course, this diminishes the time and energy you have to put into your work. The life of the artist-what luxury!

This piece is called "Industrial Pull Toy." I made it for Bobby Hansson's book (in its tenth reprint), "The Fine Art of the Tin Can."

Where the Old Willow Went

Some time ago, we had a willow collapse in the yard-of course, this happened while I was away at a show, as bad things always happen when I'm not around to take care of them.

I cut the willow up into smaller pieces with the exception of three four foot sections. These I (paraffin) waxed on the ends (so prescribed by an old wood carvers book). It's been about two years since I put these aside to dry in the furnace room of the studio. Cutting into them yielded a nice soft, yet consistent wood, not unlike pine. I started cutting ovoid head shapes (with a flat back to facilitate hanging) from one of the logs. Thereafter, I nailed rusty tin and bits of old wire into the surfaces. Now it seems as though I have yet another version of Shakespeare's weird sisters, with more to follow.

Open Studio and Pinched Nerves

Da Studio Show
Thanks to everyone who showed up (so far) for my studio show. I count all of these folks as friends as well as supporters. Maybe that’s a necessity in the relationship-the two twined together. I hate the business part of it-the money exchange and all that, but this does help to assure me that I’m on the right track and not lost somewhere in the forest.
Had an intense period of bustle and busy -and then everything dropped off entirely: like the water got shut off, the light switch flipped. Seeing some of the pieces go brought only a slight twinge-I had more remorse in NOT feeling badly about their departure than I did in seeing the back of them. Makes me wonder if others feel this way as people do expect me to say “I’m sorry to see this one or that one go…” In a few cases, however, this is true, but there is much more sadness in seeing certain components go. I can replace the work that I do, but some of the found items are unreplaceable treasures. Much like the dog that I always have believed myself to be, my hunger exists only for the next sculpture. I seem to have no time or energy for sentimentality with my older work. Although I think that this is a good trait which I’ll accept gladly rather than question, it does seem out of character with the rest of me-which , if nothing else, is sentimental to a fault!

Pinched Nerve
I’m a virgin when it comes to pain: this pinched nerve in my back is horrific-in the morning the pain can be so bad as to make me sweat, yet I know that this is only a tiny wedge in the full spectrum of agony. It’s also an inspired kind of torment-any creative twist or turn can lead to a brandy new shooting sparkler of new pain…or to nothing at all. They say to protect your back, but how is this possible when simply lying in bed means ever-increasing bouts of misery? Much like many other illnesses, I find that waking up and getting the body reused to motion is the toughest …either I heighten my threshold of pain with motion or the sharpest of the feelings actually subsides in warming up.
As the doctor pointed out yesterday, I’m holding myself more and more in a closed, crouched (and guarded) position-always expecting a painful spasm. He sez, “STAND UP STRAIGHT!” But how easy will that be? It’s damn hard to reprogram what we do so automatically-very frustrating. What d’ya do when you catch yourself slumping? Smack yourself with a ruler? Not talk to yourself for a couple of hours? Hopefully, as I get older, this here body will not turn into a burden. I have too much that I want to do-remember that artist thing-a blessing and a curse rolled into one.

An advertising piece from some sort of a snuff product carrying good ole Mr. Punches' endorsement.

Painting

On Painting
The time I have with brush and color is spent doing empirical exercise: this works, this doesn’t, this works, this doesn’t, etc., etc. I’m not overwhelmed or depressed (yet) by the fact that there are trillions of combinations of shape, color and form that could produce a “good” or a “bad” painting. On the contrary, I’m still in the stage that gives me great excitement just doing it. I’m good for a few hours of this when I sit down to paint: I leave (the painting studio) pretty much exhausted. I work on many of the paintings I’ve already started -some get only a little bit of rework-others can suffer total repainting. And then there are those that get whited over-s’pose many might consider this a relief-for me it constitutes a failure of this boy’s system!

Something that I’ve learned: NOT to solidly over-paint areas, but leave bits and pieces of undercolor to poke through-there’s a part of me that believes that this is pussyfooting but another part that believes that I’m adding complexity to the work (which doesn’t always add up to be good, but definitely adds layers-literally-to the “meaning” of the work). This mimics the human brain, seemingly fixed on an apparent issue, but underneath the surface working on other thoughts, many of which are half-formed and untranslatable. Sculpture has a harder time at “speaking” in these areas as much of what is created there is physically hard and distinguishable-two or three different planar surfaces do not seem to speak on the same topic or even in the same language. Here is a good argument that sculpture could never have the subtlety of painting. I admit it-I'm a traitor.

Reducing coarser variations.
In what degree do I want to pull away from the dimensionally variable with my newly adopted subject of heads? Thinking through the surface of the head in a painterly way makes subtle variation possible, if in fact not even more variation (being less limited by the mechanics of negotiating terrain). Yet, I can’t imagine giving up the sculptural (and, too true, I’m a painter with little experience) entirely.

But wait, there’s more!
After this is all said and done, I realize that I’m most attracted to sculpture that offers aberration or strangeness: specifically, Terry Turrells’ heads have bits and pieces of wire or metal stuck, nailed or fixed onto them. Bacon melts the head and smears the eyeballs in such a clinical, believable way. Just saw an anonymous artist at the Visionary Museum in Baltimore who’s done ceramic monochromatic heads-many of the features of the head were hinted at, but never quite revealed, adding a pretty disturbing quality to the clay.

*A side note here-
I started this a week ago (right after a painting session), then went away to a show (Baltimore) and was not able to finish my thoughts in a timely manner. I feel like I started these paragraphs with passion, but ended them somewhat mechanically. On a more positive note, while in Baltimore, I had face time with both Turrell's work (don't tell the folks at the museum, but I actually handled the work) and the anonymous ceramicist's heads.

How to Flatter Other Artists

The feeling that I'm ripping someone off-that I am too closely copying someone bothers me greatly. There is an unuttered fear (almost like one of your typical bad dreams) that I don't have an original bone in my body-that my every thought and everything I produce is based on other people's work.
There are worse evils in this world, but that doesn't make me any more comfortable with thoughts like these. It was my intent when living in NYC (where the stars are, in fact, born) for so many years-to be the next art star-to be the most original thinker/sculptor/painter-what utter fantasy. Since that time, I've realized that I am directly wired to the making/creating process. The originality part is secondary (Yes, it's important, but I also know my priorities) but I still have art-star longings.
I'm facing this issue once again as I have longed to get out of the rut that's captured me for quite a while. No one else sees me in a rut, but they look only at the work, not at the process...the difference between a rut and a grave? The depth of the hole.
I've recently looked (maybe a little too closely) at the work of Terry Turrell. I have to admit, I'm wowed by his sculptural work to the point where I've started using heads as a sculptural jumping-off point. I can hear you all now-what's new or plagiaristic about the use of the human head as a sculptural form? Nothing, I answer, it's just that he did it first and oh-so-well.
Anyhow, I'm cutting heads and painting and nailing stuff to them-guess you will have to be the judge as to whether I'm just a copyist or if I have something new to say...but, you'd best give me a little time to develop....and get over my sycophancy.
You do the judging, and I'll cope with the guilt.

