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.

"They laughed when I sat down"

I insisted
that I write
about things
near and far
here and there
at times
in the present
at times
invisible.

As the days shrink
from eternities
to minutes
of course
what I make
gets better
and better

Yeah, the days shrink
making it easier
to aim
when jumping
through hoops
and such
but harder to
hold onto
the more
slippery moments.

What used to refresh
with one breath
now requires
some shut-eye
a mandatory
siesta.

Upon awakening
I'm rife with answers
and greedy for
new material
but the sun goes down
pretty damn quick
bringing a
sticky sap
of fatigue.

I'm hoping
this here state
isn't permanent
that I'll get back
to where
I was before
brimming with
energies unknown
potential without limit
a creative machine
self-oiling
self-repairing
where minutes
just don't count.

looking like Adonis
or at least like Theseus

But
(fingers crossed)
I won't forget Ariadne
in some bar
leaving her
to nurse some
stupid umbrella drink
and knit scarves
as I go forth
to fight another
with sharp horns
hairy mantle
and big balls.


I have no license or even a good reason to write what I write-it should be harder and maybe it reads like junk, but it is truly mine-without the benefit of years of training or a "style," it's still mine.
The photo is a detail shot from a sculpture called "Too Big." The wooden "window" that the figure looks through is from an old farm grain hopper. The manufacturer of the hopper is stenciled onto the wood.

Found in a Box

It was this toy in a box
but it was not really a toy at all
that got me thinking
about how fragile
the whole shootin' match is

pitching camp
warming up the coffee
real close by
is death
prefaced by a little joy
the very few joys
of this here life
in a brown unmarked box
this toy
you squeeze the rubber bulb
and it does funny things
obscene and yet so to the point
of why we are here
or at least it's part of the reason

we breathe
so carefully
taking out insurance
that each breath
will be a good one
that each breath
will be followed
by another
for quite some time

sometimes you get one
that has a flaw
a mistake
the bulb doesn't work
which makes for a lousy toy
really not a toy at all

How To Paint

Start movement, freeze it, push in your clutch, go in reverse .

Return to previous work and break it up.
Analyze and then spin surface around for
pleasing new orientation.

Avoid overworking area. Avoid going pastel. Avoid lapsing

into non-commitment.

Indecision should foster jumping into a new problem
(another painting).

Eventually, discover or define the state of finish. Have

another resident prise canvas away from you.

Razor your works occasionally as a form of mission statement.

It is all about the action, ain't it?

This one is called "The Very (Thought) of You."

Stars go missing in the sky
Business lights up
the panoply 24/7
We could make paintings
to fill the empty spaces
Our own kinda
light pollution
Sharing with the other misfits
the ones that they say
to watch out for
you know they ain’t from here
when they look up

The angry ones
give us looks
like needles
regarding us
in our artist-dom
here and stupid
we stand
Oh, I don’t know…

Waiting for the strike
or gentle burp
of inspiration
maybe a hand out instead
or a commission

How about
a cuppa coffee
a little snort of bravado
light a cigarette
and the world
could meanwhile
burn itself out
but just a little more time,
please
to work out these kinks
that bother no one else
to iron my canvas and
smooth out these
unruly brushstrokes

I’ll stand on your word
when you say that
only bad painters
enjoy painting.

Another really bad photo-this is a drawing

watercolor collagecalled "Tres."
It measures 8" x 10."

Dog trouble

Now that Delilah is stable for the time being, my other dog, Rhonda (aka the Inspector, the dog-that-is-stuck-to-my-leg, Frenchie) has developed a problem with uncontollable peeing-three times she has "wet the bed" and, as you know, no adult animal (human included) will piss where they sleep. Here's the good news-this might be an infection (read, temporary) of some sort-the next Herculean task (ok, maybe not just for superheroes, but then again, not so easy) is to get a urine sample from her. She squats (of course) when she goes-I just have to be quick enough to get a flat plate under her (I'm thinking that this calls for disposable styrofoam) and get her to look elsewhere, so she is not thrown off by "what the hell is this stupid bastard trying to get over on me now? First, pills..and now this? Damn idiot human!!!" Then, it'll be a simple issue of getting said substance from plate to jar (with label and date) to the Vet's office for analysis. OK.

She has never bitten me before and I don't think she will, but...stranger things have happened (maybe I'll wear gloves). Wish me luck ...

Postcript to urine collection: the things we do for love...

The whole operation went quite well, with no mess or dog bite (truth be told, I think that Rhonda would rather jump into a fire than bite me-she's truly a one-family/one-owner dog). I'll call the office in a few hours and find out whether I can just bring in the sample or if they need the whole dog. Obviously, the former is a lot cheaper. More on this later.

