the Salesman's Dog

Annoying Pets (Pests?)

2012-01-24T03:50:00.000-08:00

King Johnny does this funny thing: I'm crouched down, squatting to find something on the ground or using the only clear surface in the shop (yep, the floor), he comes over and forces his head under my arm. He then proceeds, one paw at a time, to stand on my supporting leg-to get as close to me as possible. I've never had such an affectionate dog. Hopefully, he'll never try and bite me as we seem to be head to head a lot.

He is one of the worst distractions in the studio: If I'm doing that artist thing of staring at a piece, he'll be at a right angle to the artwork, staring up at me. Truly disconcerting. I wish I could tell you that I'm able to ignore him-tain't so. He's what I remember some little kid calling his pooch: pesky pal.

Emptying the last of the Verona house at a fever pitch. I've been selling stuff on Ebay and using the towns Bulk Garbage Day to its fullest advantage. The same guys who were taking scrap metal from the basement said that they wanted the furniture and that's a load off my mind-just to drag the stuff out of the house was getting tiresome. There's still a lot of stuff coming out of the basement, but I can now see most of the walls of the house-believe me-that's quite an accomplishment.

Distracted by so many things these days, my sleeping patterns have been messed up and I'm getting a bit more acquainted with Old Man Insomnia. Sucks, but at least I feel as though the causes are transparent-lists of stuff to do and more lists of stuff to do. I'm surprised that I can actually function in the studio, but have to say that much of my time there has been more mechanical than exploratory. That's ok for now-much like the insomnia, I'm treating it as a temporary condition.

Made a lamp for the light show that Chris Giffin and I will curate out at the Zeek gallery, but I'm not 100% happy about the thing. It's one of those pieces that you know you could modify-you know it needs something, but time (and probably my compromised attention span) has not allowed for it.

Cleaning house

2012-01-09T03:24:00.000-08:00

As you may or may not know, I lost both of my parents early in 2011. Since that time in March, I've been emptying their house, getting it ready to sell.
Recently, I found a couple guys who offered to buy the “contents” of the house- only what they wanted - as opposed to them cleaning the place whistle-clean. I went ahead and took money from them and told them to have at it. Now I'm left with the remainder, the dregs of what was not wanted and/or could not fit in the trailer. I have mixed feelings about doing this, but one thing is for sure, it was the best compromise between going at it piecemeal by myself and lighting a match to the place. I made this decision to save some of my sanity and a lot of my energy.
Dad was a hoarder, Mom a saver, so they collected excesses of stuff-items that were worth keeping, but not in the ridiculous quantities I found in the house. I'll spare you the details and at the same time assure myself that it could have been much worse. To their credit, they amassed a small fortune in goods and could have withstood many catastrophes, especially ones that deprived the rest of the civilization of New Jersey of canned food, surfoam planers, or fishing reels! I had always excused them in that they were the children of the great depression and this was the reason for their crazy excessive collections. Now, as I have learned from prominent sources, this is only an excuse for hoarders. So my parents were more nut-jobs than worthy savers… it's good to know I come from superior stock.
In going through the house in the past year, I have gotten better, read tougher, in choosing what gets pitched and what remains, either to sell, to donate, to keep or to incorporate into art...At first, my reasoning was that any excess would sell at the flea market. But as I have changed my perspective on this (I no longer enjoy flea markets so much, at least not as a seller) and as the pile of stuff grew bigger and bigger, more stuff has seen the inside of the garbage can.
But I digress. What I meant to talk about was the sadness that surrounded me (which was not really present almost the whole time I was cleaning the house on my own) as the door of the trailer of the "contents buyer" closed. It hit me like the cliche: An overpowering wave of sorrow came up as I was driving back to Blairstown. Uncontrollable tears put me on the side of good old Route 80. I grappled with getting back my control, but I could have idled there for quite a while-those waves kept coming and I feel as if I could have cried out the whole past year, washing my parents into their graves. The dog sat watching me, knowing, as dogs do, that this was a time to simply be there-After a while, coming up and calmly licking my face. Just once.

That Matisse Head

2011-11-07T07:56:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-03T03:19:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-30T03:21:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-29T03:26:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-08-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-16T03:51:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-25T16:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-07-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

....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

2011-06-03T03:58:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-26T03:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-23T03:27:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-17T03:49:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

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

2011-02-22T04:15:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-26T09:41:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-01-13T03:19:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-01-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-03T03:29:00.000-08:00

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!!!)

Friendlier Paintings

2010-12-29T17:05:00.001-08:00

I'm still pushing paint around these bits of paper and loving it. Each little work seems a new challenge, but so far so good-I have hit no brick walls and all seems fluid-sometimes moving at a slower pace, but moving nonetheless.

I worked a bit tonight, which is off my usual schedule-mornings seem to be my better time. I've got five paintings going and each one seems to allow me back to it, to rework and add to it as see fit. This is a big change from my past-I could never seem to find a groove-a way to work that did not feel absolutely stiff and meaningless. I can't say that I'd be much good at showing you the meanings inherent in any of my abstracts, but that doesn't leave them meaningless to me. None of the recent work seems stiff to me-when a painting does, I put it aside to do a major rework on it or paint it over right then and there. The key to my recent love of this painting thing is that it is all flowing and moving. With little time to give to this 2D work, that suits me just fine. there are days that putting the brush down and cleaning up is just the worst, but that also leaves me burning to get back to it. The ring of fire.

This one is called The Faun.

Applying for a rebate

2010-12-18T03:55:00.000-08:00

That's what I want for Christmas-a rebate.

This season has almost completely passed me by. I miss so much of what I used to do holiday-wise (Christmas was a huge deal in my former married life), which is now almost next to nothing.

Having ailing parents has not helped at all, either.

I've spent a great deal of my spare time lately dealing with them and their doctors. My Dad developed a gangrenous condition a month back-dealing with the surgery (big toe amputation) and the recovery involved could almost be a full time job for several people. I have to say that the hospital that he is in (Mountainside Hospital in Montclair, NJ) made a lot of this problem easier by getting my mother and I clear information much of the time.

Johnny, the new hound, has been really easy to have around. His demands are few and easily met. He does suffer from car-sickness, though-this is something I never gave even a second thought before, having dogs that seemed well attuned to driving around. I am going longer distances, though-commuting regularly 60 miles to my Mom's and then another 70 miles (on top of that) to Laura's place up in Westchester. Poor guy has probably spent very little time in a car before. BTW, settled on the name Johnny as it seems to fit him but, as usual, he has many names, most of them working well. He just doesn't like it when I raise my voice, so I'm making a concerted effort to not do that at all. He gives me absolutely no reason to raise it as he is an almost perfect gentleman.

Please put up a little corny or kitschy ornament for me and know that I'll be back next year, much like Santa, to hopefully enjoy my holiday a little more fully.

The New Salesman's Dog...

2010-12-10T03:23:00.000-08:00

has no name. I thought briefly of naming him "dog". He came with the names Johnny Dollar, Blue Moon, and Buck...ok, so where to from here?

Had a similar problem with the last adopted dog (Skye, who did not last with me for one week because of her health issues) and here we are again. Well, the name ain't so important. This little guy (he's about 55 pounds) has a meaty head with a very trim and fit body. He is slightly off kilter in the head area, as he was purportedly shot in the neck-how and why, I do not know, but can't imagine that it was for a good reason. to me, he seems part beagle mixed with lab or golden retriever, but I'll never know for sure. One thing for sure, like most dogs, he sure likes to get fed and to be petted!

Over this past weekend, I had an open studio, attended by just a few folks-certainly enough people to make it worthwhile, but a paltry few considering everyone who said that they'd be there. It is a tough time of year for this sort of thing-next time I might try one before Thanksgiving, to make it easier on everyone's schedule.

Thanks to everyone who came, especially to Steve, who brought along Anna and Thompson, who both thoroughly enjoyed Liza, the standard poodle I babysat over the weekend, as well as the artwork.

My parent's health has been deteriorating further and, although I'm constantly on the phone with my Mom, I still feel guilty and not "there" enough for them. Dad was diagnosed yesterday with gangrene in his foot (feet have truly been an Achilles Heel for this man, pardon the weird punning-he's always had some sort of issue with his feet-from a rash that kept him out of active duty in WWII to breaking his ankle on a construction job after years of working at the top of skyscrapers) and my Mom has had a running battle for the past month with a fast heartbeat (altohugh she has a pacemaker). S'pose all these problems have done even more to keep me from thinking any holiday thoughts at this time-I just want to hunker down and deny the whole thing, despite the twinkly lights and trees all around me. Humbug? Maybe not, but just count me out of the Christmas sing-along and tree lighting.

BTW, this dog brings up absolutely no memories of my previous dogs, which I suppose is a blessing-he is so different from either of them, which is truly a good thing.

OOPS!

2010-12-02T03:52:00.000-08:00

I did forget to mention-and this is probably too late for ya'll, that I'll be haivng an open studio this coming Saturday, December 4th from 10-5pm. My studio is located at the old Vail Grange Hall-47 Vail Road-if you are using a GPS, punch in Columbia, NJ as that's how it's mapped out.
Sorry for the very late announcement, but my secretary has been on vacation for the past few weeks.

Music and Painting

2010-11-24T04:20:00.000-08:00

In any other situation, the background of sound might be an irritant-but the voices of Big Bill Broonzy, Blind Willie McTell, and Fuzzy Wilson act as lubricant. Smoothing out the edges between those times when the brush is actually on the paper and when the action is stalled (when you just have to sit back and think), these voices help, ranging from dulling the frustration to accenting the high notes at the rare times when things are going right.
I'm beginning to think this painting thing is all about stamina: being able to paint and paint-maybe till your arm falls off-but things are actually improving. Guess this observation is a "duh" moment on my part, but I really never considered the fact that the "practice, practice, practice" idea could come into play here. I suppose this was true for me with three dimensional work, but that just seemed so easy for me-and it was easy there to "practice, practice, practice" as I (almost) always seemed to enjoy the results.
More stuff to give thanks for-where's Ian Drury now?