Did I make a mistake? I bought a cheap set of Gouache colors yesterday at the Jerry's store in West Orange-a little nervous about approaching them. Meanwhile, I need to carve (pardon the stupid pun) out a little time to work on several of the more promising canvases that surround me here in this workroom.

Need some answers

Turning heads.

That's what it seems as though I've been obsessed over the past two days. I'm trying to envision making some sort of 3D heads that wouldn't require that much effort or material, so that I can spend more effort on modifying them...chicken wire, plaster, wood armatures, wet and reformed cardboard-I keep going over this in my head and haven't struck on anything yet. I have a great distaste for a lot of these materials. But carving the heads out of wood, although "noble" and the "right" way to do things seems foolish, considering that I'm more interested in covering the things up than anything.

I have some "hard" styrofoam in the shed-I've held onto it since getting the place-although I don't have any experience working with this material, it seems as though it could partially fit the bill (it doesn't answer the other part: to have a form I can nail things into). S'pose I could use glue instead of nails, but somehow that seems dishonest-or maybe just not as gratifying.

The logs I have from the willow that fell in the yard will answer for some of the needed material as well. I might actually use the chainsaw to do a bit of the "elbow" work so I don't suffer too much from the process (I have tennis elbow from all the hammer swinging and carving I've done throughout my life-I can carve all day long, but, guaranteed, the next day I really pay for it in the pain department).

Wish me luck-don't want to drop this project (at least until I get to the results I envision) for want of a technical solution, but I just can't see putting that much effort into the undercarriage of the thing.

This one is called "The Golem Cart."

hard(er) times

In an effort to save resources, I've not turned on the heat in the studio yet...yes, I'm cheap, but this is also a question of survival. Working in a coat with the occasional pair of gloves on-can't say that I'm comfortable, but the situation is bearable...
I wish I could say that some sort of new inspiration rose out of this physical challenge, but I'd be lying. What has become easier is having a shorter day down there and coming home to warmth and comfort.

Besides a new interest in making heads (cladded in rusty metal or gooped up with modeling paste), I plunged into working a bit harder on a "production" line, which is probably a fools' errand...the original thought was to make some prototypes (6 or 7 sculptures) and then offer them to galleries on a wholesale, per order basis.

As usual, I suffer from bad timing -this is probably the worst year to put such a scheme into play...more than ever, galleries will soon experience the "utility" effect: if it can be seen by the consumer as practical, then it might have a chance of being sold. Otherwise, it will be only at the odd time that artwork gets sold. Good luck to me and to all those who rely on their hands to make a living.

painting

Exhausted-after three hours of painting-and writing about it only because I did something I actually like. Finished the painting? You gotta be kidding.
The amount of choices in picking up a brush and putting it to a canvas are endless. I'm gutsy enough to put on a first layer of color and a few lines, but after that, all hell seems to break loose. Any sense of satisfaction and completion goes out the window. The "correct" forms, lines and colors I obliterate to a perceived better painting is sickening-wish I could store some of these away in a box...but this isn't possible. But still, some of the stuff that gets swabbed over-it's really sad. Bits and pieces of great work, usually followed by something not even close to adequate.
Good painters make putting a great painting together look effortless. I have always stood in awe and..to some degree...jealousy. Guess it's a blessing to feel like I know my way around some of the 3D stuff I work with-don;t get on my case, now, I'm not declaring myself a genius just yet.

"How hard could it be?" I use this phrase to cajol myself into yet another attempt at making a painting. Here I am at home (I don't paint at the studio because... A) it's too damn distracting as I always have several sculptural pieces in progress B) I haven't turned the heat in the studio on yet-this morning I worked in gloves) wasting paint. I use the phrase with pleasure-coming from a frugal-thinking father who told me "a little dab of paint goes a long way", I need to gush out paint like blood from a sucking chest wound-cathartic, therapeutic, whatever words you want to use: it's good to use up paint. Make mistakes.

I turn the canvas (I work fairly small and the work stays flat-no easel) around and around, until the painting finds a direction, its own up and down. Most of the work starts out non-objective, but today a figure emerged from a vague tracery of paint and forms - just like one of those ads for gadgets on late night TV: "the Miracle Painter...it takes your creative mess and turns it-as if by magic-into a masterpiece...just add 3 AA batteries. Only $19.95, plus shipping and handling..." This seemed a good turn-something I like-good, because the past two days your truly has been hitting no creative homers or even singles. Ok, so the painting may be a little too Basquiat, but it still has merit.

Of course, now it's the following morning. The paint is a bit drier and the painting doesn't have the same excitement....already I can see where I need to do some work on it (and hopefully not kill whatever spirit it had last night)...

I guess what's left is the fact that if I worked at this painting thing, I could get better. But right now, there is sheer excitement-both elation and tragedy-in the act-if you consider process to be the most important thing about making art, it doesn't get better (or worse) than this!

Photograph of shop sign in Cordova, New Mexico.

Choking on the Splinters

I might be selling the studio. This is because, financially, we need to tighten up in case neither of us can get work in the upcoming months. Cara will have more of a problem than I will, but that's because she earns a little more than the $10 an hour jobs I've gotten lately.

In an effort to reduce the bulk in the studio, I took advantage of our county Saturday "special" and brought a van-load full of wood and miscellany to the dump yesterday.

Cathartic is the operative word here. For about three hours, I didn't stop moving for all the stuff I brought to the van. So much of what I threw out will truly not be missed-there's no need to think about replacing it as it truly was extra. In all probability, I'll have several more loads like this before I really get down to the material that counts-the stuff that I need or know that I can use, but need to chuck just because it's so heavy to move (the plan is to erect a pre-fab double garage on the property) or to damn bulky to store. Peel away the rougher layers and that's when the pain starts.

There is true security in having all this stuff around me-an ability to always work for the surplus of "raw" material. But I so like collecting it all...this topic is one that I've had countless times with friends and strangers-just why do people like to collect?

I always claim to be hard-wired for it because of my Dad, who still, at 87, grabs anything that's free and not nailed down-you can see true regret in his eye for those items too impractical to glom...but isn't this the same as the person who blames everyone else so as to never directly address the issue? I don't need to enter a 12-step program on this (Cara might disagree), but it is a curious phenomenon-especially now that I'm "facing the music" in "cleaning" up my space.

I hope to have a studio "Show and Sale" in three weeks-and trying to make the space somewhat presentable is going to take some time-we aren't talking "dust bunnies", but "dust porcupines" here...it's gonna be a big job!

I actually threw out a sculpture in the mix yesterday-this got me to thinking about what happens after someone dies. Bit by bit, the objects that defined their life are either dispersed (charities, relatives, house sales) and the most sentimental objects are preserved, like symbols, by those that want to remember them the most. Eventually, these people pass on as well and even the retained sentimental objects lose their meaning and go to the trash or for sale.

