That Matisse Head

The sculptures that always held fascination and intrigue for me is a set of Matisse heads ( I'm guessing that they are bronze, although that matters little), executed 1911-ish, known to me as the "Head of Jeannette"...I saw these in reproduction while I was still pretty young and they left a lasting impression on me. In later years, on visiting the Hirschorn in Washington, DC, I saw the real thing and was literally moved to tears. Whatever it is about the rawness of these heads, they hit me in a unique way. It's necessary to divine or explain their special power. For me, that power just is.

More About Dirt

We humans spend a lot of time marshalling our lives to give the appearance of looking like we know what we’re doing. But are we ever in control? Can we ever be in control? The term “control freak” immediately comes to mind, with all its bad connotations.
All of these attempts to control gives a picture of beings who shoebox and compartmentalize, but in the end have little say in what the outside world does or what our own minds and bodies demand. This is all too apparent looking at the eternal battle we wage against dirt.
Dirt is not only a natural by-product, it is our natural by-product. Our negative attitudes towards it far outweigh its detrimental effect. But it is a visible enemy and can therefore be subjected to a degree of human control. We produce and buy so many antiseptic products (pressure washers, anti-bacterial soaps, toilet ducks, ad nausea) that attempt to deny dirt its very existence. And yes, this is in contradiction to the theory that proposes we took form from star dust …
I’m no proponent of dirt for dirt’s sake, but you can see its presence in my work. I co-exist (or is a better phrase co-create?) with it, using a lot of old, sometimes grimy, sometimes dusty, well-handled things: found objects, in the modern vernacular. I’ve always been shy of starting on a big, white, blank canvas-other new materials also give me pause- too precious for me to mess up. That has drawn me to well-worn, used surfaces: work has already been started for me. No need to be anxious about where that first mark will go. In this respect, I guess I’m a bit of a cheater.
I was raised by thrifty parents who, being children of the great depression, gave me little apprehension about used things. As a matter of fact, the idea that many folks want new and nothing but new astonishes me. There is a glaring sense of waste that infects the American world. I guess it’s for the fact that so many things around us are, like orphan animals, looking for a home or needing to be re-purposed (more modern vernacular-I always preferred re-used). I relish the idea of using something already broken in and then adding my own touch to it. To repeat, this leaves me less fear of making the first scratch-of ruining what was once virginal. Although there are certain “finds” that are in the “do not touch” category, but that is for another discussion.
I guess that I look on the grime and dust on my found stuff as a sort of ready-made pigment, alterable yet able to be seen as an element that can stand on its own. If I alter the material, I go to lengths to hide any raw “exposed” edges. Often, a “pigment” of sorts can be made from excess surface dirt and water-here I feel as though I practice a certain type of simple alchemy: the wound healing itself. In theory, this leads to the idea that many disparate materials can be put together and “blended”. Visually, all can be bound to look similar, using the “pigment” of dirt and water to overcast everything with a common wash. Of course, you need to balance these elements - otherwise, you could create an imbalance that can’t be corrected with any amount of overwashing. But, again, this is a topic for another discussion.
So what power does dirt have? For me, it authenticates. When mass manufacturing rules and the populace froths at the mouth to be the first to own the latest mix of electronics and plastic, it’s a pleasure to encounter something with the true mark of age. What’s old or used is damn near shunned, not having the gloss or speed of that new thing, still shrink-wrapped.
But what is old carries a certain badge with it: you know that the dirt on the object was not put there in any way but wear and tear. The thing before you was handled previously and had value to somebody. Perhaps even a place in the home-or a name or a sentimental meaning. The thing before you is not sanitized, it is not sterile, but it is saturated with its own history.
"Hello" is approximately 16" tall and created from a wooden carving wrapped with old canvas. The canvas was then wrapped and nailed into place and the assembly inserted inot an old found (dirty!) box. Sorry, this piece is sold.

