Drawing is the fun part of art. I'll keep it.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I promise I will continue to draw, I promise I will continue to draw, I promise...
Drawing is the fun part of art. I'll keep it.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Locket Underneath My Bed
my mother found a locket
underneath my bed,
a list of all the stories I have read,
and she was ashamed
to look me in the eye,
although she has her own
hidden locket.
my mother was ashamed
because the locket,
a family heirloom.
underneath my bed,
a list of all the stories I have read,
and she was ashamed
to look me in the eye,
although she has her own
hidden locket.
my mother was ashamed
because the locket,
a family heirloom.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
But Was It Ever
(Revisiting...)
How many times I stood there
in that doorway
counting the buttons running down your shirt
and the stripes
that run blue to black to white
to blue again.
We never even saw the time passing by.
I never saw past your unkempt hair
just a nod away from letting go
of the two fingers
you always kept in my pocket,
it was somewhere around week five.
but I already carved your name
into the tree outside
for everyone to see,
this is a song I wrote for you
or for them
but it never mattered much anyhow.
And now we lie here,
I don't even know your name
you are breathing
(or is that me?)
but you've not said a word
since that day.
How many times I stood there
in that doorway
counting the buttons running down your shirt
and the stripes
that run blue to black to white
to blue again.
We never even saw the time passing by.
I never saw past your unkempt hair
just a nod away from letting go
of the two fingers
you always kept in my pocket,
it was somewhere around week five.
but I already carved your name
into the tree outside
for everyone to see,
this is a song I wrote for you
or for them
but it never mattered much anyhow.
And now we lie here,
I don't even know your name
you are breathing
(or is that me?)
but you've not said a word
since that day.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
2nd Annual International Potato Art Show
The 2nd Annual International Potato Art Show, hosted by mikewindy, Chief CurTater, will be held at Johnny's Kitchen from 9AM to 3PM on Saturday, May 23, 2009.
Dr. Chad Hutchinson from UF/IFAS will be giving a lecture about potatoes in the morning and the Willie Green Blues Band will play an afternoon concert.
Hastings legendary sweet potato pie maker, Mrs. Hunter, will have pies for sale at the big event, and Johnny will be making Sebago french fries. (Yum.)
To date, 25 artists have committed to making art for the show.
Any and all are invited to submit potato-based art for the show. The drop-off for work will be Friday, May 22, 2009 from 3-5 PM at Johnny's Kitchen, located at 224 N. Main Street in Hastings, FL, potato capital of Florida.
Not local? Send your work here:
International Potato Art Show
PO Box 731
Hastings, FL 32145
For more info, go to: www.potatoartshow.blogspot.com.
Don't disappoint; the potatoes are watching, always watching.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Week in Art VII
The blame is on me, you sit right there and I’ll preserve your likeness in just five more minutes. Something in your demeanor has changed, and I know now that this was merely an object of my creation. The sanctity of it all was just blown to shit, if I don’t like what you say I’ll erase it.
Let me give you the window seat. Take the window seat, my love.
There once was a place for all of this, for all of you. But it never had anything to do with you. Just smile and nod your head dear, I understand. I understand.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Fluff
I. I wish to paint you as soon as this song is over, my collection always has something to offer. I just thought it might impress you, only with you though, only with you. I bought you a kitty yesterday, and here’s to hoping you’ll call me anytime now. The bones in my fingers are broken from crossing them.
II. The magnitude of this, well, it just can’t get any better. I revel in my thirst, you are desirable and this is magic for the nonbelievers. You smile, I want to dance. You deserve good, I want to deliver. You are more to me than definitions allow, and I can be anywhere with what you do for me.
III. Our voices were lost over the course of this untwisted telephone line, and my foolishness has left me heartbroken. We reached places of thought I could have never reached alone, and now I sit alone. I think of you more than I should, can I see you?
IV. I like what you’ve done with your hair. I’m embarrassed, tell me your stories.
There’s no place in my life for you.