I never meant to leave so many markers behind. But in thinking about what will remain after I die, I'm amazed. In my role as an artist, I've placed a lot of stuff on this earth and plenty of people have this stuff. Am I famous? I don't think so, but there is a high level of regard for what I've done, to the point where I get paid to do it. Not one for false modesty, I stand in awe of this. I mean, I have to do this stuff-there is no choice involved (being creative-or whatever you'd like to call what I am- is a blessing and a curse). I didn't start out thinking that I'd make money on it.... I create mostly from scratch and people buy my work and give it a place of respect in their homes. It's an honor which sometimes boils down to being just a procedure or a business. But , still the whole scope of this thing is mind-boggling. It is a gift-not one without some hitches and problems, but a gift nonetheless. So who do I thank?

a) Thanks to Beck Hanson for my title and his engaging poetry.
b) This one is called "The Handseller" and is an older work-I'm running out of "good" photos to put on the blog-I have LOTS of new work since I went to my photographer, all shot with my camera and all looking like snapshots. Soon you will be experiencing some of this fine photography!

Old Dog News

I hate people that give their dogs human characteristics, but I'm a big hypocrite, as I'm one of them.

With Delilah's slow demise, Rhonda has "stepped up to the plate" as the number one food beggar in the family. She now rests dirctly under the kitchen table at every meal, usually resting on our feet (she ain't a small dog)...Delilah begs, but more from her bed, those pleading eyes never resting until the dishes are washed.

She is on her feet much less now, her back legs failing more and more. Some days, she is more peppy than others and wants to play. At other times, it seems like once down, she'll never get up again-but she never misses mealtime-I take this as a good sign. She barks more often now-sometimes in order to go out, sometimes to move Rhonda from the best (in her mind) spot on the dog beds... sometimes for seemingly no reason at all-I worry when I can't figure her "reasons" on these occasions. The idea that it is invisble pain bothers me, but the next second, she seems normal. One tough dog or, as my friend Ruth says, "some kinda dog."

Obviously, both of these demons have risen from the depths. Delilah is on the right and Rhonda, aka my leg attachment, is on the left.

Reasons to be Cheerful-part 4

On Thursday, I leave for the Outer Banks. I'm going to help my friend Bob with setting up his camera and shooting the sound.

I want to see the ocean badly-so many memories and such a beautiful and moody place. I can still smell the ocean from the pier at Asbury Park so long ago when I was 7, tagging along with my grandparents and my Mom. A grey, rainy day-but the ocean...rolling eternally. And all the mystery of the dark boardwalk and pier. Smoking cigarettes and sleeping on the hot sand in Sea Girt after driving down in the early morning in my 55 Chevy, a parkway spirit. Shooting tin cans in the dunes of North Carolinawith my new BB gun, a reborn kid in my twenties. Bagged lunch on the beach at Sandy Hook, all too embarrassed to be with my parents. Unreal surf in Hawaii. Looking at the light of the seashore without the benefit of language, an infant nestled between my parents. An outdoor shower at Jeanie's grandmother's after a day of sun and surf.

Untitled and unfinished, this sculpture uses an old 20's medicine cabinet that Darrell gave me.

The carving has been around for a few months, waiting for a good home.

Reasons to be Cheerful-part 3

Here's a quip, a little filbert that came to me this morning-most of you probably know this already,maybe even as a cliche, but it can't hurt to sound it out again:
Being a painter insures the fact that you'll always have questions to answer-or should I say, you'll always be engaged in attempting to answer. The unresolved for me talks directly to what art (and the artist) should be about. Answers are good for the short term only. Boredom sets in quickly and the mundane, unchecked, reigns triumphant over all. Pursuing the undefined and the mysterious provides chills and thrills-hours of fun! Creating language and then attempting to communicate with others using that language can create doors where there once were solid walls or lead directly to madness. Good luck.

Sermon

The show in Tuscaloosa was a good one, accompanied by a perfect weekend weather-wise-"Bama even won the game!

When I'm at these art shows, I spend a lot of time with my work, not doing or making it, but just looking at it. I tend to think of this time as similar to the time spent just before sleep, where you might go over your to-do list, mull over the events of the day, think more in depth about your interactions with others and all that. Many inchoate ideas that (good or bad) disappear right after you lose consciousness...this is true of the thousand thoughts I have while in the booth-fully engaged with them until someone steps into the space. Most of those thoughts vanish (unless I wrote them down) and few reappear-unless they are very strong (this could mean that they are worrisome, problems needing attention or, occasionally, bits of brilliance that may or may not lead me somewhere).

So what does this mean to us artists? Speaking to two friends this past weekend, we compared notes on where we were vs where might like to be (in terms of our work). We all agreed that, although our work isn't exactly famous or a traded commodity, we have seen some degree of success with it, that we are tied into making "things" that get us not only approval, varying degrees of recognition and money-in short, we are "known" and our work is our signature.

So how hard would it be to leave this behind and start some newer, more challenging work (referring back to the inchoate or even burgeoning ideas of the daydreaming mentioned before)?

It's tough, if not impossible to leave what you have (somewhat successfully) started behind-I wondered if it would not be possible to divide up the time, much like I have in the past with part time jobs-having predetermined that such and such days of the week be devoted to the new stuff and the remainder used for the "signature" (maybe I should call it the cash crop) work.

This works well for those of us who can compartmentalize-I mean, it is a good theory but I can't tell you that I had that much experience trying it.

I have tried to do this with painting...those of you who know me realize that I've always been a jealous bastard when it comes to good painting and painters. I decided to spend one day a week painting-physically removed from where I make sculpture (the change of scenery is key here, but how many of us have more than one workspace?). This worked, but relatively soon, I could feel that the painting needed more time. My next plan is to spend two consecutive days working on my painting. I'll let you know how it works out.

What I realized while painting: my sculptural self was not firing on all cylinders-habit seemed to be taking over my thinking and think-time in the shop. Whatever resources I use to work more efficiently (on my signature work) is pushing out new thoughts-effectively muting them . There's a comfort issue here-repetition does feel safe. People are such efficient machines-at least until their brains come into play. Is this obvious? Yes and no, since we've all experienced owning habits that don't make much sense or are not good for us, but make us feel safe. Many of us live with some habits for our entire lives since the alternative is, well, an unknown.

Anyway, I hope that I've made a clear point here and that maybe as artists we could all stand to devote a day out of the seven we've got each week to rethink what we're doing and where we are going.

This is an older piece made from some auto steel and some other recognizable parts.

Leaving Today

Today I leave for the Kentuck show in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
I imagine my van bedecked with retablos and glued-on bultos, traveling from the realm of the actual into the realm of the spiritual and supernatural. This is in the act of traveling, more than in my destination. Although the event I'll be attending takes on a certain spiritual glow, this has diminished through the years-or maybe I've just grown jaded to it all.
The vision of old black men spreading their creative wares on the ground under the pines while onlookers grab and buy all that they can was one of my first impressions of this show. There is a lot less enthusiasm as the elders have passed and have been replaced by a younger generation well versed in art history and marketing. I am among these replacements. here is a certain sadness as I think of the brand of authenticity that probably can never be again.
I put a lot of hope in Danny the Bucketman, aka Hoss, aka Hoskinson. He was the real deal-I never saw him in shoes. His art consisted of melting plastic 5 gallon buckets into heads and fantastic figures, all the while pouring pigment into the melt and working the substance in his own way. He fascinated me as a living remainder of an untrained primitive or folk artist. Much like the life stories of many before him, he was almost unknown and little appreciated (a least in my eyes) out of his circle of friends and admirers. Danny passed in July of this year, seemingly a victim of his own process and materials.
I leave soon for Kentuck and hope to see some new faces carrying on where Danny left off, but realistically braced for the fact that I may be looking for something or someone that has become history. I'll find only ghosts where Danny used to be.