This one is called Driga-it's on a welded stand-as yu can see, it's made offa old log with a lotta help from nature-the hair is strips of cut roofing copper and he only has one ear.

Studio Show

2010-11-05T03:31:00.000-07:00

It's almost time for the last few shows of the year: Baltimore (At the Visionary Art Museum) and my 2nd annual in-studio show. Trying to do a little more self-promotion this year and (fingers crossed) hoping that it might work.

Cleaning the studio has so far been a Herculean-type task. Maybe not quite as bad as cleaning out those Augean (sp?) stables, but, then again, I'm being no where near as thorough as I should be.

I also need to "get my ducks in a row" with the websites- http://wmskrips.blinkweb.com/ has seen no action for quite a while (you are looking at it before the update-more than half of those sculptures have been sold or redone!), even though I made mention in the introductory blurb of changing things once a week-HAH! Here you-all can feel free to call me a big fat liar! But now, I'm on the case and changes will be made so that I can skate by at least another year...

Let's face it, folks-I am trying to do too much. My painting has been suffering the past few months because of the short story I've been trying to put together, which has thoroughly zapped both my attention and my time...I'm not so sure that I even like the story anymore. I assure you that I could edit this thing until the cows come home. But I did find a parallel between the writing and the painting-I seem to start off quick, breaking from the gate like a old horse trying to win. But while I'm cruising along, racing to some kinda finish, I realize that the structure of the story-the plot-is not complete or satisfactory (read, trite). Why should I put out a story that makes a reader say "duh" after they've finished reading it? Things are a bit different for the painting-I get lost in the beauty of spreading all that paint and forget that the whole thing needs to have a structure-I wind up with all the interesting but discrete elements-I have thought about making cut-outs like Matisse-rearranging all my little beauties to form a monster collage-but it would make me feel so much better if I could paint my way to this, rather than resort to a sculptor's bag of tricks. Yikes.

This piece uses and old bucket-bottom as a background and the head is covered in what was part of a toy tea set-done in this color, leaving clues of its vintage. The eyes and lips are bits from the box of old traces I bought from a farm auction (the one that Steve missed).

Hard Times Killin' Floor Blues

2010-10-30T04:41:00.000-07:00

Talk about a song stuck in yer head-the title to this blog is the song that has followed me around for all too long-it's from the soundtrack to the "Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?" (by Chris Thomas who covers Skip James, who is described as a man who might be singing and playing this tune to a warm Mississippi night on an old wooden porch at least 75 years ago...)

It IS a beautiful song, but, jeez, I'm sorta thinking it might be adding to my "downtrending" mood the past few days. The spectre of the holidays is hovering around my head and what with sad memories I have of Christmas/Thanksgiving past(s), this whole time might be a tough one.

It doesn't help that my parents might be seeing their last holiday in the house. Those last few words do not come easily and, yep, I can feel their weight...

Where's that damned dog when I need her?

I sure do miss my Rhonda now.

This one is called "Deaf and Dumb." There's something about it that I really like that goes over and beyond my usual work-I guess that it holds more mystery than the usual...

Hard(ened) times

2010-10-28T03:40:00.000-07:00

I just glanced at the amount of posts that I'd made in the past couple of years. Comparing it with this year's tally, it sure looks like I've been slacking. Of course, I have my excuses-they're somewhere around here....

Well, I tried a rescue dog and she just did not work out for reasons I just don't want to go into here. As I wrote a friend just this morning, I'd sure like a dog right now. Following that thought was "A dog sure would be the most impractical thing I could have right now (well, that is, next to a leased BMW, that is)."

I'll sit on the fence for a while on this one and wait for the dog to come to me. Many offers have been made and I'm sure my friends think me picky (which is very true), but I'm gonna wait for the dog to find me.

My painting has been somewhat constipated lately-there is this feeling when it is working, when the flow is good and unrestricted (mind you, this has little to do with the end product). My sculpture feels as if it's somewhat canned. The fact that the studio is unheated (that's by choice and dictated by my pocketbook) has not helped my creative "flow". I spent most of the day yesterday in the studio and I felt things start to free up, just as I was about ready to call it a day.

There is something to this aging thing-I now have a true drop off point and I call it that becuase it is so dramatic-you know it when it is reached.

My writing has been going pretty well-like everything else I'm trying to do, there has been no concentration but only fits and starts. This is the way I like to work, but I'm having trouble dividing up time lately...another item to work on.

I'll do the Ann Arbor show again next year (they invited me back) and give it another shot. I'll apply once more to JazzFest and I want to try another little show in Michigan. The gallery scene is dead-I feel badly for all of the galleries that show my work-they have that rent thing to deal with constantly and no way of encouraging sales...

I'm having a studio show and sale on December 4th (please tell yer friends and neighbors)-we'll give this thing a shot once again (the first one was terrific)-if nothing else, it's a good excuse to rearrange the studio. A great studio sweep and cleaning is coming sometime soon-I can feel it-When the mood hits, I'm gonna be chucking out and moving stuff like crazy-you know, turning over the new leaf, shaking the dust off (literally)...but for right now, I'll be at AVAM one weekend and the following weekend is my sale...busy, busy.

This one is a favorite of mine. It's called "In the Wall"-or some such thing-I know I (already)gave it a title, but I write from home and can't readily access my work...when I get to the shop later, I'll have one of those "duh" moments when I see the original title. No matter-it's mine and you can't have it!

ps. Writing a short story about a big expressionist painting globbed with paint and some other stuff...

Food Fer Thought

2010-09-23T03:47:00.000-07:00

Via FaceBook-Steve Terlizzi just posed the challenge to make a list of the fifteen artists who most influenced you AND will stick with you no matter what (his words). He said: Don't think about this too long...here's my list (in no particular order):
John Michael Basquiat
Robert Rauschenberg
Georg Baselitz
Franz Kline
Willem DeKooning
H.C. Westermann
Jim Nutt
William Burroughs
Henri Matisse (esp his Sculptures and Cut-outs)
Mark DiSuvero
Joseph Cornell
Pablo Picasso
Ernst Ludwig Kirchner
Ludwig Meidner
Franz Marc
Gerard Cambon
Guess I could keep on adding, but he said to keep it short and quick...

Did a painting yesterday that took maybe 15 minutes ...it's wonderful (only in my mind, which don't count fer &*%$^#*@), but lacks real contrast. The color all jives and sits well together, but the whole thing lays back and contrast-wise, it's soggy white bread. I am not a person that likes colors too wild in any shape or form, so I guess this work parallels my chosen "palette". But that doesn't mean I have to be satisfied with it. Looks as though I might have to start creating some exercises that will challenge my color choices.
Still looking for a dog. I flip/flop between thinking that my life is too busy for any such critter but then go and meet actual prospects. Saw an English Setter yesterday that was in need of a home-I thought this dog not a good match for me and ugly as well- this makes me question my values. I rescued a stray on Saturday and was all ready to take this dog in (what the dog looked like was truly secondary or tertiary to the goal: a home for the homeless) and then, the owner came and got her. There's two parts to the neediness here-one part being the dogs and the other part is all mine.

More Stuff About the Hounds

2010-09-01T03:14:00.000-07:00

No, it sure as hell is not practical Entertaining the thought of having a dog right now is sure as hell not practical, but a beast that thinks like me would be a great addition to this here family of one. Anyone who owns a dog knows what I mean-I thought getting a kitty cat for a while, what with their relatively low maintenance, but they just don't compare. Meow.

I wanted to name the dog Scout, but it's ridiculous to assume a name before meeting da Mutt (yes, friends, I'm open to dogs of either sex right now even though my preference has always been female -you can read into that what you like, but they are gentler and kinder and more loyal as far as I can tell. I have been looking at a few nice German Shepherd dogs-guess there's a soft part of me that still misses my Rhonda, who was mixed, but looked predominantly German Shepherd-ish. Anyhow, I'm sticking to no name (Noname was the big WHITE Shepherd Jamie found as a stray and brought in to work-I couldn't take him as I was nursing Rhonda through her last days and a new dog would be way too much of a betrayal) and I'll figure all that out when I've adopted the dog.

Just recieved a used copy of The Gift,by Lewis Hyde, which is a book about the artist and his/her role in society. I've scanned it before and hope to get a bit more out of it. Also purchased a new book of essays concerning Francis Bacon and his work. Can you tell I'm hooked? Well, the guy really gave a great interview-or maybe it was just that David Sylvester was such a great interviewer-dunno-they are both no longer with us so I'll have to ask someone else....

The sculpture is "DIY", recently sold to John Krysak, a collector hailing from Atlanta.

Not Fade Away

2010-08-31T17:11:00.001-07:00

Francis Bacon speaks of never losing the mystery behind or in your work-that is, keeping the work not only somewhat foreign and vague to your audience, but also keeping yourself at a distance: knowing, not knowing.

Presently, a great deal of the three dimensional work I'm doing right now seems pretty well stuck. Fastened to some kind of past, it all seems a bit too automatic, too easy. What I hope for are new revelations, some new angles-ones that could throw the radio right into that bathwater.

Meanwhile, the lil' paintings I'm doing on paper seem to bloom and fester. Both lively and challenging, they're nothing more than pushed paint. I keep trying not to look where I'm stepping. This paint still looks appetizing to me every morning- knowing/not knowing.

"Salesman Seeks New Dog"

2010-08-25T17:14:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've "penned" anything for this here blog. Guess that's quite an understatement. Thanks to you-all who have stayed with me, checking every once in a while for new material. Sorry to have dissapointed for so long.

Without guaranteeing any degree of regularity for the future, here goes.

I have a new address and that is not insignificant nor was it easy to obtain -moving for me was never a natural act-my parents are still in the same house they bought in 1948- can't say that apple has fallen far from the tree. But leaving the home I shared with my now ex-wife to living with my parents (after not living there for about 35+ years) was not very easy, either.

