Sunday, August 28, 2011

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Friday, August 19, 2011


Mixed Media on board
3 ' x 2'

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

the heart is a captive bird...Drawing a Day 2011... August 17

This is the bird that I hold in my hands.  It flutters on my fingers, whispering secrets in a language that I do not yet know.
I move through the space, my bladder full.  I am searching for the toilet and I can’t find.  Often the walls are pulled and shifted by some rhythm that I cannot seem to get the hang of.  My feet betray their inability to dance to the dictates of the masses.  I tuck them under my body, like a duck with her broodlings, hoping no one will notice.  Their eyes, their senses are fixated on something else and my asynchronicity is hidden for now.
I push the bird into my chest, into the cage of my ribs.  I place the bird between my lungs and puff out the cage giving the bird room.  She perches on the tubing in the cavity and begins to sing.  Her song is loud and fierce and can be heard, in certain quiet rooms, from the outside of my body.  I do not quiet the bird, but instead encourage her to sing louder.

The lost duvet: Drawing a Day August 16, 2011

When I dream I feel that urine is not very far from the equation.

I am naked and am covering myself with a large white duvet. I wrap myself in the duvet like a hermit. I vacillate between the status of virgin and slut so that the lines are blurred- as if I am sitting still on the Gravitron and you all are spinning past me in unrecognizable fuzz. As I stand there, I begin to pee. I thought it was safe and for a moment I was at the toilet. But as often happens the world moved two places to the right and the toilet is now the dinner table.

I am naked or perhaps I am nude. One tends to be the more vulgar of the two and I can never get it straight as to which is the naughty one. I do not think of myself as naughty, although I am told otherwise.

Nude is innocent and perhaps diligent. Naked implies that misbehaving is intended. As if my naked body is a bad thing. As if I am the reason all is wrong failing sinking going to shit.

Well, then perhaps I am the scapegoat and therefore I can never be nude, only naked. Despite these distinctions, I pull the duvet tight around me, hiding those bits of me that are deemed questionable and inappropriate to the standards. But the standards like the room setting continuously change and I am left peeing on a pie plate rather than a bed pan.

I do not mean to create any impropriety. I am merely trying to get to a consistent place where I can either pee in peace, get some clothing to wear and/or make peace with what I’ve got. But the fucking standards never stay still. God is a banker intent on making as much money as he can pound out of us.

Strike that.

There is no god. The back room banker boys think they are gods and somehow we all drink the Cool-aid.

Ahh, but there is no room for blasphemy when one is wearing a duvet and sporting a full bladder.

My cover is getting soiled. Dirt lines the bottom as it drags on the ground, creating a fetid ombre pattern up into the hooding. I am tired. I am a room that used to be a pink alive party but all the guests trashed the place and left just as the police arrived. No one claims responsibility and I am left with nothing but brokenness. Rather than stay in myself I leave, wander elsewhere.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Random Variants: Drawing A Day 2011

August 8 2011

August 9, 2011

August 10, 2011

August 11, 2011

August 12, 2011

August 13, 2011

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Post Offices...

My daughter received a letter from a friend in Seattle the other day.  I knew she would be excited about this letter.  Her friend is a wonderful child and separating them when we moved from Seattle was a difficult thing for me to swallow.  But this is not why I am writing about this letter.

When I looked at the address that my daughter's friend wrote on the envelope I was shocked that it reached our house on the other side of the country.  Several things were wrong with the letter's address.

First the letter had no zip code.
Second the name of the town was misspelled.
Third the name of our street was also misspelled.

Despite all these omissions and misspellings the letter reached our house in a timely fashion.  Two little girls who were trying to connect to each other were not schooled by the post office simply because one forgot some trivial numbers.

I love post offices.  I love my mail carrier.  End of story.  I remember going into the post office as a child to get our mail.  We had a post box as the town I lived in had no delivery.  Our post box combo was "A Hairy Foot."  The post mistress in the post office in Alloway, N.J. was an woman much older than my mother who said hello to me every time I walked through the door.  She knew the names and code numbers for towns.  She could eyeball a package and tell you how much to send it.  She kept secrets and whispers safe until they reached the ears of the intended.  I forget her name by her face is scratched into my mind.  Thank you.

They are closing post offices in small towns.  This seems like closing down our collective heart.  Blocking arteries and veins to spite our limbs to save our brain.  But without our feet, how can our brain dance?

The Snail Mail Event! is a wonderful way to fight back this nonsense.  Mail a letter.  Send a package.  Send a love song to your friend in a far off place.  Send a small drawing to the people that live in your house.

I love receiving letters.  Even more I love that a series of post workers did not delay the conversation between two girls who miss each other very much. 

Thank you.


Sex Toys
collage 12" x 12"

detail of Sex Toys

detail of Sex Toys

detail of Sex Toys

"Drawing" of the Day for August 7, 2011

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Eyeballs, dolls and plants...drawing a day August 5 &6, 2011

August 5, 2011
 I have a thing for plastic army men.  It seems my grocery store does as well.  Bags of plastic army men line the cereal isles, sandwiched between the Cheerios and the Fruity Pebbles.  The plastic army men kinda litter my studio, standing watch over the paints and brushes. 

Last Halloween, I was compelled to purchase a large bag of super balls that looked like eyeballs.  I said that they were for my daughter.  Somehow they all managed to mingle in my studio with the plastic army men.  They roll around on the old window that I use for a watercolor palette.

August 6, 2011
In addition to the bouncy eyeballs and plastic army men, there also seems to be a lot of house plants.  They grow and pop out of there pots and then root themselves in the empty milk jugs and pasta sauce jars.  The army men think they are back in the jungles on Theta-S5 and the eyeballs position themselves in the plant soil so that the flowers can see when the coast is clear.

The Baby doll is not really is pure imagination.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Wednesday, August 3, 2011