I dreamt last night that I was short of money.

The photo is from a triptych called "The Witches."

Where I got my start

Trimming them
Trimming all of them

and I haven't a clue
I got no idea
of how to cut this
much less of what I'll encounter
under these cheap straw hats
and these swept up coiffures

there's a call
on the phone
outside the Surfside Store
It's for you

crash it's the ocean
in the phone booth
time bleeds listening
to many conversations
all going on at once

you are crawling
you are using
your last breath
the world that belongs to you

all at once
cloudy glass booth
sad old spiderwebs
in the upper reaches
woven long ago
for midnight insects
from summers past

Ariadne confined

a stupid geometry
food for ghosts

looking like a rubber
that could fit Mr. Machine
smeary with seaspray

the ocean achieving climax
every minute andahaff
for all eternity

ha ha

some partner
that rascally shoreline.

This sculpture is called
"The Introvert."

Losing work

O.K., race car fans...just worked on an older draft for an hour or so on this blog and then COMPLETELY lost it...

I have no idea where the thing went, but it's out there in cyberspace some old place and I can't find it-maybe those of you familiar with this blogspot know something that I don't, but I feel somewhat useless in thios matter.

The writing described an event in my life that stays put in my memory-maybe I'll try and recreate it, but probably not.

Anyhow, here is the photo that I was to publish alongside the written piece. It is called "The Tubing Bender." It either hangs on the wall or sits on a mantle.

Found the Oracle

This one is called "Found the Oracle." I gave it this title in response to my interest in traveling to Siwa in Egypt (which never happened) to at least go to the site where an Oracle was supposed to have resided (or might that be presided?).

__________________

Peters Valley show this past weekend-quite rainy yesterday.

My favorite part of the show was the audio track: various musicians played on a stage right next to a non-profit that was interested in finding homes for their stray dogs and cats. The cats were of course quite annoyed, but I think that the dogs enjoyed it-or they simply were indifferent. Really funny to hear outbursts of loud (and sometimes angry) barking throughout the musical numbers. The performers probably didn't appreciate where the dogs were placed, but I pictured a nightclub venue with the usual rude peripheral din coming from a totally canine audience. The only part that baffled me was just how they wrap their paws around those beer bottle necks. Arf.

perseverance or boredom?

The past few days have found me having some difficulty in being in the studio and getting back to some sort of routine. Don't think that my trip to New Mexico brought this forward, as I think it was brewing before I left.

Lately, I've not been too satisfied with my work-I get that bad feeling that I'm repeating myself, with slight variations thrown in in order to keep things "fresh"-but the "fresh" part doesn't seem to be working for me.

I know this side of myself-the boredom that sets in, when I'm too long on any one subject. I've always wondered this-by repeating the motion, do we (I ) get anywhere closer to the bone? Does this persistance pay off or merely produce increasingly cheaper copies of what has come before? What role does repetition/security in my work have for me?

Although I want the bread I eat to be consistant as per its label (I'd replace brands or grains if I wanted a change), I don't see this as a good characteristic of an artist's output. The major contradiction to this thought is of course that the folks who want your work don't want to see it change-at least until they are done and bored with you and the thrill you offered them has gone elsewhere-to newer, shinier stars...aren't we all like that as humans-sure, we all have different "rates" at which we get bored, but eventually for all of us, it's time to change the channel.

On the other side of this coin is the idea of sticking to a subject to explore every possible nook and cranny. By today's definition, this is a passe way to go about things (given the fact that there is something new thrown at us every fraction of a second, courtesy electronic media and the current culture that the same has given rise to)-but does that make this invalid or just out of "style?" Does this form of chanting bring me to a higher state and allow more doors to open or am I giving myself excuse to churn out more "product?"

Does "turning the page" give me license to escape the hard work/persistance needed to reach a (perceived) higher plateau?

Confusing. In the past, I've always resolved this issue by heading in a new direction. An only child coming from a family that changes things only when forced to, the most unnatural path for me has always been to go onto something new thing, therefore producing a time of personal (but many times liberating) turmoil. But I don't know if this is the best path or not.

I worry that I squander the time left to me. As in painting I've done recently-ok, so it's not good by my own standards and sure, I'm learning something: but is the learning cohesive (I guess to really know that I'd be able to retrospect and analyze my whole life, i.e., dead)?

Is it necessary to make everything count? Should it all be that serious? Simply cobbling things together without any need of practical results means that you are a child, engaged in play. Should not play have some place (at least for us poor stupid artists) after childhood's end?
I know that there is value in this, but, unfortunately, it usually comes along with all the usual adult entrapments.

The photo is from NM-this is a place called "Tinkertown" (how appropriate for me) on the side of the Sandia Mountains. This is a museum/folk art construction created by one man (Ross Ward) while the "rest of you watched TV."

Place

There exists maybe only in my memory a place where time is contained-there is nothing here to be dusted off-every breath still holds great potential and the future is always far off and full of promise. I call this place morning. Here is a memory I have of one of those mornings.

Woken up. It's the middle of the night, when all noises and shapes are softened. When we speak, the words are quieted down and hushed-if only in respect for the neighbors (or whatever ghosts we don;t want to wake). We carry on our mission as noiselessly as possible.

We are going to the shore-the dark, warm Jersey shore to rent a little rowboat and go crabbing-a family tradition in which we all seem to animate, much like a Bosch painting brought to life. We are humble peasants at leisure, gathering delicacies for our table.

There's soft light in the kitchen-today I wonder if it would be possible to find a bulb like the one in my childhood kitchen: one that could mimic the light cast. Of course, the fixture and the glass that produce that light haven't been made for 60 years...When I was even younger, the prominent sound of that light switch (which I couldn't identify from my child's bed) scared me: I wondered just what demon was afoot, gnashing teeth or claws to make that sharp click.
Only years later did I put a stop to that delicious fear with the logic that comes from growing into adulthood.

Sandwiches, juices, carefully wrapped slabs of cake, fruit...all packed in that same low-lit aura...the crickets and night noises all outside, all humming along, knowing or caring nothing of our trip.

The car (a beast from the 50's) loaded. The soft light cut off-a lone streetlight or the moon giving shape to the otherwise black night-eveything still covered over in softness. Closing, locking the door, the soft light coming along with us for the trip-we leave nothing behind-the house remains, going backl to bed, sleeping alongside its neighbors.

Crickets even louder, muffled again only by the car door softly shut, another click. Turning the key. Slowly out the driveway and on down the street. Sneaking away like thieves in the night.

The parkway tolls interrupt our otherwise steady speed. I am hynotized by the steady stream of lights we pass under-a bit surprised that there are others, anonymous, also headed towards the shore-do we know them?