I plan to move again. This is under protest, but necessary. This place is filled with dampness and is growing a healthy strain of mold, which is giving yours truly a stomachache and a headache on a regular basis. After being blood-tested, x-rayed and GI-tested, I can only conclude that it's a mold problem. The green blue ring around each of my shoes, which reside in the carpeted closet, also serves to support my case. Not good.

Living here for the past few months has been relatively painless (outside of the mold issue) and I've almost starting to feel at home. I'm a bit more settled in than I care to admit (considering I'm gonna have to do it all over again). Here I have a little "project room" (I'm typing away in it right now) and I've been doing some paintings on paper there. I've kept my sculptural work at the studio-not that I'm so concerned about keeping things separated, but more to ensure that this place stays relatively neat and tidy.

I have a decent bathtub and a good-sized kitchen and living room. But nothing ever dries here. The spiders love the moisture-I just wish I liked the spiders. My favorite neighbor is a catbird who calls the front yard home. She always makes me feel welcome here, even if the bird is a bit territorial, scolding if I get too close.

Anyhow, I just returned from FolkFest, the once-a-year show I attend down in Georgia. This year I enjoyed the people there far more than the art. Maybe because I arrived there a bit late (my fault) and got distracted in the rush to put up my booth-I saw some good work, but found the show overall a bit less inspiring/exciting than in years gone by. Maybe I'm getting more jaded to the regional folk art, but I also might be a little less tolerant of all the (folk) art that is supposed to come from the heart, but looks and feels to me as if it comes from the area of the wallet instead. Don't get me wrong-I'm there to make money, too, but there's a certain genuineness lacking in a lot of what I saw displayed there. There just seems to be more artists who have jumped on the bandwagon and are churning out product just to cash in on the folk art phenomenon. Next stop, Wal-Mart. Maybe I'm just a damn cynic...

Conversely, there is still a wonderful, almost primitive ring to a great amount of other work there. Fingerprints abound, real and metaphoric -much of the artwork there defies the process of mass manufacture-it is filled with mistakes, lines that aren't straight, false starts, obvious erasures-everything here says made by man. I have found this also at the Kentuck show, which occurs a little later in the year (October) in Alabama. It is another wonderful gathering of stuff, filled with a strange mix of art and artists, unlike the many shows that most of us know. So unique-I wish that there could be more of these strange and wonderful shows around the country. No, I do not plan to try and start one here in New Jersey, although the cultural aptitude (and attitude) around here surely could benefit.

Presently, I am looking for a new Salesman's dog. I'm not sure if this is the right time to do this, that is, to adopt a hound, as I'm renting space. But my friend Laura and I agree, dogs are life-changers and necessary for one's sanity. I need to have a dog to rest my arm on-a dog would slow me down a little bit and make me take life in smaller bites. I've been baby-sitting a standard poodle lately (me with a poodle? Yup, you heard it here!) and Liza is terrific and lots of fun. For me, it's gotta be a big dog. I DID turn down Rolf and Wolfgang, the two German Shepard buddies who weighed in at 135 and 155 pounds, respectively. The rule is that I must be able to pick the dog up so that , when the time comes, I can care for them in their old age. I know, not the warmest thought, but there are areas in which you need to be more practical.

The job which held my interest is now a bit hard to take-I think that it is no fault of the job or the work involved, but the fact that I feel a need right now to be more "present" with my art.
The Fall and Winter promise to be slower times and I hope to be able to recoup more creative time and still retain the job. Looking forward to the change in season, but not towards paying for oil, which is always on my mind as the thermometer goes down.

Daydreaming of paintings-I feel so close to doing some successful painted work-so close that I can almost taste it-but not quite close enough to lay the dreamed-up works on paper or canvas. There's no stopping the daydreams-it's just I fear that I'll turn to other subject matter if I can't satisfy the dreaming...some hours or days in the painting studio would help. I find no gratification just holding the brush and that's about all I can do after working-well, at least that's where I'm at in my habits. I DO beleive if I have to I can retrain myself and burn just a little more of the ends off all those candles.

That's "Knowing/Not Knowing" just in case you can't read the type on the sculpture.

There's no one home

2010-02-15T08:02:00.000-08:00

I'm not living at home presently. More about this later.

I have been negligent in not announcing the fact that I've two new websites:

http://wmskrips.blinkweb.com/

for sculpture and

http://wmskripspaintings.blinkweb.com/

for 2D work...

If you have questions on anything, please contact me at handmade@netcarrier.com and be patient as I'm answering emails only once a week or so....

This one is a new favorite-the title escapes me and I'm not in the studio to look it up....sorry! It measures about 20" tall.

painting

2010-01-16T04:41:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it’s just from using painting materials more frequently, but I feel as though my intuitive skills grow with each of the “scrape “ paintings that I've been making- I like them more and more-maybe because I’m FEELING the color and discarding the idea of form …I wonder if I could ever make that happen with sculpture and what form things would take-the difference here is that you have to drive around sculpture, whereas you can glide on the color of these "canvases"-which may be relevant here-I am working on paper-not only is the "sanctity" of the stretched canvas out the window, it's just a helluva lot easier to bear down on the paper- far easier to get more physical and I do SO like to scrape and chisel at my surface. Guess the other idea that I'm choosing to avoid right now is how easy it is to make these little paintings, which , for me, go beyond satisifying: like I'm having too damn much fun AND I really like the product. For right now I'll file this as a superfluous thought and keep painting.

Help. Does anyone out there know where I can get a good quality b&w zerox for use in wet collage/painting that will not bleed?

ps-this is an older work...

In response to a letter from P...

2010-01-12T03:45:00.000-08:00

Since this is my first time writing for the new year, Happy 2010!
Can't say I've made any major resolutions, but I sure wouldn't mind dropping a few pounds (like everyone else in the new world).

A friend wrote to tell me that although she really loved my work, seeing it along with some other artists (she mentioned two others by name) had caused her to give up making art. This bothers me a lot. Ideally, I'd always be the artist that inspires others to get out there and make things. Someone who set loose a flurry of energy culminating in people doing.
Guess this can't always be so. As much as I feel it a blessing to inspire people (and, apparently, one that I have little control over), the opposite effect is also possible.
I'd urge anyone feeling this way-someone who stops making art because it seems as though others (pardon the metaphor) seem to have all the aces -to question the whys of
their actions. I'm not saying that each and every one of us is meant to make art, far from it-but that those who enjoy creating should be very careful of measuring themselves against others. After all, if it's imitation that you feel you are pursuing, look at all of us who make things-we each have heroes we look up to...and many of us copy. Although we choose to put these heroes on a stratospherically high pedestal, we can't forget that they are only influences, rather than contestants we are running a race with.
Look at the folk artists as a good example to follow-these folks made art in a vacuum, with no one to look up to, with no one to offer a measuring stick. The art prevailed -without the use of comparison and probably, to a great degree, without much comment or approval from standers-by. I love that Bill Traylor just started working one day, quite late in his life. The reason he had-just to make things.
The lesson : Don't sell your creative drive short-let your hands tell you what is meant to be done and not the work of others.

Barry Cohen

2009-12-16T03:40:00.000-08:00

On January 1st, 2010, it will be ten years since Barry Cohen passed away. I often wonder how much influence I should attribute to Barry for my interest in folk art and its subsequent influence on my work.
I was just out of art school when I met Barry. He was the close friend of an aunt of my then girlfriend, Barbara. Her aunt Sally asked me if I'd ever had a desire to teach art or do workshops with kids. It turns out that Barry headed an organization (which was actually government-funded at the time!) called Community Environments and sponsored all kinds of teaching workshops for kids in NYC.
But before I got involved with teaching, I was a handyman, building this or that and doing minor stuff for friends or friends of friends in need. Barry wanted a loft bed built for his tiny 1st floor apartment on Sheridan Square. this was no mean task-when I went to size up the project, I saw that every square inch of his place was covered with his collection and his art. This would have been in the late 70's.
There were huge stoneware jugs displayed everywhere. he showed me handgrained doors (I didn't have a clue about their existence before this), weathervanes, decrepit but stunningly beautiful for their simplicity and their very primitive-ness and all sorts of other "smalls". Barry had just started collecting old hand cut valentines and excitedly showed me several of these.What he showed was not lost on me, but it was all fairly new to my eye and took me some time to absorb-but I certainly could appreciate its age and see the maker's "fingerprint".
I wish that he had spent more time in showing me his work, which was almost indistinguishable (to my unlearned eye) from his collection of folk art. What I remember most were some recent drawings he had done using strong tea as pigment. But he never explained his constructions, which to me looked like shelves and containers for holding even more fragments from the past.
The worst part of the job was getting the lumber into his apartment and not damaging anything before it was put into place. I learned the value of his collection much later-after I'd nearly glazed huge stoneware puzzle jugs with 2x4s or almost backed into delicate displays with power tools. I got the bed built and hurt nothing (well, maybe I scraped the bedroom ceiling once).
The image of his apartment has set with me many years. I wish that I'd had more time with him now to talk not only about his work, but with his absolute obsession with collecting.

More about Barry:
www.nytimes.com/.../antiques-just-plain-folk-the-art-of-everyday-objects.html

This one is titled "What Calls You"-I built the figure up from chicken wire and cloth

and the built it up with modelling paste. Trying to break away from the carved head

is tough -the results from the armature/modelling method are pretty unpredictable... is this a good thing or a bad thing?

nothing to report

2009-12-13T04:06:00.000-08:00

I've been trying to work out the modelled heads-guess I can't expect success at every turn and I'm trying hard not to get discouraged.

Of course, there is little control over what I'm making-they look like humans alright, but they seem so cartoon-like and I'm really not too crazy about this.

Like anything else, these figures will require time, but I hope to not get TOO tight with them and "lose my lead"...kinda like having your cake and eating it, too. I want that spontaneous product that captures all my preconcieved notions, yet not have to work too hard at it, knowing that the "tighter" I get with the medium, the more I defeat what I'm after. How to keep the elusive lookng and feeling elusive...

This is another skipper. She kind of "fell" together. Wonder if I'll ever learn to skip rope?

