Monday, May 18, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Friday, April 03, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, March 05, 2009
the black helicopters of the bridgewater triangle
the black helicopters of the bridgewater triangle, 24x18, relief print
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
the red headed hitchhiker of route 44
ver 4
2 color relief print on grey paper
ver 3
2 color relief print on cream paper
ver 2
1 color relief print on white paper with water color additions
ver 1
1 color relief print on white paper
Monday, February 09, 2009
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
a discourse between earth and sky; part II
a discourse between earth and sky II, 22x30, monotype and mixed mediaa discourse between earth and sky; part I
a discourse between earth and sky I, 22x30, monotype and mixed mediaWednesday, January 28, 2009
identify yourself!
it's so easy. once you DO your calling, it's so easy to just say, "i am a truckdriver." "i am a mechanic." "i am a teacher." "i am an artist."
i know truckdrivers. they drive trucks and get a paycheck every week or two. mechanics too. i know some. they turn their wrenches, they get a paycheck. teachers are the same. they pass on knowledge and understanding, do what they do, get some meager compensation for it. they do it because they have the call. because they need to. and they get paid to.
so many people identify themselves by what they do with the majority of their time, or by what they do to earn money. "i'm a barista." "i'm a cashier." people who dig in the earth looking for old stuff call themselves archeologists. folks who look after other folks and recommend medications and treat maladies and sign their name illegibly call themselves doctors. by this identification process, i am not an artist. i am an apparel buyer or a keeper of records. i am not an artist.
there, i said it. i am not an artist. i make art, but i am not an artist. or maybe, we need to rethink our position on this whole identity thing. maybe people who drives trucks across this great wide country, delivering milk and fruit and potatoes and oreos to grocery stores, and spend their off hours sitting at old wooden benches under bright lights, moving tiny gears and springs inside the body of an old clock should call themselves horologists. maybe people who fix cars and trucks during the day and also play in bands in small, smoky, dark bars at night should call themselves musicians. maybe people who make coffee for other people on one of those kooky retail schedules and still manage to ride their bikes 300 miles a week, gutting out grueling climbs, rising at 5AM to simply get a ride in, should call themselves cyclists.
maybe people who devolop planograms for apparel sections in retail stores, and track warranty claims, and make spread sheets to keep track of department budgets, and who also make pictures with things like paper and canvas and pencil and ink and paint and pain and tears and laughter, should call themselves artists.
maybe we should identify ourselves with our callings rather than our occupations. someday, we could be lucky enough to identify ourselves with our occupation and our calling because they will be the same. live the dream, or die trying.
i know truckdrivers. they drive trucks and get a paycheck every week or two. mechanics too. i know some. they turn their wrenches, they get a paycheck. teachers are the same. they pass on knowledge and understanding, do what they do, get some meager compensation for it. they do it because they have the call. because they need to. and they get paid to.
so many people identify themselves by what they do with the majority of their time, or by what they do to earn money. "i'm a barista." "i'm a cashier." people who dig in the earth looking for old stuff call themselves archeologists. folks who look after other folks and recommend medications and treat maladies and sign their name illegibly call themselves doctors. by this identification process, i am not an artist. i am an apparel buyer or a keeper of records. i am not an artist.
there, i said it. i am not an artist. i make art, but i am not an artist. or maybe, we need to rethink our position on this whole identity thing. maybe people who drives trucks across this great wide country, delivering milk and fruit and potatoes and oreos to grocery stores, and spend their off hours sitting at old wooden benches under bright lights, moving tiny gears and springs inside the body of an old clock should call themselves horologists. maybe people who fix cars and trucks during the day and also play in bands in small, smoky, dark bars at night should call themselves musicians. maybe people who make coffee for other people on one of those kooky retail schedules and still manage to ride their bikes 300 miles a week, gutting out grueling climbs, rising at 5AM to simply get a ride in, should call themselves cyclists.
maybe people who devolop planograms for apparel sections in retail stores, and track warranty claims, and make spread sheets to keep track of department budgets, and who also make pictures with things like paper and canvas and pencil and ink and paint and pain and tears and laughter, should call themselves artists.
maybe we should identify ourselves with our callings rather than our occupations. someday, we could be lucky enough to identify ourselves with our occupation and our calling because they will be the same. live the dream, or die trying.
Monday, December 22, 2008
people notice!
i was mentioned in an interview with albert wang, the curator and director of Iao Projects and Iao: ABC.