Found a strange and disgusting (most of you easily fazed will have left this here blog after I mentioned "urine sample", so I'll go on without fear or prudence) item at the Flea Market this morning that I hope will make a good "base" or start for a collage. This is someone's uncared-for insect collection with only loose bits and pieces, stains, pins and a stuck thorax or two remaining.

Under a very dirty, smeared sheet of old glass, this looks like a prop from a Quay Brothers film-I could actually just hang it up as is and tell people that it came from the film "The Street of Crocodiles" or, even more apropos, from "The Cameraman's Revenge" (1912), the animated film using insects by Ladislaw Starewicz...

This collage is titled "7" and is approximately 9 X 12.

Slow down

My work habits have lately taken a turn for the worse-can't seem to put in a full day lately. This wouldn't be so bad if I felt better about whatever work I did do in the course of a day. Today, I did not experience that effect at all-I sort of got stuck in a carpentry groove...today wound up to be about putting things together, which will have to do (After all, what choice did I have?).

This sculpture, Martin, uses part of a sawhorse I bought at a farm auction (that's the one you missed, Steve). The main spine of the thing was all cut up and stained: well-misused through the years. This saw horse makes up Martin's body. I used sash weight pulley wheels for his spectacles. The hat is made up of a cut-down funnel underneath a solid metal wheel which has a nice gold tarnish onto it. I modeled the hat after something that felt medieval, but I can't vouch for its authenticity.

Craft Show

I met a furniture maker yesterday and we talked about how little appreciation there is for making things by hand. It's so easy (probably because I hold the arrogance of one who does work by hand on a daily basis) to be sarcastic with the world and curse it for its lack of understanding and its coarse Wal-Mart taste when it comes to encountering things made by hand .

But, in truth, blaming the "masses" for this loss of understanding is not so simple. We have such a long time as a civilization to rid ourselves of the tyranny of manual labor that we have tossed out (baby with bathwater-style) everything-all that we learned about working with our hands and with raw materials. Hand work has become extinct, a dead language. To extend my metaphor, we can't hold those who know no Latin to blame, when active knowledge of this language has been relegated to a sort of hobby (a boring one, at that, to many).

Those of us who speak Latin are a breed apart-a strange culture that thrives on ideas considered by the majority as either long dead or useless in any realistic context. Yet, we (we handworkers, that is) go on, applying this arcane knowledge on one hand and also trying to exist in the "real" world. Hand work fosters attention for the fact that it stands out as being aberrational- products that look more like factory "seconds" than the "real" thing.

Could the world get by without Latin? Without people making things by hand? Be careful how you answer this. I say this only to play Devil's Advocate-personally, I can't imagine living without making, but what I make is so unneccessary, so useless. Society calls it artwork, but that just means it's useless by definition. Most of the handmade products I've seen in my lifetime (with very few exceptions) can be done just as well or better by machine....or not at all. Schlock withstanding, do we really need this stuff?

Anyhow, this last is a digression-my main point is that you can't blame an audience that is unappreciative after being hard-wired to value and almost revere homogeneous products (which extends into every aspect of our lives-the landscape, the automobile, the job market, advertising, the educational system). After all, "diversity" is such a tired and meaningless concept. The civilization would run so much more efficiently without speed bumps.

The photo is a detail from "Cyclone," a recently completed sculpture. I covered the body of this figure with an old burlap sack from a broadcaster.

The Life and Times of an Extra Arm

they didn't tell me much
about my duties on the ranch

I felt like
I'd have to play it by ear
let the time slip by
like a pat of butter
on a real hot knife
an oil slick

going out ot sea

What I brought to the table
what I brought to the job
was my fake arm.

this limb that's capable
of subbing in
when the real one has
an engagement
in another town
in another place

you gotta listen to me

I'll tell you about
this here stand in.

When I want to be
someone else
when I want
to think like DaVinci
or paint
like Francis Bacon

I got this arm
and it does the work
of two people

when I want to be
less than serious
this Vishnu arm
comes onto the scene
making gestures obscene
at them sacred cattle.

you gotta listen to me
I page through
my greatest works
and consider them
with the greatest concern

but I blame it all
on the other limb

after all
what's an artist
without a pseudonym
without a hand
that never
needs washing.

On the ranch
it's day in-day out
roping, branding
stringing wire for
the fences I build
that keep me here
on this dusty little patio

it's so easy to see
where my next step
should fall
already marked
in the yellow dust

Half the time
I don't need
my extra,
my alias

I've cut this
wide open prairie
down to size

familiarity
keeps these landscapes
looking similar
pretty much

When I die
they'll come across
this thing
wrapped in a blanket
and in wonder
call it
a prosthesis
a mystery
without an owner

but I know this
to be a miracle
how I won the west

nylon elbow
and plastic six gun
in latex hand