A Good Show

2009-11-30T03:27:00.000-08:00

Went to Baltimore City over the weekend to have a one day show (Bazaart) at the Visionary Art Museum there. After this weekend, I want to say that it feels like the economy may be coming back-or, at least, folks are less scared (for better or worse) of spending money. Sold a few pieces that were "hot off the press". I'm not going to say that I'm getting sentimental and that it pains me to see work go, but at least two of the pieces will be missed-"The Passenger" and "Pensive"-I'd just finished them and probably needed to stare at them just a while longer...oh, well.

Besides having a good long interrupted talk (darn those pesty folks who don't know that I'm at this venue to yak and instead want to buy my art!) with my friend Bob and his wife Nancy, I ran into two friends who I haven't seen in forever-I lived up the street from the in NYC on Broadway-Carl and Mary were below Canal street-I was above Canal street-talk about bringing back some good old memories AND seeing some really wonderful, creative, good-hearted and smart people...you take for granted some of the folks you meet, thinking that you'll probably have the chance to encounter people like this again. This is simply not true, unless you are very lucky or one of those who lives forever. Carl and Mary are unique-two people who I've crossed paths with and know myself to be the better and richer for it.

Here are the two pieces (boo-hoo) that I sold that were just out of the studio.

On the left is "The Passenger" and the one on the right is "Pensive". Isn't my photography getting a little better? I'll be doing a new website when I figure out lighting-and hopefully, this will be very soon.

Thanksgiving Story

2009-11-25T14:46:00.000-08:00

So the lost dog (turns out his name is "little") was reunited with his owner thanks to an ad he placed on Craig's List along with some photos of the dog.
The dog was initially attracted to my friend when he heard the sound of a woodsplitter that a hired man was running out in the yard. The sound was familiar to the dog-as it happened, the dog's owner is a tree guy, who splits wood for extra moolah. Since the dog was almost 20 miles from home, the poor thing truly was lost!
Anyhow, both dog and owner are together again (Jamie said that when Little saw his owner-this big guy-she couldn't hold the dog back and the meeting was especially tearful. I know this situation from "losing" Delilah when she would go on one of her "walkabouts"...talk about emotional...just wathc them waterworks when it comes to anything dog.
In January, so Cara sez, we might get another dog-and probably a cat as well.

This one is called "Almost"-as you can see, an old, cut-up hand lettered sign spells out the title of this sculpture.

A New Dog in Town

2009-11-21T03:45:00.000-08:00

Out to try something new-I'm about to purchase some modelling material (not clay, to which I seem to have a real aversion -I may have to take a clay workshop just to see if have good reason...) called Winterstone. What I'm thinking is that I'd like to make this material into the consistency of putty and roll some stuff-meaning bits of lint, dog hair, string, dust-and create some figures-or at least heads with shoulders out of it.

The whole idea is to spend less time with the head/figure and more on my background and the overall piece-so much of my work is supported by the heads/figures and I'd like to take the emphasis and spread it around a little. Barring this, a new approach is needed here as I'm feeling stale. This has been a strong feeling with the coming of the fall and the DST time-change. Along with it came a sort of depression, a feeling that I can get "through" my work much like I could get "through" my house with the lights off (or my eyes closed)-I know things a little TOO well.

We'll have to see how/if this works. It will help that my last show of the season is exactly a week from today...

We had a little stray mutt-dog in the warehouse/office for the past two days. He must be all of a year old and weighs 27 pounds (we had him on the UPS scale)-we've been trying every possible name for him (he belonged to someone, for sure, as he is pretty well fully trained) to see if he responds-no dice. The group opinion has it that he was dumped and, even though Jamie and Michelle have posted "lost dog" notices up all over, he won't be claimed. I hope that this is so because, despite the fact that they both like big dogs, this little guy is seducing all of us. He can jump straight up in the air pretty far, never mind right into your lap. He seems to love riding in the truck and, no surprise here, loves to play. It's fun to be around a dog that is so different from what I'm used to ...if this dog isn't a Sparky, I dunno what the best name would be for him. But I'll leave that up to Jamie, as I think she has already fallen hard for him.

This one has no name yet, but is part of the big heads, as you can see. I included Raising Doubt here as well, which is uppermost and preceeded the new head by several months.

Sex, Ghosts

2009-11-13T03:21:00.000-08:00

I've wanted to write lately, but have felt somewhat stalled out. The past month or so has felt to me akin to running on fumes. S'pose there have been distractions -even my sculptural work has felt shallower than usual. Concentration has been a hard partner to satisfyand even though everything seems the same, it just ain't. There's a great degree of static, both good and bad, running through this here radio program o' my life.

Two forces or ideas seem to pull at me and they both seem to lead to a Marquez-like style when I "pull" back. The ghost and all that is ghostly...and sex, which has always led me around by the proverbial nose. But nothing has so far jelled into product: I guess that this is not so surprising, given the nature of both of these topics and the idea that each can maintain its own degree of cloudiness.

Here is something that is physically real, called "The Courier". My friend, Erica, gave me the beautiful blue chair seat (it's the body/chest of the "human" form). I hope that I've done it some justice-I sure wish I had another chair seat like it to play around with.

Cold

2009-11-08T02:37:00.000-08:00

Well, it's happened.

I don't like the cold anymore.

I used to love this season, but things change.

Maybe it's the fact that I hold out on the heat in the studio and turn it on only when I can't take it anymore. At this point, I don't look forward to going down there-the building, which is wonderfully cool in the summer with its concrete floor, is now an icebox-easily 10-15 degrees cooler than the outside air.

I seem to focus more on the fuel bill than anything, which is, considering my vast income, a very real concern.

Yesterday, I spent my time there (about 8 hours) in gloves. I've always hated gloves.

I'll hold out for a bit longer and turn on my heat in December.

My physical discomfort is manageable. But having an aversion to spending time at my work and therefore wanting to put off visits to the studio (consciously and subconsciously) is not a good thing -it confuses this simple mind and throws me into a bit of depression. It also clouds many minute-to-minute decisions as extra static when it comes to making things.

Do they provide grants for fuel bills? Guess I should read more Kafka and stop complaining.

This one is called "The Passenger" and was shot with my new Canon. I will be working more on the lighting (and the "rotation" option as well) and soon, you won't be able to tell my shots from a professional's (yeah, right!).

Somewhere outside

2009-10-26T03:51:00.000-07:00

Listen.

The leaves fall outside, all on their own.

We curse them for falling. Leaves. Who said we need to spend this much time grooming our lawns? Are there lawnmowers and rakes in heaven? In hell? Don't we have anything better to do?

I'm not exempt. Why do I bother? Our neighbors and the stigma of having an unkempt yard (a real sign of laziness or other, even worse, problems in the home) keep us tethered to our machines and labors. All rebels are labelled as true pariahs, to be avoided at any cost. Would you want to talk to them about the views on lawn care? Really?

But the sound you hear outside is a familiar one. A signal. The cycle is changing. Put on another layer and ready yourself for longer nights, for shorter days.

I'm working for a company that sells mower parts. Of course, the hottest, longest days are when the place buzzes with activity- the phones ring off the wall-more and better blades for sharper cuts-nothing is too good to defeat our old enemy, the growing grass.

Long grass makes a beautiful sound when the wind whips its way through it. I've heard it whistle. The manicured lawn doesn't even whisper. A four-legged friend can simply dissapear in an unshorn grass jungle, drunk on all the scent in that wild green stuff.

How many insect worlds are endangered because of the false order we impose with all our machinery? Would our world tumble in collapse if we let the grass grow?

Here's a good one for you: I closed this post to edit it and what advertisements d'ya suppose appeared? Make no mistake, we're all about the lawn here.

Here's one I really like-it's called The Sluice. It sold at FolkFest in Norcross this past August.

Trying to figger out the best camera for my needs

2009-10-15T02:39:00.000-07:00

Yep-I admit it. I need a tech guru or someone with real experience to help me make up my mind with this camera deal (that is, finding a low-priced digital SLR that will give me better results than my shaky old Nikon). That I'm going to take a shot (pardon the pun) at better marketing is a good thing, but the execution of said plan is quite another problem.

Dave recommended the Canon EOS Rebel XSI, but I'm looking at the Nikon D5000 and the much cheaper Panasonic (Panansonic makes cameras?) Lumix DMC FZ35-Cripes, somebody please shoot me...

This is a piece in progress that started with the title "Rubber Heart" (named for the rubber float in the chest area)-not sure if it's finished or if I need to make more "comments" on it....what's really in question is the area below the heart and above the legs -let's not go into any metaphors here...

New equipment

2009-10-12T02:24:00.000-07:00

My old Nikon is not cutting it-it's a good camera, but I am not able to hold the thing steady enough to get good images-especially when it comes to studio shots of my artwork.

My plan is to get a lower priced digital SLR that can tripod mount AND (most importantly) has no shutter delay. If you know me, you know just how little I like to do research on stuff like this, but I'm trying. The eventual plan is to set up a website that features lower priced sculptures of mine. I'll still do shows, but this should create another, more immediate venue to move work.

Tempted by the wiles of a young dog the other day. I met a "Swissy" or Swiss Mountain dog, at the flea market. This guy was 8 months old and friendly to one and all. From what I understand, the males grow up to 140 pounds-just a little on the hefty side, wouldn't you say?

This one I made for two friends of mine who recently tied the knot (this past July). Their wedding was the first real biker wedding I'd ever been to and it was a good one. All the best to you, Jamie and Tony!

Making sense of it ?

2009-10-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

Back from the show-this time, it was the crafts event in Rhinebeck, NY.

I gave the windchime-and clock-makers some hot competition...ok, but not really. This was just another show for me-I hoped for the best, but the best never really materialized. I sold all of two pieces.

I stated the fact to myself and others that this is probably the best I'll be doing at any of these events. That I'll never be able to discover vast waves of fans that ooh and ahh and then buy work, because such numbers just don't exist. Or maybe they do in fantasyland. That's not here.