The street lights behind us, I count ridges in the road by the slight bumping of the tires-I can't hear crickets, but I know that they have followed us-our headlights seem to be the only lights on the road-far off to the left and the right are little pinpricks of bright...streetlights for sleeping people...the dashboard constant with its mystical colored glow.

One time on this same journey, after leaving the black river of the parkway, we passed a building-a bar and grill-totally engulfed in flame in the early dawn. The firemen had given up on trying to save it and were there simply to make sure that the fire didn't spread. Drinking coffee.

We move even closer to the shore, passing signs for towns I knew to be on the ocean. Soon, I got a glimpse of what I've been waiting for-the ocean, reflecting whatever it can, challenged by the dark night.

There is now a hint of dawn in the sky, more of a feeling than a reality. We park and stow the beast, dragging bags and boxes and reassembling them on a shoreline under a string of lights (xmas tree lot style). There is a cluster of empty boats that hugs the shore, one of which I'm sure is ours for the day.

A guy comes out of a shack and my father and he murmur suspiciously (be quiet, don't wake the neighbors) while I investigate the shoreline and its string of seaweed and wrack-dead fish, old shells, bits and pieces, souvenirs of the ocean. The draw and surge of the tide, here quite weak, is mesmerizing. I need to touch the water-either hand or shoe-some part of me needs contact-unexplainable, but nonetheless important to me. Strong arms heave me up over the wale of the rowboat and I'm in, the shimmy and floating only strange for a moment or two.

Soon we're out on the bay (count ten strokes of the oars) and on the water deep and mysterious. Objects thrown in (like a piece of donut) hurry downward away from me, rhythmically swaying in the current, as if testing their very gravity, before being lost forever. It's morning and the sun is gaining strength.

Back...continued

We also visited the Chimayo sanctuary, which is the site of religious pilgrimages-It seems as though a cross was found buried here and a church (of adobe) was built...the dirt from the spot where the crucifix was found is considered holy and pilgrims make their way here.

I looked forward to seeing/experiencing this place, but I felt nothing during my visit-s'pose that's because I'm a non-believer.

Ojo Caliente hot springs was another stop-for $16, you can partake in their mineral-tainted springs-choose from an iron, soda or other sorts of hot baths-pretty enjoyable, although you could do a real study on the people that come here...maybe I'm just being cynical. I met a guy there who must have been 70-he had very long hair in a dreadlock style-totally white-he came off like an Indian mystic and perhaps he was...the funniest part of this was my bathing suit-it retains air so that when you plunge into water, it bubbles up-go too fast and the whole thing sounds like you have just let go of the biggest fart the world has known...I entered several pools and it seemed to me as if the folks who were there before me left rather quickly thereafter-was it something I ate?

We also stopped at Cordova-home of families of woodcarvers. We stopped in a gallery and an individual's home-can't say that we were too impressed with the work, but the idea behind the whole thing was great...they use a lot of Cottonwood out there-I wanted someone to point the tree'bush out to me, but I never got to see it. The town was really great-winding dirt roads with many houses cobbling together with little bits of nothing-it was easy for me to be a spectator as Cara did all of the driving-I had to restrain myself from asking her to go down this road or that, but I really did want to see just what was around the bend.

Tinkertown was a tourist destination within the Sandia mountain ski access road. This was a folk art environment and a museum assembled by a man (Ross Ward) who "did all this while you were watching TV." Gotta love that byline! Much of the environment was collected and a lot of it he carved, but you have to see the whole effect: http://www.tinkertown.com/ . The site is, unfortunately, not very expansive and doesn't give you the scope of the place. I'll leave you with the idea that it is worth a visit.

On our way to Bandelier state park, we went to White Rock and got our first view of the Rio Grande from above. Later in the trip, when we were going across a barren stretch of highway, I looked down and screamed, "expletive deleted!-expletive deleted!-expletive deleted!"...ok, that's not what I said. But many, many feet below us (as in, those people look like ants-except, there were no people) lay the twisting and turbulent Rio Grande. We pulled off to the shoulder (and off the bridge)-I summoned up my courage and walked back over the bridge-which was windy as hell and vibrated like a plucked string whenever a heavy truck rolled by-some guy said "I bet there's a lot of baseball caps down there"-yup. What a view. Both of us shot a wooden crutch that lay many feet below us-the temptation to throw something over was strong-signs warned that this was punishable by law and that there were rafters on the river-you coulda fooled me, but then again, my eyesight ain't so good and the river was a long way down.

Bandelier was a full day in the sun, but truly worth it. Petroglyphs, caves, ruins of adobe structures... we did not climb ot one of the biggest caves, where assemblies took place. I'm sorry that we missed it, but by then, we were more than tuckered out. On driving back, we went through Los Alamos-a non-descript suburban mountain town with laboratories as opposed to small factories...stopped into the science museum (briefly as it was late and they closed half an hour after we arrived) and then home to Santa Fe.

The towns of Nambe (reservation), Pojoaque, Tesuque, Las Truchas, Cochiti had great names, but we spent no time in any of them-just sped past them. Route 66 seemed the same way-almost non-descript, except for a part in Albuquerque, which had the old Adobe-style motels, formed into a tight square or rectangle...one of these motels claimed to be the oldest, still operating since the 30's-but this place, sadly, was recently boarded up and chain link fencing was drawn around its perimeter.

The photo: one of the petroglyphs we saw at Petroglyph Monument, where Cara saw a roadrunner and I did not!

Back

I'm back from my trip to New Mexico-all that I've heard about being able to touch the sky out there is true...the vistas out there give credibility to all the stories I've heard about raising spiritual awareness, seeing UFOs, having a richer psychedelic experience-but to a sober, untainted (well, at least untainted by chemicals) mind, the experience of being out there is truly humbling...and touching the sky did seem a very real possibility.

Cara and I visited the Sandia mountains (via cablecar), Bandelier National Monument, Petroglyph National Park, Tent Rock National Park, not to mention Taos (thought this town quite schlocky), Santa Fe (fake in the sense that everything catered to the upscale tourist), Albuquerque, Madrid (almost a repeat of Santa Fe, but dustier-there were actually people that lived here-this place reminded me of Woodstock, NY from a long time ago), Cerillos (ok, we never got out of the car, but this place will stay forever in my memory-imagine dirt roads with tumbleweeds blowing through the place-everything there seemed closed down-a proverbial ghost town-very poetic...a place that if revisited would probably trade its uniqueness I found there for a coarser reality-one establishment that stands out, especially because it was "open"-there was a light inside...was Mary's Bar-wooden, tumbledown, authentic)...We drove through Los Alamos and I can't say that it left me with a strong impression at all (not that you asked!).

Tent Rock monument stands out as one of my favorites...on leaving, we met the fellow in the photograph, who, much like the defiant skunk, seemed to think that he (or she) owned the road and challenged our Hyundai for dominance. We had gone to Petra in Jordan 2 years ago and Tent Rock reminded me of the place-ancient oceans and rivers had cut through the rock here, leaving a tortured and twisted path, not to mention the "tent rocks," which are boulders that, being harder than the ground underneath them, perch precariously on top of pyramids of earth until they eventually topple.