A Few Quotes About Mystery

When I paint, mysterious things happen. What starts with a void ends with a dialogue. (Jeet Aulakh)

The mystery lies in the irrationality by which you make appearance – if it is not irrational, you make illustration. (Francis Bacon)

When you make the obvious mysterious, then the mysterious becomes unavailable. (Darby Bannard)

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

The circle of the compass does not invite scrutiny. The circle of the full moon is full of incident. (Rex Cole)

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all sciences. (Albert Einstein)

If we are to learn to improve the quality of the decisions we make, we need to accept the mysterious nature of our snap judgments. (Malcolm Gladwell)

All subjects not to mention objects are mysterious. (Sherry Grauer)

The passage into mystery always refreshes. If, when we work, we can look once a day upon the face of mystery, then our labour satisfies. (Lewis Hyde)

Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord. (Paul Klee)

The only things one can admire at length are those one admires without knowing why. (Jean Rostand)

Everything is vague to a degree you do not realize till you have tried to make it precise. (Bertrand Russell)

After Atlanta and Folk Fest

One Casey McGlynn, of the Toronto Minivan Gallery, inspires me to once again pick up a paintbrush. Although I've never spoken to him-well, beyond "hello", his work moved me-his color combinations and imagery pushed me to come home and mount a big panel o' wood to some backing strips...and prime the big old thing. I have tons of drying old tubes of oil paint from my Dad (who collected these, leaving them in their original artist palette-boxes) and was thinking I might try a unique palette-one thought out and carefully mixed-and then work out an image...a reverse of image-first thinking. What's (possibly) at stake here is a loss of spontaneity, which seems to be what I most admire in so much of the painted work that I pursue. Drips, mistakes and crossouts...false starts partially covered over, notes to oneself-Basquiat, Twombly speak to me here-as does the work of Justin Robinson, Nathaniel Mather (met at Folk Fest last week) and Clint Griffin (another member of the Minivan Gallery)...pursuing the essence of this work is like chasing after someone I need to possess -someone you need to ultimately have as a lover.

Met another interesting fellow at the FF-one Shawn Wallace, whose West Virginia background and family led him to paint quasi-comic portraits and interesting apocalyptic landscapes...crossing Mad magazine, Weird Tales and outsider drawings of imaginary architectures, Shawn is a humble sort who, much like my friend Ricky Parker, can spin tales for you all day. Many of the tales are taken from his family history. Unfortunately, I couldn't talk to him all that much as I had a booth to attend to and my own sculpture to sell. I was so torn as to what to buy from him, I purchased nothing...but then I called him up on Saturday and asked him if he'd ship me a painting I'd seen...I wanted more than one, but settled-if you know me, you know it's rare-very rare-for me to buy artwork...I have a new painting, 2 new drawings, a print and a sculpture from this show. The latter two pieces are from John Fesken, whose work fascinates me: he makes these intimate little boxes/scenes that give me the creeps...the one I got plunges me into another landscape/mood everytime I give it a look and I have it prominently (but not too obviously displayed in my living room.

Are these events considered milestones?

Yesterday, a "For Sale" sign went up on the house I spent 15 years living in-as it so happens, this house is right down the road from where I'm living now. I knew this was coming, after being divorced now for almost a year and a half. That didn't stop the gush of memories and sadness the moment I saw the sign.
Today, I cancelled the telephone service going to my Mom's house. Our family has had that number-239-4063-since before I was born. Somehow, it didn't seem fair to give it up, knowing that someone else will eventually claim it. But paying $50 a month for a phone that has been used maybe four or five times since April is simply wasteful.
I wondered today how the studio might look to someone else if I never returned-say I was killed on the road and someone bought the studio and its contents. Would they have a clue as to what I was up to? Could they possibly figure out what significance all the bits and pieces just lying around might have? Or just sweep them into the trash, not knowing or even caring that they were to be assembled in such and such a way? Guess that's how it ends-it takes you by surprise and (if you're lucky) you don't even have a chance to clean things up.
Today just feels full of endings-as a matter of fact, that's been the tone for a few days. The constant rain might have had something to do with it. Wisht I could have sent some of that down Texas-way.