In less than two weeks I go down to Alabama to do the Kentuck show for fun and profit. This show, which I found intrguing in the past, is now starting to feel like any other fine art/craft event. Where have all the original characters gone-the real odd folk? Or is it me that has just gotten jaded to it all? I do miss Bucketman-Danny was a real original and a pioneer with his strange, lethal work. Hope he's still melting his buckets in heaven.

2009-08-11T04:32:00.000-07:00

I don't have it in me to move this ball, Rhonda's favorite toy.

I thought about what I would do with this little red ball long before her passing. I wanted to send it off with her, but that did not work out. Now it sits here, waiting for a new owner or in my more pitiful fantasies, to be used when we are reunited. Until then, it'll remain here.

The summer has finally turned hot, just in time for me to venture down to Georgia for my annual FolkFest show. Last year, the show did not go so well for me financially, but I bought a great mask: from someplace in the South Pacific-dunno where (and dunno how authentic it is, but it sure feels right). If I don't do well this year (and, given the economy, that is a distinct possibility), I won't return for a year or so. Sad, since this is my favorite show, always filled with interesting work: lots of inspirational imagery and off-beat ideas...

One week later

2009-08-04T03:26:00.000-07:00

I lived, she didn't.

Ain't that the story of our lives? My day to day seems so much more plain without Rhonda-she really added to it in so many ways-ways that you don't commit to paper or need to photograph. Breathing. Walking. She was always there to shepherd me (sorry, folks) and saw all the mistakes I made in the studio and heard all my comments to myself or how pissed off something made me or how pleased I was with the outcome of an artwork.

Just a dog, you say?

Maybe so, but here's the huge hole she left.

Geting ready for yet another show-this one happens to be my favorite: Folk Fest. I always come back from this show fully charged-the energy I find there is palpable. I'm somewhat apprehensive about the show this year as I can't justify doing it again if I don't make enough money there-the fee for the show has become enormous and the amount I sell there has declined. Dunno what my determining threshold should be, but the fact that there is one bothers me. I will truly miss this show if I have to cancel next year.

Haven't worked on a painting in a while-my supplies sit out here and gather dust. I get SO intimidated at starting a 2D piece-worked up a little drawing two days ago and it's really awful-wasted some perfectly good paper on it.

This one is called Lost My Way-how appropriate.

Rhonda

2009-07-28T03:34:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, along with our Vet's help and guidance, we put Rhonda to sleep. As many of you can imagine, it was a terribly hard decision. The results of that decision have made this house feel almost empty. My worst breakup never felt quite this bad, but how can I compare? I've lost my best friend and, as another friend has put it, someone who would unquestioningly walk through fire, as long as she was by my side. I feel the part of a traitor, not going with her-sending her out alone and closing the door behind her.

Before Sunday, not a moment went by without wondering if there was some way that I could save her. Again, as many of you know, second guessing our decision has been very painful.

This simple red ball, her favorite toy, with the remains of a squeaker inside, remains in our kitchen, not that I need a reminder of her passing. It's just a physical thing that holds her space. It'll gather dust for sure, as will her memory. If I ever could beleive in the afterlife, now is the time that I'd press for its existence. Just to know that Rhonda and I could play together again.

2009-07-23T16:37:00.000-07:00

I'm losing my best friend- Rhonda girl is in some kennel at the vets-she's alone.

I have her leash and her favorite toy, but not her.

I've been looking for her everywhere. In the morning, I have to keep on reminding myself that although it's time for our walk, she's not with me. The feeling I have is empty-I want to say emptier than empty, but I guess that would put me in the realm of the oxymoron. There's our field, there's her favorite spots on the grass, but there's no Rhonda.

Wednesday morning, she suddenly developed a degeneration in her balance and lost the ability to stand (as a result of losing all sense of balance). Her eyes also began an involuntary tic, I guess from her trying to right herself. I took her to the hospital as I could do nothing for her. The vet recommended I leave her there to be treated -recovery was possible. Her prognosis: 50% chance of a recovery (possibly partial, possibly total). Not so hot for a 16 year old dog. My dog.

This dog has been by my side whenever she could help it and whenever I could help it. Guess that she has always loved me-I've certainly always loved her. In her younger days, she was pretty good with a frisbee-she'd want to go at it for hours, only stopping when I got tired.

When we first heard about her, we visited her previous owner, an elderly woman who had just had double knee surgery. Six month old "Princess" barked at me the minute I walked in the door. She would not come to me- she was too busy guarding her family. We agreed on the deal-I'd take the dog, a Shepherd/something mix-but in a few days-I wanted to bring her home at exactly the same time as the other dog we adopted, Delilah.

When we were putting Princess in the car, we discovered who her real owner was: the 13 year-old boy who was crying at losing her. I felt bad, real bad, but I also knew that if we didn't adopt her, Grandma would find another taker and quickly. On the way home, she laid peacefully on Cara's lap, the wee thing that she was when younger.

She has a tiny spot of white on one ear (and one ear only) and a small tuft of white coming out of her otherwise bear-black coat. Her muzzle has now turned mostly grey and white. Her head is still soft and beautiful. She was always bit stand-offish to anyone outside the family: the Shepherd in her, I guess-the one-owner-dog thing.

Today, we go to the vet to determine her fate. I'm not optimistic-the rest of her life can't be spent lying on her side. Other dogs I've had made this awful decision so much easier. Here I hope for the strength to be able to make the right choice for Rhonda. I only wish that I could put it off and think that it matters not-that we'll be reunited some day to go on yet more adventures. But I'm not a big beleiver in the afterlife.

John Lennon comes ringing back into my head with "Nobody told me there'd be days like this".

Teaching others, teaching myself

2009-07-02T03:43:00.000-07:00

I'm presently tutoring a literacy student. She is a Taiwanese woman and has a good grasp of English (she's been in this country about 30 years, but always surrounded by other non-speakers). What I'm finding is just how much I enjoy being a teacher-I've taught in the past, but never with the same sort of feelings that I'm coming upon now-this experience is sooo different than the teachng of art (obviously, the rules are set in stone for the most part) and gains can be measured.

Although there is plenty to teach in the way of vocabulary and grammar, we are working hard on pronunciation, as this has been a problem for her. I have to be aware of each and every word I pronounce and stay away from slang entirely-this is easy for our 1 1/2 hour sessions together-as a matter of fact, I feel as if the whole thing is helping yours truly to think more clearly, more concisely. I don't indulge myself in as much fuzzy thinking as I did only three months ago and my writing has improved (at least in my opinion).

I still feel the forces of change at work in my art-this is a positive thing. Although I know the changes are less volcanic and dramatic than I'd like to sometimes see, they are changes nonetheless...Although I think about painting all the time, I've done little of it. I feel as though my sculpture has gotten a bit further away from anything too literal -the theme pursued is the idea that mystery is what keeps me (and my audience) intrigued, much like all the work I recently did in writing a short horror story. Although I am averse to the cheesy sideshow tent idea of "keep 'em guessing" or that kind of showmanship/salesmanship, there are elements of the boardwalk hawker that feel at home in the work...or is it the alchemist in a modern setting?

"You see these discards in front of you-now WATCH! I'll wave this here wand and throw this here cape over them and VIOLA! Now you see these rusty elements reassembled-you would have thrown them out, but I...I have brought them back to life..." and so on.

As Kurt said..."so it goes..."

This sculpture is called "Soldier of God". The body is made from the base of an old porch column that Steve gave me.

Philip Guston

2009-06-19T03:32:00.000-07:00

Reading a book on the later work of Guston by William Corbett-

In one of the passages, Corbett talks abt how excited and serious Guston was abt his work-he says that Guston's absorption in it was an inspiration and, after late night talks with the painter, he awoke in the morning with the desire to get to work. "His commitment to his art was so great that he lifted yours to his level. In his presence there could be no question that making poems matters..." Wow-to be able to impart this degree of enthusiasm and love and excitement through what you are doing is amazing. It gives more substance to the idea of artist as trickster, as a shaman who has powers beyond the pedestrian.

I feel as if (though only on occasion) some viewers face my work and come away with something more than just visual bytes to be stored in an already overfull brain. My biggest charge is to see someone visibly excited by the work and want to go off and make something-no wizardry here, yet I'm at a loss to describe the chemistry that seems to go on between these people and my work. Not to get corny, but I am humbled by it. I've experienced something similar only once-at the Hirschhorn in Washington, DC, I saw several Matisse bronze heads -these images were in my head since I was very young. Seeing them in person was very powerful, bringing emotional reaction that took my breath away. Never has a work of art gotten to me in such a way...

Apropos, the one is called "Trickster"-it's one I just showed in Philly and came home thinking it needed more work-so it has been recently reworked. Much like the rest of my life, I can't ever seem to be satisfied. That is a good thing-well, if it's not good, it most certainly keeps me from sleeping at the wheel....

Bacon Bits

2009-04-18T02:57:00.000-07:00

I have stolen the title phrase from friend Steve, who sent me a link to a site on Francis Bacon that is so HUGE and brilliant I want to keep it all for myself. I read the following this morning and thought it was terrific. I can't say as to whether it's an excerpt, or a stand alone essay as this was not mentioned. The author is Mark Cousins.