II. The magnitude of this, well, it just can’t get any better. I revel in my thirst, you are desirable and this is magic for the nonbelievers. You smile, I want to dance. You deserve good, I want to deliver. You are more to me than definitions allow, and I can be anywhere with what you do for me.
III. Our voices were lost over the course of this untwisted telephone line, and my foolishness has left me heartbroken. We reached places of thought I could have never reached alone, and now I sit alone. I think of you more than I should, can I see you?
IV. I like what you’ve done with your hair. I’m embarrassed, tell me your stories.
There’s no place in my life for you.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Week in Art VI
Sigh. I think there's a bit of genius in discovering new words and never using them, privately defining moments and allowing them to publicly fabricate in an ambiguous and possibly pretentious manner, and falling head-over-heels in love with it all.
Everyone is an artist, even if only a select few of us fall in love with it. Everyone is a writer, and only when you pencil in your thoughts, you'll realize their fleeting nature. We made machines in our likeness, and this was more than coincidence. When you're feeling fatigued, by all means, rest your head. But don't. stop. making. art.
Sketches and things to round out the week (or two)...
Too much control, too much control, too much control. If you ever wondered why, this is why. If you ever wondered why, this is why. If you ever wondered why.
Everyone is an artist, even if only a select few of us fall in love with it. Everyone is a writer, and only when you pencil in your thoughts, you'll realize their fleeting nature. We made machines in our likeness, and this was more than coincidence. When you're feeling fatigued, by all means, rest your head. But don't. stop. making. art.
Sketches and things to round out the week (or two)...
Too much control, too much control, too much control. If you ever wondered why, this is why. If you ever wondered why, this is why. If you ever wondered why.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
A Week in Art V
I might have possibly, most assuredly, 100% matter-of-factly changed my views on "graffiti." I may want to discuss this at a later date.
For now, sketches and things to round out the week...
For now, sketches and things to round out the week...
Sunday, April 5, 2009
A Week in Art IV
This week has been a deluge of art happenings, so this issue is short and sweet. Several classmates and I will be showing sculptures and sketchbooks at Simple Gestures on Wednesday, so come out if you can.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Making an image of that which we can render only with our imaginations.
(In response to some current reading...)
An artist’s studio is a reflection of the mind, but it doesn’t stop there. In the end, he’s cleaning up the spots, smoothing over the edges, and consulting with his inner journalist all in an often terrifying but beautifully fulfilling attempt at exposing himself to the public. But as much as he strives to make them see, what they see will never be what truly exists within the artist’s space.
The author of Studio and Cube examines the studio as the "mind" of the artist and through an extensive look at images of different artists in their studios, he is determined to draw a line between two very distinct roles of the artist’s “mind.” Is it his “attic” or his “prison cell?” Mr. O’Doherty, it is both.
The artist lets down the ladder and each time he starts his climb, he hopes upon hope that the aged birch slats will withstand just one more trek, at least until the next one. With the fastened joints whining, he reaches in cautiously and almost timidly, searching for something no larger than a shoestring dangling in the dark. Now with a familiar path of dim lighting and somewhat polished services, he may start to explore and dig away at yet one more layer. Everything he’s ever set aside because he might need it again someday. Or did the artist at some point know that he’d find himself here, just like this, sprawled out upon this little pasture he’s carved among the residue, trying to make sense of it all.
This is his mind’s attic, and there’s so much left to be resolved.
An artist is tormented by this. Let me repeat that. An artist is tormented. Every memory, every experience, every touch is laboriously dissected. Every word, every token, every time the night falls so prematurely. And when the air speaks, he listens. When the moon glows, he extracts. And when the pin drops, he’ll trap himself in a small translucent box, still in the absence of noise, waiting for the aftershock. All of these things are gathered together, welded together, and placed in his attic for further comprehension and resolve. The ferocity with which he makes a canvas out of all things will surely prove an object of derision, but wheedle as you may, it will cut you like a knife. And as you seep outward, he will fill up a hundred resealable bags. Might the artist ever find resolution on a surface? No, I think not, but he’ll certainly take his last breath with a comforting sense of despair in that you’ll never understand but his efforts will never cease.