The Christmas Window

Dunno if I ever told this story before.

It involves a young boy, dressed up and looking quite presentable, taken by his parents to New York city to see all the city's Christmas wonders, circa 1960. The dressed-up store windows, the beauty of Rockefeller Center, the shoppers and the shopping.
Macy's, in all its glory-a sight to behold, enchanting in its commercial finery, bedecked in red ribbon and flecked with artifical snow. Each of the many street-level windows promising the true wonders of the season.
But there was a window that was not Macy's that stood out, across the street and maybe a bit uptown from that giant of Christmas cheer. This was a store that warned "To the Wholesale Trade Only"-in its three windows a scene from the North Pole was described-no Santa in sight, but here were his elves, working away towards that indelible date: December 25th. It was in these windows that the boy was overtaken by the idea that he would like to have these elves- although he could not buy them, he could make his own. This soon turned out to be a little easier in his imagination than it was in reality. Where to start-just how to do it proved a bit more for him than was possible, given the limited tools and materials he could lay his hands on. But the burning idea that he could do this-as a matter of fact, he could make anything he set his mind to, stayed with him. And to this day, many years later, this idea that anything he chooses to make is within his grasp, still excites him and drives him.

You know where this is going: it's (as the expression goes) all about me. Although I didn't realize it then or even until recently, that moment in front of the shop window was my epiphany-the moment that set the rest of my life-I knew then that I wanted to make stuff-and I knew that compromise was ok (even though I never even made a stab at actually creating those elves). But I would thereafter be a creator-able to make things out of no-things.

As I lay daydreaming (or maybe it was falling asleep) last night, I realized that this very same spark/epiphany still sits inside me and will (or at least I hope it will) be with me until I breathe my last. And, although my age has slowed my down a bit, I still jump out of bed thinking about what I'll make today. This is a gift, I know. I'm writing about it in gratitude-to or for whom I dunno, as I'm no believer. But here it is: thank you.

Ann Arbor

Guess you can imagine how hot it was at the Ann Arbor show this past week...outdoor shows definitely have their drawbacks: the heat was a monster! It was even stranger to see all these folks out shopping and looking at art: if it was me, I'd be home in the AC. Luckily, it wasn't me who decided whether or not to go out. I had a pretty decent show-far better than last year, if you're counting.
I stayed with Ed and susan Major, who couldn't have been any nicer. I met them at the show last year and decided to take them up on their offer of a close, nice place to stay. Not only was all the above true, but they fed me every day and I hope some day to return the favor. I stand in awe of their generosity and good will.

What I wanted to write about was dirt. The stuff that clings and that you wash off-I have realized that dirt is a necessary ingredient in my work-that dust and ground-in grime go along with history-especially the history that goes along with found objects and found materials-you know, the stuff that I use. It occured to me that these materails wouldn't be genuine and probably would not have real history if they did not have clinging, ground-in dirt on them. They are aged. Used. Worn. Broken. Faded. Ripped....but always dirty.
So for me, there is a credibility that comes with dirt. We know that this thing has been through someone's hands and has suffered some of the effects of age. I suppose that these objects could be cleaned up, possibly even sterilized. But what's the point? We know that we are human by the mess and the dirt that we create and leave behind. This is a marker of being humna, which is why I find it all the stranger that we work so hard at getting ourselves "squeaky" clean. Guess I like my dirt-I'm no "Pigpen", but neither do I spend my spare moments cleaning up.
And I don't beleive in washing dogs too often, either. King Johnny is one lucky hound-ponds, yes. Bathtubs, no.

H.M.