"I can’t remember now whether it was in the catalogue of the current exhibition of Bacon or whether on it was on one of those panels but at some point there was a quotation from Bacon saying “I suppose in the end we’re just meat” and I wanted to try and start off, as it were, some thoughts about both texture and also materiality by considering some of the problems, what we might call the aesthetic problems, of meat especially in that difficult area that we call ugliness or which other people call ugliness, I want to try and suggest this evening this is not how it’s normally portrayed and if properly handled is an extremely powerful and valuable artistic and architectural instrument.
Let me invite you first to engage in a thought experiment. You look at some ones face as we scan some ones face we look, as it were, for signs of expression, in some sense for the way in which the face is thought to be able to represent emotions or states of mind or whatever. As we do it invariably we have a fantasy that this expression does not simply belong to the surface but it has a depth and we frequently actually experience that as a depth but of course it has this peculiarity because the depth is not remotely localised.
If we say he looked sad we don’t say it looked about two centimeters deep in the sadness of it. Now nowhere I think is it more remarkable than if you add in to this picture of a face which you experience partly through the dimension of the depth of its expression then imagine suddenly in some process, the face suddenly manifests a wound and you suddenly see that underneath the infinitesimally thin layer of skin there’s blood and there’s flesh and there’s bone; normally people have a kind of visceral turning away from this experience. Now if you try to follow through this action of turning away, we might wonder: what is it that we’re turning away from?
The appearance of the wound indicates suddenly the collapse – a collapse of what; I mean, I’m going to say representation but I don’t mean it in a representational way. It’s as if I can’t continue having a fantasy about the depth of your sadness or the extent of your pleasure; I can’t do it any longer because, as it were, it is disrupted by the appearance of a wound. Essentially unless you’re medically knowledgeable, what you’re seeing, and I think Bacon was correct to use it in a general sense, is what he calls meat. Let’s kind of make a formula in some sense as saying: what meat is at a kind of level of experience is almost the collapse of representation or of signification…
This collapse of representation is I think part of what we might call the experience of ugliness, the turning away, at which point we might begin to hypothesise that this is not what I think it is, it is what I think people experience it as; an experience of the ugly in that sense is this: it is without signification it is without being a part of the a space of representation, it is stuff, it is meat… People’s experience of the ugly - again I’m not saying that’s what it is - is a defense against this moment - a moment which is too raw and is too, almost, unnerving; we might say that the popular experience of the ugly is: it’s that which is there but at the same time, is perceived as it shouldn’t be there - or sometimes it’s the same but the other way round: it’s that which is not there but should be.
In Leroux’s novel The Phantom of the Opera there’s a wonderful moment when the scene shifter describes to the girls of the corps de ballet that he has seen the ghost in box five; he describes the ghost to the girls and he says, in a way in which logic itself can’t tolerate, but clearly we know exactly what he means, he says: and the ghost has no nose and that no nose is a horrible thing to look at. It’s something that isn’t there but should be… I want to suggest that one dimension of the achievement of Bacon is in a sense to take this problem on board directly and, in a way that it is very difficult to describe in his achievement, but has the achievement of as it were, bringing back meat into our understanding, bringing back meat into a kind of poetics, that which is always, as it were, normally excluded; I was at the exhibition on Sunday and it’s not just a question obviously of meat, it is those strange puddles of existence which you see so clearly in the three triptychs in homage to George Dyer - it is, indeed, a sublime moment…
Now in a sense all I’ve said is an attempt to say that what people describe as being ugly we should consider it a defense and if you can undo this defense, if, like Bacon, you can propel the spectator into the midst of meat and find it not only human but essentially human, then, as it were, you remove some of the defenses which so often kind of disable, I don’t mind putting it bluntly, disable public taste. It is a struggle. Now if something like this is the case, that I’m more than aware that I haven’t said directly anything about architecture and texture, then one of the ways we might consider the issues this evening is to think within the scope of Bacon’s adult career what also happens within architecture to be able to do that: at the level of a certain materiality and at the level of texture, that is to say, to undermine the public defense against the ugly and actually to propel it towards something new and powerful and human not in a humanistic way but human almost in a somewhat unnerving way. "

The sculpture inset is called Blinders. I started this Blog to have another avenue to show my work as well as to occasionally stand on a soapbox or just yap on about whatever I found interesting. I got both birds with this post: mission accomplished...

drama

2009-04-17T03:18:00.001-07:00

I suppose I could have gone upstairs and checked to see what Chaplin film it was that I was watching, but the image had me glued to the television. Also, it was time for me to get to work (I have a real job now, none of this artist crap!).

Since the story was set in a cold climate and involved the staking of a gold claim, I assumed that the setting was supposed to be Alaska. Two guys are inside a rustic cabin that is teetering on the very edge of a precipice. The inhabitants are scrambling for balance so that the entire house doesn't go over the edge to doom and destruction, taking them along.

All is filmed in stark black and white.

Great image, so apropos of where I stand (teeter) in life. Dramatic? Maybe, but that teetering feeling is pretty unsettling - it's a daily battle to stay on the edge. Limbo land.

Notice that the image is also tilted...I wish I could tell you that I did that on purpose...

Re: abstraction

2009-04-10T03:49:00.000-07:00

I take this excerpt directly from Robert Genn, who sends me a twice-weekly "Letter to Artists".

Abstraction ranges from the meaningless abuse of paint to the most lofty and exciting of surfaces. Each effort can be a creative event--a vehicle for the mysteries of the subconscious mind and an opportunity to flirt with pure forms, symbols and metaphors. It's an art of hiding and disclosing. More than simply playing with the materials, abstraction is a discovery of motifs that happen to be part of a painter's personal legend. Personality counts. Abstraction also holds the promise of dreams, fears, fetishes, fancies, intangibles and wills.The wilful artist marches to his own drummer. As in the composing of music, in pure and practical terms, the resulting work will be the painter's own composition.Perhaps one of the best understandings came from Marc Chagall: "Abstraction is something which comes to life spontaneously through a gamut of contrasts, plastic as well as psychic, and pervades both the picture and the eye of the spectator with conceptions of new and unfamiliar elements." Abstract art has the power to show us something we may not have seen before. It implies both thought and no thought. Thriving on unconventional tools and a unique sort of energy, it's also a collaboration of mind and spirit. As a form of wizardry and magic, an abstract may speak both to you and for you. More than anything, abstract art can be a conversation piece."Abstraction is an esoteric language," said Eric Fischl. It is a language unique to the individual artist. In a way, it can be more unique than the similarly legitimate language of realistic work, because no matter how realists pull Nature's reality this way and that, they still have Nature's reality, however nuanced. The more modern idea, however it may be seen by some as flawed, is to be the inventor, creator and patent holder of your own Nature. Painter and art instructor David Leffel regularly asks his students a simple but profound question: "How do abstract artists know when they're getting better?" The answer lies in whether the artist is able to express will. Artists without the ability to express will will never know.

PS: "Abstract art requires something of the viewer. It demands contemplation. Study. Flights of fancy. Feeling." (Svante Rydberg)

What I feel a need to add is that abstraction and I was reading this letter: Looking at abstract work can be like overhearing someone on a cell-phone talking about a recent visit to their shrink. Too much information?

Yes, that is one of my abstract paintings. Should I turn up the volume?

One Tough Dog

2009-04-05T03:12:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, we took my old friend, Delilah, in to the Doctor here in town. After a brief consultation, it was agreed that the best thing would be to put her down. She had not been eating or taking water for 2 days previous and, although she presented little in the way of visible signs of suffering, I had no desire to see her starve to death. She was still doing her best at walking, usually aided by me bracing her by her harness and tail. Getting up and laying back down was no picnic for her-if I wasn't there to ease her down, she would land on her butt with a painful thud.
But the past two days saw a change- she was so much more out of it and taking only the occasional treat-and then only half-heartedly.
She was amazed at the attention being afforded her, with me, my wife and the Doctor all crowded round her. She went very quietly and quickly. She was the best dog in the world.

God be between you and harm in all the empty places where you walk.
(Egyptian prayer)

How is yer handwriting?

2009-04-02T03:11:00.000-07:00

After so many years of being a scrawler, I'm thinking that I might want to go back to school to learn better penmanship.
What has inspired this is my drive to become a literacy tutor-I'm determined to bring English (or at least, better English) to one or more people on this planet. You simply can't scrawl and put it off as calligraphy to someone who is oh so innocently trying to understand this (complicated) language...it is just not fair.
Todays world is all about rush: when I think about writing more clearly, the first thing that pops into mind is that I
n e e d t o s l o w d o w n.
(this past line was supposed to look somewhat retarded and slow, but this program keeps "correcting" me...)

Sure.
This unit did not come with a variable speed feature-I mean, isn't it all or nothing?
Well, maybe not: this very well could be the clue to (re) learning how to write clearly. Slowing down and experiencing the thought that goes into each letter and its sound-teaching yourself how to give style and grace to the movement in your (writing) hand as each leeter is formed. Is this the key?
Sure.
This is really easy to reason out, but the clock keeps on ticking and, after all, who wants to put so much extra time into forming letters?
To teach writing you have to consider your student first. This hypothetical being is seeing the English language the same way many of us see Greek or Sanscrit or-even better-a reverse mirror image of this here text. Could you read this if it were reversed? I tried this on a bit of text and gave up almost IMMEDIATELY...what a great student I would be!
Anyhow, the point being that I need to put on the student "hat" and reverse my role only shortly to realize just why I need to slow down and start making handwriting that looks like that of my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Williams. She took the time to slow down for me.

more random art notes

2009-03-23T09:34:00.000-07:00

Lately, or so it seems, I find myself so much “smarter” of a painter than I was before.
Is it age? Or has my folio of images of work painted by others before me just enlarged to the point where, given the great material stored, it’s just impossible for me to miss. I sure don’t feel as if I’m borrowing from life experiences when I paint. It seems like much more of a personal, juried art history, gained through years of looking at other’s work. Maybe the real label for this is appropriation? Anyhow, I feel a bit more rocket-fueled lately-no more plain ole’ gasoline.

Chalk-ain’t it lovely? It’s the ghost of the mediums-ok, I guess all “stuff” that makes up chalk that comes from the earth has a loooong, but the stuff looks so much like our Caspar and other cartoon ghosts-and makes a stroke that is unmistakeably wraith-like…and can almost be whisked away with a swipe of yer hand…now you see it, now you don’t…a perfect medium for those in doubt.

The painting process seems so much to me like blood-letting-not to be morbid, but when things are going well in the studio, the process can be described as a flow (awful to use this clichéd word especially talking about art, but it just fits SO well). When the flow is staunched, so ends the spontaneity. So ends the flow that mixes color, physical and emotional reflex and visual prudence (you know, what stops us from outlining a black painted object with a painted black line…) When things are really moving, there is the hope that if you don’t have to stop, you can recreate the world. The brakes do come on with certain distractions (hunger, for one: damn me!) and with that slow-down comes
self-consciousness.