Seeing the ancient Indian paintings on rock was inspiring -somehow, I felt in my element-that I was among not only artists, but the artists that I most revere-ones who just grab whatever is available and, for no good reason, start working spontaneously. I know that it's not how today's Indians like to think of their ancestor's paintings, but these inscriptions reminded me of graffitti-although, if there was anything that had the content that you might find on today's public bathroom walls, it totally escaped me. The paintings were mysterious and (perhaps) personal-but all that I saw was painted so that it could be seen by eyes other than the maker.

Hurt my foot on one of the trails, so I've been hobbling around. For the first time, I've been using a cane-amazing how much more respect you get from folks-this was not unappreciated by yours truly. My whole life has been switched around by the pain I feel in my foot-which not only has slowed me down, but has caused me to think more economically with my movements...

Can anyone out there recommend an Arthur C. Clarke read (besides 2001)? I want to buy his book of essays and reread Childhood's End, but I was wondering what else could be equivalent to those books mentioned.

More later-time to hobble over to the coffee.

A little older, a little more confused

there aren't a lot more
corners to break off
the plastic has been off the box
for a while now

territory that is unknown to me
diminishes daily

I've gone from wise ass
to older and wiser

Now
I can trust feelings
that don't use concrete
and reasoning

that breathes

animals
really do cut to the chase
Taking no prisoners is for fools
too stupid
to understand
their own set of bellows
and just how feeble
Hummers are
without tires
or gasoline.

This sculpture is called "Martin."

It's Personal

It's personal.

This dialogue that I've been having between me and me. It has all taken place in this room I call studio that is encased in the walls of my home.

Four three or four hours the dialogue has been constant, but rarely verbal. I've done most of it with brush and paint on canvas, with occasionally a pencil or bit of cardboard (serving as a scraper for excess paint) thrown into the mix.

Presently, I seem to do well working on five or more canvases at once, all in a state of semi-finish or works in progress. I feel as though I've become mature enough to realize or at least entertain the possibility that none of these canvases might ever be "finished" by my standards. I guess those of you that know me will realize that painting has always been a weak spot-that I am a far more "accomplished" sculptor than painter (all that means is that I hang a lot more sculptures on a wall with titles and prices and call them complete-of course, being the maker of these beauties, if I so desire, I can recall them back into the land of works in progress -such power! That is, until they leave my hands.) and that few paintings have recently left my hand.

Anyhow, in thinking back over the past few hours, I'd like to see the video to examine just how the "conversations" have gone. What has come with ease is the hopping from one canvas to the other and I feel as though I am getting braver in blotting out big areas-in general, see less and less of what I had painted before as precious...this is a big gain for me-if you know this problem -of thinking parts of a canvas sacrosanct and untouchable, then you must know what it's like to have your tail nailed to the floor...anyhow, to some degree, I feel more secure in approaching these paint holders in the way that Picasso made a metaphor-like the Toreador engaging the bull...and no one likes a wimpy fight.

My ideas and influences in going at these paintings are all over the map-maybe that's the way it's sposed to be-I remember being younger and going at a blank canvas with a photo or sheet torn out of a magazine. Not quite how it is for me these days-if I have a visual reference, it won't be used as something to copy, but rather as a jumping off point. Lately I've used photos of other artists' work for this very reason (there-it's out of the bag-I'm a copyist! Just a dumb plagiarist!) Of course, what better place to start off than where you have marked your place in studying art history! From this start, I feel spring-wound in that ideas seem to richochet off the visual and/or off the ideas generated by the same...dunno how this makes for five, six, seven or even eight directions, but it does. at first, things progress in a linear fashion, but soon I find the second painting speaking to issues that the fourth painting has engaged. I'm not going to try and recount my progress or "conversation" through the past few hours, but i think that you get the idea.

Does everyone or no one work this way? It certainly seems to be a far different feeling than when working in 3D....

ps got a "real" job the other day-more details later-at this point, it will add a lot of interest to the mix-so far, I find the whole thing energizing! Don't get jealous, Steve!

This pc is called "Costume Ball at the Eye Institute." I traded it with Justin Robinson at Kentuck last year.

Where I got my start

Trimming them
Trimming all of them

and I haven't a clue
I got no idea

of how to cut this

much less of what I'll encounter
under these cheap straw hats

and these swept up coiffures

there's a call
on the phone outside
the Surfside Store
It's for you

crash it's the ocean
and in the phone booth

time bleeds
listening to
many conversations

all going on at once

you are crawling
you are using up

your last breath

all the world
that belongs to you

all at once

cloudy glass booth
sad old spiderwebs
in the upper reaches

long ago woven
for midnight insects
from summers past

Ariadne confined

a stupid geometry
food for ghosts

looking like a condom

that could fit Mr. Machine

smeary with seaspray

the ocean achieving climax

every minute andahaff

for all eternity

ha ha.

some partner
that rascally shoreline.

Coaxing the dog

I never thought that I'd ever have to coax Delilah to eat her food-I feel like I'm pretty much begging her to eat and in doing so, staving off the inevitable-when your dog doesn't eat, it's curtains-a sign that it is later than you think.
She begs from us almost all the time, but lately she turns up her nose at her regular food-Rhonda, by comparison, is right there scarfing hers right up. The situation, for most of their lives, was usually reversed.
I hand fed Delilah about two or three months ago, when she seemd to start her true decline. It was a pitiful thing and it made me sad beyond most things I have yet experienced in this life. But she ate...I'm about to go downstairs and try that trick again-or maybe some of the chicken I'm making for our dinner tonight will end up in her bowl. At any rate, it's just so hard to beleive that one minute everything goes along so smoothly in it's almost boring way. The next moment everything is new in such a painful way. I guess this is just how we live. And die.

ohne titel

Untitled (8/9/08)

Oh yes
I'm pretty quiet
when push comes to shove
when feet are put to the fire.

This silence speaks
to no one
that has a real name
but only to those
who have names
that are made up.


Untitled (8/12/08)

I must be hungry
this state of being changeable
never seems to release me
from personal obligation

Bowing out once, twice, three times
from the limits set
by your banner of pine
painted in black and white

when they don't get blood
they demand attention

disengagement, please
no IPODS
no noise on the set
no palace of tears
built on the sand
of man made beaches.

Polyphemus
one so loved
by all but me
not only fertile
but horny
leaving the rest of us
to seek
an open heart
a surgery of imagination

I leave the table
with two pearls of wisdom
one says just do it
the other about family
and honor
a medieval code
that translates poorly
in the slosh of mediocrity,
ravioli, foil and fried bits.

When I leave this table
on my own dark mission
migrating like the birds
I take with me
nothing but lint
collected in my pockets
with which to build
new nests
and tentative promises.

Off I go to translate
and then transform into
just who
I might become
this time.


Untitled (8/13/08)

Plum Alley
being the place
I recovered for a week
after my surgery
which removed
all traces
of another self
that had my previous address
a friend to painkillers
but nothing else.



Looking into
naked 60-watt bulbs
to see my own likeness
erasure
metamorphosis
turning who I was
into who I am
gimme a smoke

That's me now
(in case you were wondering)
a personal haze
some kinda genius
with the use of tricks
and mirrors.