....which stands for Henry Molaison, who in 1953 underwent surgery to remove the hippocampus component of his brain to correct his epilepsy(which began after he was struck by a bicycle). The surgery corrected the fits but, unfortunately, also took away Henry's ability to remember. This gentle soul had to be institutionalized as he could not remember how to repeat basic, necessary functions. He did retain his vocabulary, but the medical staff who worked with him had to reintroduce themselves each and every day. One researcher, who worked with Henry for a long time, grew fond of the man. This sentiment was never reciprocated as Henry could not remember who she was and therefore formed no real relationship with her.
Unlike Henry, I have this sentiment and a long term memory. What is getting a little fuzzier is my short term memory. Although this has never been that sharp, lately I find myself standing and waiting for my thoughts to come back, to reappear-as if they might filter down through my mind and become apparent once more. No such luck. The author's name I was trying to remember did not come back to me, despite the fact that I looked for her far and wide on the library shelves. But Kelly Link's last name was simply out of reach for me, even though earlier in the day I had ordered one of her collections of short stories. Troubling, this-or at least it is at times. Mostly I just laugh it off, but there is the feeling, however slight, of this amnesia drowning me. It's just a little bit of water,just enough to cover me, but enough to do the deed.
My amnesia/forgetfulness is not the merciful kind and even though I would like it if I could leave some of the more bittersweet memories behind, those are not the ones I forget. The memories of my parents and of my childhood with them are actually all the sharper now. On my last visit to the house in Verona, not only was the letter still on the house (the letter "P" was written by an unknown hand on the concrete apron of the house and has been there,even though now very faint, as long as I've been alive) but the next door neighbor in landscaping, had dug up the remnants of an old metal post I was once "tied" to. Long story short: I asked my Mom to loop my belt through this post, pretending that the "Indians" had tied me to the "tree"-the excitement of this lasted about three minutes. When I realized I couldn't really do much else but stay in one place, I hollered for Mom.

Doubt

No, I never saw the movie. I'm talking about the doubt I'm feeling about my own abilities. Of late, I feel as though a lot of my personal "powers" are on the wane-the idea that where I used to jump out of bed to just grab the day, now I think about sleeping an extra wink...or two.
Creative efforts all seem flat-like I've been here before-I've done this already. This is a feeling I can't seem to easily shake with my sculpture...and writing and painting seem to be strained. I still consider 50% of good painting to be a bravissimo and self-assuredness that I just don't seem to be able to conjure. Lately, the painting has excited me-but what's a few good strokes when you finish off by making some insecure dabblings in the corner or-better yet-not at all.
Bad day here in Black Rock.

Breaking in

Painting- an observation: ain't it strange how the spontaneous gesture made with a few slashes of paint can be ruined with only a little bit of afterthought (aka, the tiniest of edits seems to melt away all the magic that your intuition has placed on the canvas or paper)...it's almost as if a single question has the power to destroy (well, at least compromise) all that a trance-like session between yer hand, the paint and the surface produced. Not that all of those sessions create wonders-actually, few of them are "meaningful". But those that last seem to embody the sum total of what has been learned-all in a few brushstrokes. Guess I better qualify that and say that these paintings have "personal" power-maybe they are not meant to be seen by other eyes-but this does not diminish their power.

Trailing off

I've been doing a lot of walking/hiking lately. My good friend told me about an opportunity up here in the neighborhood-the trail conference up here was csting about for Trail Maintenance people on a newly-cut trail up here in Jenny Jump State forest/park. There was a 7 mile orientation hike yesterday and I'm thinking of joining up either as a Crew member (to build water dams, stone steps, clear major passageways along the trail) or a TM (trail maintenance person), clearing branches and cutting overgrown foliage to keep the site clear (and bramble-free). I certainly have enough experience to handle the latter, after "cutting line" on my brief surveying stint. Just please pass me that machete, please!
What I'm thinking is that I'd like to include Johnny, but dunno about having him roam the woods while I'm working-I'm nervous about him taking off, like he did that one time. At this point, I'd be lost without him: we've grown very attached since early December. Needless to say, we've both been through a lot since that time. Can you hire someone to train your dog to never leave your side? Guess I might as well ask about a relationship that will never lose its fervor...Mary, from whom I adopted Johnny, says that there is no sure way to have a dog like this-that they have their own minds and may or may not return... that there is always that possibility that you'll never see that dog again. I'm torn between not doing this trail thing if it means taking away from my time with the dog (each of my days are a week's worth-in dog life-to him)and taking him and letting fate decide if we are meant to be together forever. As someone who never had any good off-leash experience, this is a hard choice.