These are shot in a sophisticated manner-notice the shadows of the branches on these works on paper!

bargains for your printer

2009-03-03T04:18:00.000-08:00

Just a"hint from Heloise" aka Billy- try www.101inks.com for cheap printer cartridges...after thinking that I might have to take out a small loan or sell one of the dogs to buy a printer cartirdge, my firend Ruth told me about this place in California. Let me say before making a total recommendation, that I've not used their product yet....as in, how long does it last? and what is the quality of the ink, etc. But they sure were cheap-less than half of what I usually pay at a discount store...

Using Used Stuff-on my soapbox with a question

2009-02-18T03:15:00.001-08:00

With the economy the way it is, how many people have a positive response to art made from trash? To work that uses "recycled" material (such as my own): discards, broken things, old and scarred items.

Do the people who like "found object art" themselves collect found objects? Are they flea market junkies or maybe those that comb the trash piles on "big trash item" days?

Is it true that as our "recession" deepens, folks find themselves more repulsed by items reminding them of just how close they are to living on the street? Or is the reverse true-that people find it easier to identify with work that uses recycled material because in fact they're being pressed by their wallets to "reuse, repurpose, recycle"?

Although never a "hard core" (read politically active) recycler, I feel lucky that I can reduce the waste stream somewhat and do so as aggressively as possible. For me it's simple logic that you should do so by any means available: we'll probably be swimming in our own waste soon enough. And future generations will drown in it. Just a fact -it takes no real genius to figure this out.

So back to the original question-d'ya think we "found object" folks are gonna look to be the good guys or the bad guys given this current economic atmosphere?

That's the Trickster god, Mercury...The title of the piece is "Moik", as I always did like a good nickname.

The Sleepwalker's Backside

2009-02-17T08:27:00.000-08:00

As promised!

This hides the natural split of the log used for Sleepwalker's lower torso.

Cheating

2009-02-17T03:46:00.000-08:00

OK, so I haven't written for a while. Have been writing some poetry, but most of all, have been enjoying writing letters, notes and missives to friends via email. At first, I begrudged the time it took to sit and write a letter...I enjoy it now, writing with a great degree of the fervor I used to use when writing acid letters of complaint (I'm still pretty good at that!).

So, why cheating? Well, I figured I'd share this here list with you, written by Irwin Greenberg and brought to my attention through Robert Genn's letters (Robert Genn Twice-Weekly Letter ), which I've subscribed to for a few years now. Genns' compilation of art-related quotes (http://quote.robertgenn.com/) have been inspiration for me as well through the years.

OK, so some of this may be a bit corny to you, but, hell, whatdya want, I, too, am a bit corny.

Anyhow here goes:

Words to paint by (Irwin Greenberg)
1. Paint every day. 2. Paint until you feel physical strain- take a break and then paint some more. 3. Suggest. 4. When at an impasse, look at the work of masters. 5. Buy the best materials you can afford. 6. Let your enthusiasm show. 7. Find the way to support yourself. 8. Be your own toughest critic. 9. Develop a sense of humor about yourself 10. Develop the habit of work. Start early every day. When you take a break, don’t eat. Instead, drink a glass of water. 11. Don’t settle for yourself at your mediocre level 12. Don’t allow yourself to be crushed by failure. Rembrandt had failures. Success grows from failure. 13. Be a brother (or sister) to all struggling artists. 14. Keep it simple. 15. Know your art equipment and take care of it. 16. Have a set of materials ready wherever you go. 17. Always be on time for work, class and appointments. 18. Meet deadlines. Be better than your word. 19. Find a mate who is really a mate. 20. Don’t be envious of anyone who is more talented than you. Be the best you can be. 21. Prizes are nice, but the real competition is with your performance yesterday. 22. Give yourself room to fail and fight like hell to achieve. 23. Go to sleep thinking about what you’re going to do first thing tomorrow. 24. Analyze the work of great painters. Study how they emphasize and subordinate. 25. Find out the fewest material things you need to live. 26. Remember: Michelangelo was once a helpless baby. Great works are the result of heroic struggle. 27. There are no worthwhile tricks in art; find the answer. 28. Throw yourself into each painting heart and soul. 29. Commit yourself to a life in art. 30. No struggle, no progress. 31. Do rather than don’t. 32. Don’t say “I haven’t the time.” You have as much time everyday as the great masters. 33. Read. Be conversant with the great ideas. 34. No matter what you do for a living, nurture your art. 35. Ask. Be hungry to learn. 36. You are always the student in a one-person art school. You are also the teacher of that class. 37. Find the artists who are on your wavelength and constantly increase that list. 38. Take pride in your work. 39. Take pride in yourself. 40. No one is a better authority on your feelings than you are. 41. When painting, always keep in mind what your picture is about. 42. Be organized. 43. When you’re in trouble, study the lives of those who’ve done great things. 44. “Poor me” is no help at all. 45. Look for what you can learn from the great painters, not what’s wrong with them. 46. Look. Really look. 47. Overcome errors in observing by exaggerating the opposite. 48. Critics are painters who flunked out. 49. Stay away from put-down artists. 50. If you’re at a lost for what to do next, do a self-portrait. 51. Never say “I can’t.” It closes the door to potential development. 52. Be ingenious. Howard Pyle got his start in illustrating by illustrating his own stories. 53. All doors open to a hard push. 54. If art is hard, it’s because you’re struggling to go beyond what you know you can do. 55. Draw everywhere and all the time. An artist is a sketchbook with a person attached. 56. There is art in any endeavor done well. 57. If you’ve been able to put a personal response into your work, others will feel it and they will be your audience. 58. Money is OK, but it isn’t what life is about. 59. Spend less than you earn. 60. Be modest; be self-critical, but aim for the highest. 61. Don’t hoard your knowledge, share it. 62. Try things against your grain to find out just what your grain really is. 63. Inspiration doesn’t come when you are idle. It comes when you have steeped yourself in work. 64. Habit is more powerful than will. If you get in the habit of painting every day, nothing will keep you from painting. 65. There are three ways to learn art: Study life, people and nature. Study the great painters. Paint. 66. Remember, Rembrandt wasn’t perfect. He had to fight mediocrity. 67. Don’t call yourself an artist. Let others name you that. “Artist” is a title of great weight. 68. Be humble; learn from everybody. 69. Paintings that you work hardest at are the ones you learn the most from, and are often your favorites. 70. Read values relatively. Find the lightest light and compare all other light values to it. Do the same with the darks. 71. Grit and guts are the magic ingredients to your success. 72. Let your picture welcome the viewer. 73. Add new painters to your list of favorites all the time. 74. Study artists who are dealing with the same problems that you’re trying to solve. 75. Have a positive mind-set when showing your work to galleries. 76. Don’t look for gimmicks to give your work style. You might be stuck with them for life. Or, worse yet, you might have to change your “style” every few years. 77. If what you have to say is from your deepest feelings, you’ll find an audience that responds. 78. Try to end a day’s work on a picture knowing how to proceed the next day. 79. Don’t envy others success. Be generous-spirited and congratulate whole-heartedly. 80. Your own standards have to be higher and more scrupulous than those of critics. 81. Pyle said, “Throw your heart into a picture and jump in after it.” 82. Vermeer found a life’s work in the corner of a room. 83. Rembrandt is always clear about what is most important in a picture. 84. If, after study, the work of an artist remains obscure, the fault may not be yours. 85. Critics don’t matter. Who cares about Michelangelo’s critics? 86. Structure your day so you have time for painting, reading, exercising and resting. 87. Aim high, beyond your capacity. 88. Try not to finish too fast. 89. Take the theory of the “last inch” holds that as you approach the end of a painting, you must gather all your resources for the finish. 90. Build your painting solidly, working from big planes to small. 91. See the planes of light as shapes, the planes of shadows as shapes. Squint your eyes and find the big, fluent shapes. 92. Notice how, in a portrait, Rembrandt reduces the modeling of clothes to the essentials, emphasizing the head and the hands. 93. For all his artistic skills, what’s most important about Rembrandt is his deep compassion. 94. To emphasize something means that the other parts of a picture must be muted. 95. When painting outdoors, sit on your hands and look before starting. 96. Composing a picture, do many thumbnails, rejecting the obvious ones. 97. Study how Rembrandt creates flow of tone. 98. If you teach, teach the individual. Find out when he or she is having trouble and help at that point. 99. Painting is a practical art, using real materials -- paints, brushes, canvas, paper. Part of the practicality of it is earning a living in art. 100. Finally, don’t be an art snob. Most painters I know teach, do illustrations, or work in an art-related field. Survival is the game.

So now you know how to become a famous artist-or, at least, a real artist.

What's the phrase that sums it all up?

Make it up as you go along...

Here's another one of my bad photos-this sculpture is called "Sleep Walker".

You can't see what I didn't shoot-this chunk of log that is his lower torso was pulled from a bonfire pile. Typically, the log showed a big split in the back. I covered same with an old tin "Lucky Strike" box-faded deep green with the circular Lucky Strike logo in the center: it makes for a really cool patch.

I'll try and photograph it today (I don't have much like with dark details) and post it later.

Running at the mouth about credibility

2009-01-29T03:58:00.000-08:00

Wish that there was a formula to make artwork (paintings, sculptures or whatever) that were more self-satisfying and meaningful.

Would it be too easy then? Would the work seem shallow, despite the content or the hard work (in making the thing) involved?

There is that annoying issue about process and just how important it is. I, in fact, am willing to work hard-real hard, if it comes to that. But where's the guarantee that the end product will amount to more than just another tchatchke needing only to be dusted?