Speaking of Backward
(8/20/08)

Thinking backward
was not in my job description
yet it seems to be somethnig
I'm damn good at.
(filed under "Special Abilities")

I start at the end
and carefully work
my way forward
Skillfully avoiding
any real knowledge
I might pick up.


In this manner
I put the cart before the horse
and eggs to fall to the floor
dropped into a basket
that's not there
yet.

Sentences uttered
only for my benefit
others politely pretend
to digest

they really don't understand...
periods before premises
commas before predicates
"! oN, oN, I said
speak more I won't any"

Their frustration
like water,
finds its own
gravity and order.

Back from the Show

The show in Georgia was a dissapointment. S'pose I was setting myself up for that, with all kinds of expectations based on the past years that I've attended the show.

After an unexpected but rather short automotive blip, the trip down was uneventful but somehow not too boring...the time just seemed to fly by. Setting up at the show was, as usual long and tough-this year I got a bigger booth and everything looked better for the fact that there was more "air"-it was easier to look at and to focus on many of the sculptures. I had a full wall gridded with older paintings-that was interesting to look at, even though I only wound up selling one, which was sought after by two different people-obviously the one who bought it and another. Many good comments on the wheeled sculptures (I'll attach a bad photo of "The Needle")-this was somewhat gratifying, but somehow these sculptures (and many if not all of the others) seemed way too polished-or maybe it was just that I was in the midst of so many "rough" styles of working...don't get me wrong, I like the methods-but only when the method is genuine-many of the works at this show are somewhat transparent in that the just don't seem real-they seem like anemic copies of folk art-of copyists going out to make some extra money on what is a "hot" market. Forgive my skepticism, but it seems to follow me wherever I go (if you know me, you know that I am also not immune from my own arrows)...

Anyhow, chalk this one up to what I hope was an "off" year-I will try the show again next year and can only hope that it will be more successful for me.

Delilah seems to be having more problems getting up, but I wonder if this is because she didn't get the same amount of exercise as when I am home...I try and get the two of them out and trotting every day, but this is impossible when I'm not around...Rhonda has been especially close (physically) to me since I've been back-this is not unlike her usual, but has seemed a bit intense in the past day or so.

Rhonda and Delilah

Woke this morning to some short sharp noises which sounded more like a cough then Delilah's bark. But it is all that she is capable of these days...and enough to let me know that there is something wrong in Dogdom.

I found a chair knocked over in the kitchen (the dogs sleep there nowadays, confined since they've had some problems with incontinence)-Delilah, in her attempts to raise herself off the floor, had knocked it over. In doing so, she scared Rhonda badly (I'm reconstructing this because I never actually saw it) and since Rhonda has always had a fear of these chairs (not totally irrational-they are top-heavy and if you hang a coat on one, chances are it'll fall over), she lost it and peed all over the floor.

Since I usually let both dogs out the minute I get up, my concern was now getting Delilah through this mess and outside. I tried to get her up several times , but she just couldn't manage it. I sort of carried and dragged her to the door, avoiding the pee-once outside, she has easier purchase on the ground and can better maneuver...

I'm telling you all this to get it off my mind-I leave for a show today and the two girls will be cared for by my wife. I don't want to leave: the mutts are my responsibility (as I am the one who vowed to see them through thick and thin when I got them). There was a part of me this morning that realized that things are moving all too swiftly towards the inevitable-as in, we can't go on like this, especially in thinking that anyone but myself would take care of, or want to take care of, two aged incontinent dogs. There is love lost in cleaning up dog shit and pee. This is a shocking and horrible revelation, but a truth nonetheless. I'm still able to separate the "mistakes" from how I feel about these two dogs, who have been my almost constant companions -they have seen me through good and bad times and at my best and worst in the studio-my all-knowing critics.

Seeing my dogs go from sparky, happy critters to decrepit, leaky old animals has put a dark cloud over my head lately. I identify with this aging dog scenario-the "no one loves you when you get old" thing. This makes no part of this any easier-there is no spirit of "we are all in this together" when it comes to this. Staying on course with the aging process only gets you to the end-as we all know, when you die, you die alone. Dark words.

Packing

I've always hated packing for trips and for shows-maybe it's because I always think that I'll never have enough of something or that a "vital" bit will get left behind.

There's a part of me, in packing for a show, that wants to put the whole studio on wheels, including all the machinery, tools and shop detritus (those of you who know me will realize that this "detritus" is not insignificant). Obviously, this can't be done. Picking and choosing what goes and what stays is tough and starting the car beofre leaving always gives me that nervous moment as I think about what I might be leaving behind.

The show that I'm about to go to is in Georgia-it's called Folk Fest and it's my favorite show. I usually do well there and the other artists and works in the show, including "classic" folk artists, current artists, oddities, antiques, etc., are always an inspiration-I come back from this show filled with ideas-anxious to get back into the studio and work like a fiend.

It was at another Folk Art show (Kentuck) that my "neighbor" suggested this show to me. Natural skeptic that I am, I paid him lip service and said that I'd apply. You had to be represented by a gallery to be in the show and my neighbor generously offered me representation in his "gallery." He had no such gallery-just the two of us showing our respective art made up the gallery. To make a long story longer, I showed with him at the show next year and did really well. Besides the financial boost, I felt truly at home at this show-talking with so many of the other artists there and seeing their work filled me with all kinds of energy: I hadn't experienced anything quite like it before.

In the past few years, though, it seems as though my friend who got me started at Folk Fest has been having increasingly bad shows. Whether this is fate, bad luck or whatever, I don't know. I know him only through the show circuit and now I worry that he has dropped out of the running-either to reevaluate his work or to just give up. I don't really know because he doesn't return my phone calls. I worry about him-putting myself in the same situation seems too dark to contemplate.

We all go through bad periods. As artists, we can only be so elastic and durable on our own-after a while, we have to acknowledge that public opinion of our efforts counts. Making art in a closet means making things that don't really exist- until the closet door is opened. At shows, besides actual sales, we have only the random kudos (or jeers that we happen to overhear) about our work to fuel us-to tell us what we might be doing right...or wrong. This makes for a tough go of things when working alone-it's as if we create our own language and talk to ourselves in that created language-just a bit insular, wouldn't you say?

That obvious part being said, I have to be grateful that artwork, being visual, doesn't ask an audience to put in TOO much effort, like a stage actor or a poet (who needs a group of people to sit for a length of time while he or she does their thing). At a glance, passersby know whether they like my work or not-if I'm really lucky, I get feedback-good or bad, it's valuable stuff. Occasionally, some one will stop and actually want to talk about my work-I mean, really talk. Pure gold.

But there is absolutely no one there when you feel as though you are falling-that what you do, the very fabric and language of what you have created, is just no good, not appreciated, not valuable. The only advice I have is to get back on that horse and ride (I'm also a big proponent of changing horses, if only for a time-this has certainly helped me through some doubtful periods)-but I know just how hollow that advice can ring for someone facing the void. The trick is to know when to change the channel before things get too damn dark.

Here's another little metaphor: Tying your shoelaces together will surely cause you to trip, but untie those laces and you might just make it.