In the artist’s inability to have you drink from the very glass he conjures and know at once the tactile sensation of wetness at the back of his throat, he has then created his very own prison cell, nestled snuggly within these misshapen and dusty walls. He knows how it got here and likewise, that by sheer mass and measurement, it is forever trapped in that narrow space between his mind and his masquerade. He holds the brush, but a control beyond his holds the stroke, the most perceivably accurate sum of all that he knows, all that he has collected. Sometimes the artist must sit in abeyance and allow things to move without picking them up and placing them on the other side of the room.
And reductive the artist shall remain, in his mind, his attic, his self-inflicted prison cell, all that come together and make up his studio.
An artist’s studio is a reflection of the mind, but it doesn’t stop there. In the end, he’s cleaning up the spots, smoothing over the edges, and consulting with his inner journalist all in an often terrifying but beautifully fulfilling attempt at exposing himself to the public. But as much as he strives to make them see, what they see will never be what truly exists within the artist’s space.
The author of Studio and Cube examines the studio as the "mind" of the artist and through an extensive look at images of different artists in their studios, he is determined to draw a line between two very distinct roles of the artist’s “mind.” Is it his “attic” or his “prison cell?” Mr. O’Doherty, it is both.
The artist lets down the ladder and each time he starts his climb, he hopes upon hope that the aged birch slats will withstand just one more trek, at least until the next one. With the fastened joints whining, he reaches in cautiously and almost timidly, searching for something no larger than a shoestring dangling in the dark. Now with a familiar path of dim lighting and somewhat polished services, he may start to explore and dig away at yet one more layer. Everything he’s ever set aside because he might need it again someday. Or did the artist at some point know that he’d find himself here, just like this, sprawled out upon this little pasture he’s carved among the residue, trying to make sense of it all.
This is his mind’s attic, and there’s so much left to be resolved.
An artist is tormented by this. Let me repeat that. An artist is tormented. Every memory, every experience, every touch is laboriously dissected. Every word, every token, every time the night falls so prematurely. And when the air speaks, he listens. When the moon glows, he extracts. And when the pin drops, he’ll trap himself in a small translucent box, still in the absence of noise, waiting for the aftershock. All of these things are gathered together, welded together, and placed in his attic for further comprehension and resolve. The ferocity with which he makes a canvas out of all things will surely prove an object of derision, but wheedle as you may, it will cut you like a knife. And as you seep outward, he will fill up a hundred resealable bags. Might the artist ever find resolution on a surface? No, I think not, but he’ll certainly take his last breath with a comforting sense of despair in that you’ll never understand but his efforts will never cease.
In the artist’s inability to have you drink from the very glass he conjures and know at once the tactile sensation of wetness at the back of his throat, he has then created his very own prison cell, nestled snuggly within these misshapen and dusty walls. He knows how it got here and likewise, that by sheer mass and measurement, it is forever trapped in that narrow space between his mind and his masquerade. He holds the brush, but a control beyond his holds the stroke, the most perceivably accurate sum of all that he knows, all that he has collected. Sometimes the artist must sit in abeyance and allow things to move without picking them up and placing them on the other side of the room.
And reductive the artist shall remain, in his mind, his attic, his self-inflicted prison cell, all that come together and make up his studio.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Story of the Unfurling
The light is streaming through this day, and I haven’t seen you in seven nights, the air is dry on this sidewalk and everyone is suffering, it’s painful to watch. I can’t breathe without reliving your tracing of my flesh, a portrait of stills you can taste in my mind and every time I say a word aloud. Fingers to lips and it’s just you and me, I’m begging you don’t make this just another meaningless event locked up in your grandmother’s spare bedroom with an old wooden chair shoved snuggly under the latch. It’s so dark in here and I think I need to go, but just stay awhile, I’ve been waiting for you.