It's a two-way street. We had a lot of artists submit portfolios online. At first, Shadna and I chose to use Craigslist as a way of discovering up-and-coming artists who are completely unknown. For example, I was able to discover the works of Boston-area printmaker Mark Phelan through this venue. He is represented also by Aeon Logic Art Gallery in Brooklyn as well, which we have encouraged. Phelan is an extremely solid mixed-media printmaker whose private imagery and fantastic surrealism caught my eye with its rather post-modern storytelling similar to a novel by John Barth. I recommend the viewer to catch his work to see what I mean in that respect.
you can read the whole interview here:
http://theconfroom.blogspot.com/
It's a two-way street. We had a lot of artists submit portfolios online. At first, Shadna and I chose to use Craigslist as a way of discovering up-and-coming artists who are completely unknown. For example, I was able to discover the works of Boston-area printmaker Mark Phelan through this venue. He is represented also by Aeon Logic Art Gallery in Brooklyn as well, which we have encouraged. Phelan is an extremely solid mixed-media printmaker whose private imagery and fantastic surrealism caught my eye with its rather post-modern storytelling similar to a novel by John Barth. I recommend the viewer to catch his work to see what I mean in that respect.
you can read the whole interview here:
http://theconfroom.blogspot.com/
Sunday, December 07, 2008
don't worry about him. he's just a puffer.
don't worry about him. he's just a puffer.monotype and mixed media. 22x30
Friday, November 07, 2008
aeonlogic gallery and my first show in nyc!
here is a piece that i wrote for another blog that i contribute to:
a new contributor with a new outlook
i got an invititation from shadna to contribute to this blog. i suppose he is looking for some new perspectives and some insight into the minds of the artists he and his galleries represent. but for me, this was an incredibly difficult exercise to wrap my head around. i used to say that if i could use words as an effective means of communication, i wouldn't need to make the pictures i make. but that's sort of a cop-out. now, i'm not going to give you a step-by-step process, pointing out each nuance of thought because that would rob you of some of the magic. you don't really WANT to know how a magician pulls off that perfect trick, do you? i didn't think so. but, it might be good to know just enough to make yourself even more curious.so, when i was accepted to the inaugural show of a gallery to debut in brooklyn this weekend, i decided to take the opportunity to give both you and me a better understanding of what goes on in this more than slightly disturbed brain. aeonlogic gallery will be opening tomorrow at 4 malcolm x blvd in brooklyn, and feature not only work by artists, but also a statement of motivation to make the art. it's a bit of a rejection of photos of poop that seem to be altogether a bit too prevalent in the art world these days, and an attempt at a return to a more human approach to storytelling. i am not an expert in all things art-worldly by any means, and so if i am missing the point of poop photography, i apologize. but i do like what this gallery is trying to do. so when i was invited to participate, i accepted happily despite the fact that i would have to stretch beyond my comfort zone and try to make sense of my work for the benefit of the audience, if not for my own. below is an excerpt from my attempt at the logic behind my work. i hope i didn't give away too much of myself. i like to be a little mysterious...
I wish I were a storyteller. I wish I were articulate enough to bend the ears and capture the imaginations of those around me with my tales of life and love and legacy, to have my words flow from my lips like a mountain stream trickling around rocks and roots, collecting into a crystal clear mirrored pool in the valley.I am not. There is this disconnect between my brain and my heart, between my brain and my soul. I have tremendous difficulty deciphering my own hopes and dreams, let alone spinning a yarn that will hold captive the minds of others.But sometimes, things click. The pawls align, the gears engage, and an image flows from my hand like that stream from the mountaintop. Collecting its tributaries one after the other, building in volume and strength, becoming a powerful river until it pours onto paper like so much water into that lake in the valley. Often, I have to keep these images close by, constantly looking for that place in my mind or my heart or my soul where they might have come from. But they don’t seem to fit anywhere very neatly. They do, however fit in between. Between my heart and soul, between my heart and mind, between waking and dreams, between disappointment and regret, between life and death, between sin and redemption.They narrate for me what my words could not; what my mind or heart or soul could not have done alone. They pull from all sources the shattered pieces and make them whole, to make available to the viewer that which sloshes around inside me like a whirlpool. When asked what my work is about, I used to say that if I had the words to describe it, I wouldn’t need to make the pictures to begin with. But that is a cheap cop out. It isn’t true. My work is about where people live. Not on the mountaintop, or the pool in the valley, but on the slopes. In between.Maybe I am a storyteller…
a new contributor with a new outlook
i got an invititation from shadna to contribute to this blog. i suppose he is looking for some new perspectives and some insight into the minds of the artists he and his galleries represent. but for me, this was an incredibly difficult exercise to wrap my head around. i used to say that if i could use words as an effective means of communication, i wouldn't need to make the pictures i make. but that's sort of a cop-out. now, i'm not going to give you a step-by-step process, pointing out each nuance of thought because that would rob you of some of the magic. you don't really WANT to know how a magician pulls off that perfect trick, do you? i didn't think so. but, it might be good to know just enough to make yourself even more curious.so, when i was accepted to the inaugural show of a gallery to debut in brooklyn this weekend, i decided to take the opportunity to give both you and me a better understanding of what goes on in this more than slightly disturbed brain. aeonlogic gallery will be opening tomorrow at 4 malcolm x blvd in brooklyn, and feature not only work by artists, but also a statement of motivation to make the art. it's a bit of a rejection of photos of poop that seem to be altogether a bit too prevalent in the art world these days, and an attempt at a return to a more human approach to storytelling. i am not an expert in all things art-worldly by any means, and so if i am missing the point of poop photography, i apologize. but i do like what this gallery is trying to do. so when i was invited to participate, i accepted happily despite the fact that i would have to stretch beyond my comfort zone and try to make sense of my work for the benefit of the audience, if not for my own. below is an excerpt from my attempt at the logic behind my work. i hope i didn't give away too much of myself. i like to be a little mysterious...