Aftermath

That's the name of one of those old Stones' albums, yes?

In this case, I mean it to signify what comes after all the drama and the death of both parents.

Even though she's gone, I talk to my Mom regularly, thinking I need to give her a call for this or that. Since my Dad was always quiet (it was extremely rare for him to get on the phone and in person, he had few words), I only think of him-much like when he was alive.

Now I'm in the process of paying all the bills, doing all the legal paperwork and cleaning out their house, which is quite a task. But after all, who among us will die neatly, with all their "i's" dotted and "t's" crossed? Shuffling off the mortal coil is hard enough, never mind trying to leave little or no trace. I'm sure whoever has to take care of my "trail" will curse me and wonder about just what I left behind. I wrote a story about this in which the one who died narrates-damning those who "clean up" after him and dissect his idiosyncratic and odd collections.

Tears come erratically-I never know when the gates of the waterworks may open, although rarely does this happen in public. Seemingly odd combinations of memories-you could almost call them dream-like-bring me over the edge and into the place of mourning.

My work has not suffered-although things seem a bit more choppy and days off are usually devoted to estate "maintenance" rather than artwork. There is a cathartic feeling in sorting through their possessions and keeping, tossing or recycling. I've become a member of "Freecycle" -last week, I "recycled" a small room full of National Geographic magazines, which my Dad had a real penchant for. There are now loads of Decoy carving books, art instruction books, collector guides (my parents discovered the flea market business after they were officially retired) that I need to find buyers and/or homes for. The other question is about selling the house-not that the market would allow this, but how and when is an issue. And the other issue looming is: where do I want to go from here? I'm free-I could live anywhere-New Mexico keeps coming up-but, in the very shadow of my parents, I am such a homebody and someone who is so happy in that home-will I risk a new place even though I've got (relatively) little to hold me back?

This is Johnny, the dog that rescued me-I adopted him on Pearl Harbor Day-a week later, my Dad got really sick and a downward spiral followed. This dog thinks he's a king and I s'pose he is in my eyes.

The Last of Them

We pay little attention to them, these puffs of air that are part of the definition of living-we toss them away, disposable tissues.
But here and now, listening for each one, I count them all and know they will end soon. The oxygenator at the foot of the bed seems like a death machine, with its important wiring and its automatic shutoff, which is synched to a tombstone. On that tombstone both the date of birth and the date of death was carved a long time ago. The tombstone doesn't care about pills or walkers or Mom's Timex.
My Dad, mouth open in a rictus of his very last breath, still waits for the holy wafer that will never come. The makeup artist at the funeral home will have to give him the bad news.
My Mom died in her sleep, which I remember is what she wished for when we last discussed death. I was maybe ten, but she was world-wise and had all the good answers. She also died by the side of someone who loved her-all that I could ask.
They blew taps for Dad -both the Union and the military helped bury him. Mom had a bit less help, but bury her we did. I don't know what happened to her Timex, but I'm sure it's still ticking, even though she has been released from her vigil and, of course, time goes on without her.

Balls

Re painting-the secret:

Balls to the wall-No hesitation, no fear (the bumpersticker I used to make fun of...) -lay that brush down and lay it down hard. But know when to stop or what color not to use or when you have a balanced composition or when you look like you're copying or when the painting is looking TOO simple...or TOO complex.

In short, don't ask me-finding my way with paint and brush still seems to be a matter of luck. Some times, you get the right combination, sometimes not. I can understand why Bacon needed drink to achieve the "correct" attitude (altitude?)- the mood that fit him the best for brushing out his works. There is a certain feel and feeling that seems to fit me as well-for instance, there are days when I know painting is off-limits-a potential waste of pigment and paper (I presently paint on paper). Other days, my hands/brain/eyes can be coaxed into formulating images, lion-taming the color at (or on) my fingertips. But in no way can I tell you what will ensue. Exciting-what an adventure for this artist.