Don’t kiss me with your mouth open, you’re not even paying attention to the way my limbs shutter at the thought of it. Enough of this euphemistic shit, is this what you wanted? If desire were your meal ticket, you’d starve in your meager three-walled closet, the salt welling up in the back of your throat and you can hear the carols being sung under the street lamp outside. You’re shaking and rocking and the blisters are sprouting up at every inch of your body. Today is like any day, and I’m just like any girl who cries out on the inside because she’s craving attention and you know it. This is your modus operandi, quite cowardly for a man with eyes that tell a story never told, one that will ultimately mean nothing more than those black and red flannel undies you ripped off of my tender, milk-fed body.
This is the meeting mister, you’re scribbling something hard and fast and the lines start to disappear, or do they run away in fear? This is what you showed me once, we were kicking the sand out from under our toes with the night staring down on us, and I swear with your head back and laughing, I convinced myself I was wrong. I’d touch your face and I was touching my own, staring into a world of. My life was predicated on writing the storybook pages in black and white, and you illustrated the silhouette of my lips with your eyes closed and your heart stopped, the night stopped, where are we?
“It’s OK, she can’t hear us.”
“Where should I put my bags?”
“I’ll take them. You need a bath, so I’ll sit right here.”
“Are you just going to watch me?”
“You’re beautiful, and I can’t help but watch you. Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, it’s fi—“
The buzzer went off, and I knew our time was up. That was thirteen years ago, and call it just two or a few months or it was yesterday, it was a different time then and aching says it’s so. It never happened, and it will happen again, and again and again and this is what creeps out from under our beds at night, never casting a shadow and self-deconstructing as it plays to the sound of my heart beating so rapidly, I think I’ll die right here with my eyes wide open and my teeth clinched on either side of these blood-stained sheets.
You lie there, pale green is not very flattering on you, neither is the rest of the world or anything else for that matter and I hate you for what you’ve done to me. It was warm in that backseat, my skin came up out of itself, this audacious display of your sickness and you shared me with crushed velveteen and midnight passersby. I waited for it, and I had once or a thousand times calculated every moment, every time you touched me and made a woman out of my girlish hands.
I, just like all of the others.
Don’t kiss me with your mouth open, you’re not even paying attention to the way my limbs shutter at the thought of it. Enough of this euphemistic shit, is this what you wanted? If desire were your meal ticket, you’d starve in your meager three-walled closet, the salt welling up in the back of your throat and you can hear the carols being sung under the street lamp outside. You’re shaking and rocking and the blisters are sprouting up at every inch of your body. Today is like any day, and I’m just like any girl who cries out on the inside because she’s craving attention and you know it. This is your modus operandi, quite cowardly for a man with eyes that tell a story never told, one that will ultimately mean nothing more than those black and red flannel undies you ripped off of my tender, milk-fed body.
This is the meeting mister, you’re scribbling something hard and fast and the lines start to disappear, or do they run away in fear? This is what you showed me once, we were kicking the sand out from under our toes with the night staring down on us, and I swear with your head back and laughing, I convinced myself I was wrong. I’d touch your face and I was touching my own, staring into a world of. My life was predicated on writing the storybook pages in black and white, and you illustrated the silhouette of my lips with your eyes closed and your heart stopped, the night stopped, where are we?
“It’s OK, she can’t hear us.”
“Where should I put my bags?”
“I’ll take them. You need a bath, so I’ll sit right here.”
“Are you just going to watch me?”
“You’re beautiful, and I can’t help but watch you. Here, let me help you with that.”
“No, it’s fi—“
The buzzer went off, and I knew our time was up. That was thirteen years ago, and call it just two or a few months or it was yesterday, it was a different time then and aching says it’s so. It never happened, and it will happen again, and again and again and this is what creeps out from under our beds at night, never casting a shadow and self-deconstructing as it plays to the sound of my heart beating so rapidly, I think I’ll die right here with my eyes wide open and my teeth clinched on either side of these blood-stained sheets.
You lie there, pale green is not very flattering on you, neither is the rest of the world or anything else for that matter and I hate you for what you’ve done to me. It was warm in that backseat, my skin came up out of itself, this audacious display of your sickness and you shared me with crushed velveteen and midnight passersby. I waited for it, and I had once or a thousand times calculated every moment, every time you touched me and made a woman out of my girlish hands.
I, just like all of the others.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
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