Here's a quote from the Robert Genn collection (http://quote.robertgenn.com/):

Rejection is a speck, like a bit of unwanted debris, imbedded like a pebble in our psyche, and it stays there niggling away and undermining our self-confidence until we feel strong enough to pull it out. (Janet Warrick)

Hah! Now we are on to the real issue-yep, I got passed over for a grant. And, yes, this little bit of rejection bothers me. Somehow, I was basing a lot of hope (counting my chickens before the hatch) on the idea that I'd ace this thing (I did ace it about 5 years ago: my ego made me say that) and have money to spend on art supplies-in fact, the money was already spent-I sure as hell needed more paint for my recently renewed "passion"....and then there's more plywood and hardware and -well, you name it, I needed it.

Since I'm really wandering in this writing, here goes another thought: I know that new supplies don't make the art, that only the artist can. Which leaves me high and dry, without square one, stuck inside of Memphis when it comes to the written word. I seem to be really great at putting down all kinda random thoughts, as long as one breath lasts. But anything longer becomes one tough challenge. The thought of writing a novel is not daunting to me in itself-I can do the work(if my hands could survive my nimble but inaccurate typing), but my brain just does not seem to encompass thoughts that are somewhat contiguous-how the hell could I ever stay on topic?

I'm also feeling that I can't seem to do this in my artwork, either...thankfully, this can be hidden with "style"-in this sense, "style" becomes continuity, which in turn, becomes credibility.

Or is this my problem? Is there quality and credibility to be found only in work that has continuity, in work that moves in a linear fashion (let's stay away from any idea about the stream of consciousness "format" here)? Or can I write in short paragraphs and one-liners only. A book of quotes perhaps? Worlds shortest art-crit essays-three sentences or less?

What is brewing in my mind, dear reader, is a project that William is creating up for Bill. One that will involve writing something lengthy (which, for me, would be more than five pages) and that does not "wander" (well, not TOO much). As for the artwork, I seem to be able to pull off (or at least feel ok about) making works that have recognizable style, but not necessarily conceptual linear continuity. Perhaps the credibility factor that I get from continuity comes about in the fact that I work on so many sculptures and paintings at once. each of these works stays with me physically, mentally and emotionally until its completion. It's interesting to

note that I put finished work in a different place-either on another floor or stacked somewhere so as to be accessible, but not necessarily visible. The official stamp of completion, to be followed eventually by photographic documentation.

This one is called "...And how."

(While we're on the theme) Bitchin', Moanin' and Bitchin' More

2009-01-28T03:01:00.000-08:00

"We" didn't start out too well today. Before I had my first sip of coffee (aka universal starting fluid), I had some dog accidents to clean up. Both dogs were running for cover: I just lost it and my temper hit the wall (not the dogs, but I might as well have-they were pretty rattled).

Almost instantly, I mentally plodded through all the reasons that life just ain't so great right now -I'll spare you the details which (for me) read like a long laundry list.

So let's just say I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Given my resolution for the year, I'm trying to paste on a smile, but the results of my efforts are rather anemic.

Today is a snow day: a"wintry mix of precipitation" has been ordered for the entire day and that means I'll probably not take the "shoebox on wheels" nor myself out. I'll be working inside the house, which means making painting for the most part.

Since I started dividing my time between the sculpture studio and painting at the house, my whole schedule has been whacked. This has been an uncomfortable time for me anyway (see above), but this way of working has managed to bring about a serious rupture in my schedule. As a matter of fact, most everything seems upside down as a result. I did choose to do this, however, as I felt myself sinking into a rut.

You might remember how very grateful I was when my Dad came home from the hospital and my parents resumed their "normal" schedule. For some, a schedule like theirs might resemble what Hell would be like. Ironclad. What was done yesterday at a certain time will be done today in the same time and manner. I am the proverbial apple that has fallen not very far from the tree. Attempting to buck the system with its rigid order has been tough-to some degree like quitting smoking or dieting. There has also been a sense of being adrift, accompanied by a great deal of insecurity. This has been coupled with a physical failing on my part (the back issue) as well as a continuing look into my own mortality, brought on not only by my failing dogs, but also by increasingly frail parents. The process of change is never easy, as I've heard droned all of my life.

The artwork that I've been making has had a less welcoming look to it. By this, I mean that it has become more foreign to me (and ain't that the point: not to be making objects or images that bring discomfort or pain necessarily, but work that challenges that which has gone before).

I wish that I could more effectively separate the bad from the good-it seems as though I'm already too busy trying to greet the stranger now at my door. Guess that there has been a lot written or at least quoted on this:

"I always doubt my paintings can hold together. I'm trying to get to the point where they carry the sense of doubt that is one of the most engaging things about painting." (Mark Schlesinger)

"Change occurs in direct proportion to dissatisfaction, but dissatisfaction never changes." (Doug Horton)

"As an artist, it is central to be unsatisfied! This isn't greed, though it might be appetite." (Lawrence Calcagno)

Anyhow, this is all yadda yadda yadda to an audience. Somehow it felt better to commit it to "paper", but I'm just not sure of the benefit of reading it (now he tells us), outside of the fact that it draws my readers closer to me (just what you-all wanted).

Another tin head that sorely tried my hands and their toughness-sharp edges everywhere!

Pinching and Biting

2009-01-15T02:53:00.000-08:00

Pardon the assemblage of notes/somewhat scattered thought here, but I seem to be running on and on, with no appreciable continuity in sight.

My work (painting) seems to be solidifying-that is, in terms of looking unified. Spose I come to this conclusion as I'm about to haul a bunch of it off to the photographers' to be shot...am I ready to commit this stuff to "film"? Probably not, but let's bwe bold and brash-there's always plenty of time for regrets later!

What the act of (sucessful) painting can bring about is a vista at once suggestive of reality-the hard and true-and intersperse it with mystery-that that is half-known or veiled. Isn't this what (good) fiction gives us? Mystery: the adventure, the unknown. Maybe when I learn to paint, I will also have a clue as what and how to write. Following a metaphor here, I find that I use erasure in my painting often. Although I don't know how to paint a partial something, it is easy enough to paint (or at least suggest) it completely and then erase it.

I can only define my experience while painting as trancelike-more akin to a semi-conscious state than not. Turning some channels off and pushing others quite hard, my eyes and hands hold a dialogue as I paint. Since I "stumble and fall" frequently when painting (which can be good, which can be bad), maybe I should consider painting with a list or drawing-a map, which could be vague yet informative.

Decided to photograph Rhonda, before too much time passes. I'm not a great fan of snapshots, but since I'd miss not having these shots, I made a few snaps of her, the dog that is velcroed to me.

2009-01-12T14:09:00.000-08:00

My Father leaves the hospital in two days - I hope he restores the faith my mother and I so recently feared lost: that we return to the status quo we knew so well, with all its comfort, ease and sleepy boredom. Bring on the old tried and true routine, for the opposite seems a bit too harsh for us chickens: if we have our say, we chose the path where the grass is already trampled, for it is soft and soothing to our feet.

Through Purgatory

2009-01-10T03:14:00.000-08:00

My friend Ruth said that I am no longer just my parent's son, but their guide through all the mystery and terror of old age. I'm no Virgil, but the simile is not lost on me. Those in pain, those lost in confusion, those too frail (who face only ghosts of their former self), those crying in witness to the collapse of their bodies and their souls are all here in hospital. The complex equipment here (either comfort-colored or fleshtoned) fool no one and speak to the fact that this land is foreign and dark and strange -there is no hiding their mission here. Indifferently penetrating flesh and organ, they remit cold reports and advance like picadors to the next patient. Headsmen.

Confronting a Gorilla...or two

2009-01-06T04:01:00.000-08:00

My 87 year old father was rushed to the hospital last Friday with a choking cough-he simply couldn't breathe and that scared my Mom enough to get him an ambulance and a hospital bed. An extreme case for my parents, self-suffient (almost) to the end.
He's got the usual gear in the hospital, the breathing tube (optional), an IV, and all the bells and whistles that modern science uses to gauge a person's life. He gets the meals, which are just fine (although a little short on the sodium side) for him, his only problem having to get all the disposable lids off the containers. What is lacking is the ordinariness of life-there is no such thing as rthe security of a routine for him, or for my Mom or for myself for that matter. Our tiny family has lost its bearings without the sameness of everyday life. We look for it in the closets. on the television, in the food, but it's gone. It has, for all intents and purposes, flown the coop.
Delilah, that faithless hound of mine, has also lost the routine she had (if you don't have pets, you have no idea how well they keep time and monitor your movements) along with the better part of her breath (she, too, is suffering from a condition where her esophogeal tract is spasmodically constricted: in essence, her airways seem to shut down periodically). Taking her out into the cold air seems to exacerbate this condition, sometimes leaving her gasping and sometimes completely unaffected. She seems to recover and transform back to her normal self, which is a 16 year old well-loved member of the family. I crave these moments, but they are becoming less and less frequent and the gasping episodes more frequent. I have the power to end this animals life-how the hell do I know when this should happen? Of course, I can consult the vet, but it truly is up to me-to work as a monitor and a gauge to "feel" or "intuit" when the bad stuff outweighs the good-or when the pain (which is not so easy to see nor can I petition the patient) seems to be too great...but what about the suffering that is done in silence....or is it really suffering or just silence? How to know, how to know...
I know that there is a little rambling here. Please forgive me this. But searching for some kind of reason and reasoning for both of these beings is difficult. Granted, they are both at the end of their lives. But what to do for each of them. I know my Dad is getting a lot of medical attention, but the constant nag of internal questions as to whether he's getting the right care is twisting me. Delilah, one very tough dog, is a more immediate issue for me, being a cute old beggar one minute and a gasping creature in agony the next-what do I do for her? How do I know when I'm keeping her alive for the wrong reason?

2008-12-31T08:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-22T03:43:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-12-19T03:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-15T03:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-07T03:49:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T03:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-26T03:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T02:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-21T03:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-09T03:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-29T03:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-28T14:20:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-26T06:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-24T03:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-16T02:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-11T02:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T04:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-29T02:53:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-09-25T03:14:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-22T03:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-18T02:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-16T03:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-03T02:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-30T13:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-24T15:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-23T02:44:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T03:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T02:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-07T02:39:00.000-07:00

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."