Saw "You're Gonna Miss Me" last night-a bio on Mr. Roky Erickson-there was a bit in there- by who I do know remember-on the idea of a young disturbed and beautiful Roky being loved by his fans versus the older version, who is far less charming, scarier and sad. There was a sense of love here on the part of Roky's brother, Sumner, who stood by him through all the schizophrenia and the bad times. This was bracketed by the admirers of Roky (including myself) who stand in awe of his work, but are maybe a little bit less enthusiastic about the actual person, who now stands hunched with his long stringy hair and looks prone to flights of not-so-charming madness.

One thing must be known-the man is/was unique and his music stands in amazing testimony to this.

No name for this one yet-for the red covering, I used what can only be described as rubbers for 1940's high-heeled shoes-beautifully aged and colored.

Marks on a bit of paper

So this is what it's all about, this thing called painting?
A struggle to put down some colored scratchings on a paper plane. Of course, that plane (whether paper, wood, canvas or wall) needs the credibility of thickness (a surface that will not easily slip away) and some sort of defined border to signify an end to the marks made (this is only a personal choice/condition).
The first colors and shapes seem to go down easily, in an almost subconscious manner. This is structure enough fo me to build on-or should I say, to erase, to add to, to paint on, to glue to, to white over-however and whyever that surface gets "built". This part gets easier or more frustrating for me-my shapes and colors slide around looking for anchors-those anchors being other shapes and colors that work well together...but the frustration (as well as the challenge of working with the unknown, with the unplanned) comes in when nothing gels and masses float around the paper plane, lost-looking for a likewise mass to relate to, to anchor to, to formulate what might be called a painting. How easy it all sounds, but how very tough the going can be.
What comes to mind is a weaving process, retelling tales until the story is somehow complete, whether meant only for the storyteller or for his lovers and strangers.

a (very) human comedy

As if in a TV sitcom, my Mom is being transferred (from the hospital) to the same nursing home as my Dad. Maybe they'll have some good moments together-I only hope this will make their respective stays there easier....that it will make the place seem a bit more like home.
Two days ago, Mom seemed to be suddenly "hit" with dementia-this seemed to come on strong-so strong that it was almost too much to take-one day she's talking normally and making great conversation-the next day she is raving. Paranoid-talking about people listening to her, wanting to hurt her and chain her up. And the TV is talking to her and people are stealing her voice. Cripes-all this coming on faster than a freight train. Since that conversation, she has evened out a bit more-now much more rational and like the person I knew.
Maybe being with my Dad will give her perspective and keep her in a more rational space-at least he'll be there as a check. I hope so.
More snow today-ain't this winter one of the nastier ones? Well, at least it is so far, but that could be my perspective and my perspective only...worries have given birth to more worries and the solutions have all flown south...as those around me keep reassuring: this, too , shall pass.

We'll always have Paris...

And that's where I'm supposed to be right now.
Oh well, this trip is postponed/cancelled because now my Mom is in hospital as she has had a chronic problem with shortness of breath. She seems to be getting better now, but I'm not sure I understand the cause of the problem-nor do I think that the medicos do either. But on my last visit (Wednesday night), she was not wearing an oxygen tube. She was protesting long and hard about physical therapy, but while I was there visiting, we met her therapist and they commenced the program-mostly to get her walking and walking safely. The best part was that the therapist advised from the get-go that she'd need a home assistant. She is emotionally/conceptually ready for this, but not my Dad (he is still in a nursing facility doing rehab with his big-toeless foot-also to prepare him to walk safely...or not). There is so much resistance to change in this little family (I'm an only child) of mine. But I guess if you build the walls of your castle so high (my parents are NOT very social people), the day that they are breached-especially when you are at the BOTTOM of your fighting form-is an enormous shock and indignancy. I feel for them, but, unfortunately, I'm one of the ones who are breaking down those castle walls, so that others can help them: I can't do it all.
Dunno if this is familiar territory to any of you-I sure wish i had a sibling to share all this wonderful stuff with-coupled with the other recent events in my life, this certainly seems to be more of a test than reality-It seems too disturbing and punishing for all involved, yet there is no waking from this bad dream. What's that great but bittersweet line-"this, too , shall pass" -I hope it passes quickly.