This one is called "Royally Yours."

These Days

The following are the lyrics from the Jackson Browne song, "These Days." Recently hearing it again (it's been covered by many singers, famous and not so) done by Nico of the Velvet Underground, I was impressed to hear that she was the first to record it. Nico. I considered her a goddess when I was a kid, with all that blonde hair and Germaness...in later years, when I saw her perform at the Mudd Club, almost all the mystique had flown away.
At any rate, this song expresses a lot for me lately and how I feel about some of my life. I've come to some point of reflection that has me looking into a darker mirror. I think that it's a brilliant if somewhat sad song. Jackson Browne is quite the writer and singer. A few years back, I bought a Christmas album in which he sang his song, "The Rebel Jesus." Besides the fact that Burgess Meredith read poetry and Elvis Costello sang one of his songs, Browne absolutely knocks you out with his contribution to the collection.

These Days

Well I’ve been out walking
I don’t do that much talking these days
These days--
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
For you
And all the times I had the chance to

And I had a lover
It’s so hard to risk another these days
These days--
Now if I seem to be afraid
To live the life I have made in song
Well it’s just that I’ve been losing so long
I’ll keep on moving
Things are bound to be improving these days
These days--
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don’t confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them

Migrants

While checking to see how my Walking Stick was doing in terms of being eaten by Japanese beetles, I realized the ground just below the tree was a network of holes, much like if you had sprayed it with bullets. The holes are each about a half-inch round, with mounds of dirt right in front of them, much like a critter scooping out the soli would make.
A few minutes more and the wasp population became apparent-dunno know if these guys sting, but I gave them the benefit of the doubt and kept a distance away. As it turns out, these are giant Cicada Killers, with flecks of yellow and orange. From what the book says, they disable or kill two Cicadas for each nest-back to back-and lay eggs close to the last one.
While I was watching, one of the wasps brought a small katydid to the nest-these insects move so slow that I couldn't figure out if it was partially paralyzed or just didn't run, but it waited calmly for the wasp to bring it into the nest, where it would be eaten. Coincidence or not, just yesterday, I removed a big Katydid from the van-they really do move slowly-it was seemingly reluctant to leave my side and crawled up my arm before I managed to dislodge it. Last night there was another of these big insects on the screen-they are a little strange looking and moving-fun to watch. I guess that these "hatches" are complimentary-the hunted and the hunter.
But wait, there's more! It must be big insect week-found a two and a half inch Dobsonfly (their larvae are called Hellgrammites) on the back door-beautiful antennae with an overall grey appearance-this camouflage would be perfect except for the fact that this guy sat on the edge of my white screen door.
Although I tried, I couldn't upload images of these insects to this blog, so you'll have to take my word for it:all the aforementioned are big and beautiful critters!

ghosts and dust

I make things here

this place
is the world's closet

a suitcase for me
packed with all kinda stuff

covered in dust and lint

I can open it
anytime I want

but it can be messy

There are ghosts in there

many of them do not

belong to me

I traded cash for old memories

I'm often handed plastic bags

containing items
that once cut their owners

musty books that harbor ghosts

of dead girlfriends

photos cracked with the weight of tears

you push the button, we do the rest

photos that hold beloved pets in place forever

or just as long as the Kodak moment lasts

enough time for the owner to forget

just who Sparky really was

which fact in itself
counts for a tear or two

enough of that

these things need to be freed

from their anchors

from their lead hearts

to become mediums

that say something else

to speak in different tongues

we'll still recognize them

as having meaning before word

yet able to talk of new voyage

of new uncharted places

and speak for others

who are not yet dead.

they resemble

nothing so much as

sentiment fleeting,

as fickle as a young suitor

but wrinkled and cracked

with the burden of experience

and the brutality of fact.

The painting above (18" X 18") was done quite awhile back. At the time, I was painting from photographs of boxers and have quite a few of them-I'm bringing a bunch of the smaller ones down to the show in Georgia with me.

"The Brutality of Fact" is a fragment of a quote by the painter Francis Bacon, as well as the title of a book of interviews conducted by David Sylvester with the painter.

Fits and Starts

...which seems to describe how I'm producing this blog....don't get me wrong-I'm enjoying the writing. But writing with any sort of discipline or stated goal? Forget it.
Some of my most interesting thoughts remain unwritten. They come to me the minute I lay down to sleep-no chance of scrawling by the bedside, flickering candle-wise, when you're next to a light sleeper. And getting up to jot this stuff down could mean a serious loss of sleep. I've tried my best to commit stuff to memory, but that hasn't worked even once.
Which leads me back to fits and starts. I'm keeping a spiral notebook that is getting increasingly fatter with thoughts and possible beginnings for this or that-much like my sculptural work. I thought that I could get a laptop, but this would be overkill-a pencil and (a scrap of) paper are all I really need as my thoughts are really bits and pieces that I can develop, but I rarely explode into a torrent of writing.
This makes me wonder just how books get written. Of course, there has to be some discipline involved-if I stayed at it long enough, my fits and starts gradually become sentences and then paragraphs and so on. I've experienced this with painting lately-If you just keep at it, you really build a dialogue and a language up, block by block. But it does involve the old lock-yerself-in-the-room-and-keep-at-it routine, whether it's writing or painting or whatever. But you must have the desire to do it.
Here's a new one for me-I rarely remember my dreams, but today I carried one right through-from the sleep state right to present. The problem is is that this dream was a bad one and left me starting this day in a not-so-good mood. Ever happen to you? My dream was about having stress while working for others-look, I don't mean to sound snobbish because I've worked for others for a great deal of my life, but I really work best on my own. I don't need (or want)discipline from an outside source as I'm hard-wired with it. I'd personally hate to be snapping a whip over somebody or trying to teach someone a sense of how (and why) they could strive towards a goal....oops-back to the snobbish part-I don't want to work for anybody as I already work for a tough boss in a great job-but like most creative souls, the money just doesn't seem to follow-or at least follow consistently. I'm going to stop playing this here violin-you've all heard it before and all I meant to do was to tell you why I'm in a bad mood. Cease and desist and, while you're at it, have a nice day.
This is the start (or maybe the finish) of a painting I worked on last week. No title yet, about 20" X 20."

Just himself

I must be hungry
The state of feeling unique
Seems never to release me
From my obligations
Bowing out once, bowing out twice,
bowing out three times.

The limits set by your banners
of pure black and white-
they demand attention
no I-Pod disengagement
no noise on the set
no palace of tears

built on the sand
of a man-made beach

Polyphemus
the being they love
is not only fertile
but horny
a river

leaving the rest of us
to sulk
in an open-heart surgery
of imagination

We leave this table

with two pearls of wisdom

One, just do it.

The other stronger
but subtler

and dustier
A medieval code
about family
That translates poorly
in the slosh
of Ravioli in tin foil
and baked hot dogs.

When I leave this place
on my migration south
with the mindless birds
I take with me
Nothing but bits
I've collected in all available pockets
With which to build my nests
and some tentative promises.

Off I go to translate and form
Who I might become this time.

This collage is titled "7" and is approximately

6" X 9." I finished it last week.