I wish I were a storyteller. I wish I were articulate enough to bend the ears and capture the imaginations of those around me with my tales of life and love and legacy, to have my words flow from my lips like a mountain stream trickling around rocks and roots, collecting into a crystal clear mirrored pool in the valley.I am not. There is this disconnect between my brain and my heart, between my brain and my soul. I have tremendous difficulty deciphering my own hopes and dreams, let alone spinning a yarn that will hold captive the minds of others.But sometimes, things click. The pawls align, the gears engage, and an image flows from my hand like that stream from the mountaintop. Collecting its tributaries one after the other, building in volume and strength, becoming a powerful river until it pours onto paper like so much water into that lake in the valley. Often, I have to keep these images close by, constantly looking for that place in my mind or my heart or my soul where they might have come from. But they don’t seem to fit anywhere very neatly. They do, however fit in between. Between my heart and soul, between my heart and mind, between waking and dreams, between disappointment and regret, between life and death, between sin and redemption.They narrate for me what my words could not; what my mind or heart or soul could not have done alone. They pull from all sources the shattered pieces and make them whole, to make available to the viewer that which sloshes around inside me like a whirlpool. When asked what my work is about, I used to say that if I had the words to describe it, I wouldn’t need to make the pictures to begin with. But that is a cheap cop out. It isn’t true. My work is about where people live. Not on the mountaintop, or the pool in the valley, but on the slopes. In between.Maybe I am a storyteller…
Monday, October 27, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 06, 2008
coffee mugs
when was the last time you actually WASHED the coffee mug on your desk at work? i don't mean a casual rinse to remove the weekend's dust. i mean a full on soap and sponge wash. why would you? if the mug gets filled, then emptied into your gullet, what's the point? consider the stains 'patina.' they add character. and there is hardly any risk of contracting any sort of yuckiness. i think...
really, this comes up because i am so bored with my current mug that i have no use for maintaining it. i have been very interested in vintage diner mugs, and those cool old mugs that fade from tan to brown (my mom could tell you what that style is actually called) and mugs with logos from defunct businesses, and such. i like things with a little character i guess. things that can tell a story.
i guess i like things that remind me that what i do is a good thing. story telling reminds us of where we came from, and can hopefully give us a glimpse of where we are going. just a little hint of it.
really, this comes up because i am so bored with my current mug that i have no use for maintaining it. i have been very interested in vintage diner mugs, and those cool old mugs that fade from tan to brown (my mom could tell you what that style is actually called) and mugs with logos from defunct businesses, and such. i like things with a little character i guess. things that can tell a story.
i guess i like things that remind me that what i do is a good thing. story telling reminds us of where we came from, and can hopefully give us a glimpse of where we are going. just a little hint of it.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
secret keeping
i carry a burdenthat is not my own,
i carry it for another; its weight is shown
in the way my back bends
as i bear it to my eternal home.
Monday, September 29, 2008
a new look and turning gears.
so many experiences in uncharted territory, so much travel, so much sorrow, so much joy.
all good for new stories to tell...keep an eye open.
all good for new stories to tell...keep an eye open.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
works on paper
something for kate, 22x30
i'm so sorry. 22x30 
g-love floats. 30x30 monotype and mixed media on panel. commission for LIVE NATION concert series. sold at auction, 11/11/2008
secret keeping- monotype and mixed media, 22x30
these things take time, 20x28
softly soaring through, 20x28
ignarus aspurnatum seminare, 22x30
a trope for entropy, 22x30
husker du? 20x28
sometimes i forget how to breathe, 20x28
upon this rock, 20x28
you had to be there, 20x28
this house, 28x22
a tear in the fabric, 22x26
echo, 22x26
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