Which Way Ya Goin', Billy?

Here's what's new: I found that I can go back to the paintings that I've started and make "edits", which sometimes translate into total white-over re-dos. Previously, I felt as though the whole plane had to be composed, figured-now I find that it's far more plastic and mutable. I don't want to use the word forgiving, because I don't want to be forgiven-there's no mistakes made here, onhly progress. I feel as if this must be a function of a new more secure painter that has emerged out of me-how, when and why I dunno. But I feel the power-not quite a religious experience, thank you very much, but I'm happy with the body of work I've accumulated as a painter. does it pass muster? Only for me. If I get photo or two, I'd be glad to show you, but here's the thing-this is more about a good feeling in the process-a feeling that I am (please pardon how this sounds) more one with the paint, rather than pushing it. Maybe it's just become a friendlier substance to me and, hot dammit, this has taken a lifetime-well, at least 35 of my many years...
Dunno how I'd feel about the whole thing if I were surrounded by a room (I paint in a 8 X 12 foot room) of failures-although what defines "winner" right now is more my perception of how the flow of process is going-especially that it's not stiff. Or that the painter is losing track of where he is heading (not that there ever could be a roadmap for this-unless it centers around the Street of Crocodiles)....
Life here is pretty complicated. My Dad is in a nursing home or rehab center, depending on the mood of the day. Mom is having breathing, heart and leg issues and still living in the big house I grew up in. Every phone call seems to bring bad news. Yes, you are right in assuming my work keeps me going, as does Laura who has been wonderful through all this. We go on vacation this coming week for a brief getaway.
That darn dog and I have become fast friends-I knew from the first time I saw him, he was a good 'un: tail wagging as he walked. Many people have said that he looks at me like I'm his rescuer and saver-I'll repeat the question I saw on a bumper sticker: "Who rescued who?"
Here's a question for anyone who might have an answer-Jhnny/Sock is such a calm dog, but he hangs head in van and gets carsick. Anybody have a remedy besides leaving him at home or "calming" drugs? I've yet to try ginger root extract, which was suggested.

This one is called "Kastor".

New Year

Hello 2011! Wow, wasn't it just 2001 or am I marking myself as old by asking that very question? It's sad to leave the holidays behind-they might not have lived up to my expectations, but they always seem to hold so much promise and hope...the days that follow seem anticlimatic.

Well, here I am. A bit shop-worn and shelf-damaged, but ready to go on.

We leave for Paris in about a week and this is more and more exciting. I hope that the whole experience doesn't fly by too quickly, but who knows-one trip could inspire many returns. I am bracing myself for the expense of such a trip-Europe always seems so damn expensive to me-guess I missed the boat when it comes to the times of the "stronger" dollar. That's all in those 1960 movies with Doris Day and her crew. I experienced that only in Indonesia and Thailand-there it just seemed like yer dollar could buy anything.

Art working schedule has been odd lately, lots of halts and jump starts to it-guess that will have to be for a while. I got in several days of real work last week, but missed out on the earlier part of the week because of the big snowfall (which we did not have here, but both Westchester and Central Jersey got hammered). The past two days have brought a dramatic change in temperature, warming up so quickly as to bring on the slush and mud (yours truly got stuck in the front yard in the "no-traction" van).

This one is called "Cherto"-I love doing these small heads and have to figure a way to display them-sorry to admit this, but in doing sculptures like these, I always need to think about whether the damn thing is "personal" (as in, not for sale or for that matter, saleable) or just how in the world I'd display it-the "it" being only 12 inches tall and therefore easy to loser visually (next to all my other towering work!!!)