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Showing posts from June, 2010

three jimmy's and a place by the sea

Three Jimmy's ; pen and ink on paper (pages from a math text book, then mounted on board), 4.5 x 7.5 inches. I found a picture of Jimmy Stewart in my pocket. It's not that unusual, really -- I print all sorts of pictures, all the time, with ideas for drawings or paintings I'll make. But I have no memory of choosing this Jimmy, and I have no idea what to do with him. It's a closeup. It looks like a still from a movie. Black and white. He's cast in shadow, looking tortured or doubtful (is there really any difference?). His collar is up so it's cold outside. Possibly winter. He's wearing a hat, but everyone wore hats in his kind of movies. I draw him three times in pen and ink. His face is lovely in its empathy and length. But I still don't remember anything. * * * * * A certain someone just sneezed an entire mouthful of baby food right into my face; the effect is like throwing a handful of barf against a window fan. * * * * * The other day we (me a

sudden temperature change may cause breakage

A poet friend of mine is also quite the visual tinkerer/explorer; she's always taking photographs, making collages, drawing Venn diagrams, shaping words into lines of sight. So when I told her that I'd been thinking about posting some audio content (me reading stories) on my blog, she instantly volunteered to make an accompanying video. The story is called "Ophelia (323), Scrub Your Eyes". It appeared in a little UK magazine called Bottom of the World in March, 2009. It's not in my upcoming book but only because of timing. It's the usual suspects: my fascination with things that are not themselves, thought reduced to transferred emotion and blunt objects of icons, the elusiveness of escape, the future as coming rain. Monday today. C said that, "... it's going to be really nice today, so we should get outside." I love it when people say things like that; they're almost always people who are spending their own day being entertained by the air-

I can't turn it off ... it's really happening.

boolean ; pen and ink on paper (page from an old math text book). * * * * * You don't realize it until you're struggling to make small-talk with a barber, but the world these days seems to be running solely on the fumes of giant sporting events (read: spectacles), with the media like insistent trumpets in the background, and all of us shuffling around, reconfiguring our understanding, and why we care, and constantly reforming lines of attention. First it was the Winter Olympics and then the Stanley Cup and now the FIFA World Cup is here and very, very insistent on itself, especially with all those Vuvuzela horns. Apparently, people are running out to buy Italian flags. Really? Yes, I know, it's the game that the rest of the world plays. Fine, fine. They've been watching and following and waiting all year for this. But not here. Here we have all sorts of Spectacle-Hero Things to demand our attention. And (once again) I'm finding it very difficult to find the appr

expectation clouds

but you can't see the weather ; mixed media on wood board, 24 x 24 inches. The string series continues. Four of four in a little show at Studio 330 for the month of June. I posted the first one here and the second one here and the third one here . * * * * * > I was just reading your blog. Do you think you're having more anxiety > than usual, or just your regular amount? I think my anxiety level is about normal, thanks. That said, I think today's normal is *way* too fucking high. Because everyone I know seems to be anxious or too busy or in a constant state of feeling rushed. Or anxious about being too busy and constantly feeling rushed. Like the sky is getting lower. And all of this, I think, is down to one thing, and we're all guilty of living in it: expectation clouds. Some of this just comes with age, with coming to the high middle of our lives. Bumping up against things. Because there's supposed to be these *things* that belong -- or cluster, or c

mind maps, minotaurs and the maze

Cigar-tin story #64. Cigar-tin stories are tchotchkes . Drawing mind maps these days, on graph paper the size of place mats. In university, the night before a final exam, I'd try to put the ideas of an entire course on a single piece of paper. And then stare at it. Hoping it would sink in. This was almost always because I hadn't done any real studying (or note-taking, or learning) throughout the rest of the year. By reducing it to a sort of picture, to a composite image of letters and commas and periods, to loops and ticks and dots and the spaces in-between, I hoped for a kind of magical recall at the appointed moment of terror (the gymnasium, those hundreds hunched over, the running lines of the blank test booklet). It worked about half the time. These days the issue is more about organization (and time management ... a peculiar crisis of everyone in their forties). I have these little books, you see, where I write down all my tasks and ideas and things to remember. But the

seen / scene

Tsukioka YOSHITOSHI (1839-1892) "Looking Suitable: The Appearance of a Brothel Geisha of the Koka Era" (1844-1848). From the set: Thirty-two Aspects of Women published by Tsunashima Kamekichi, 1888. Seen (scene) lately ... x} A Hummer limousine, parked on the sidewalk. Blocking my way. Making me walk around, staring into blackened windows. I could only hope that there was some sort of sunroof, a night of debauchery and a drunken decapitation somewhere ahead. x} Posters for D.A.R.N. (Downtown Action Revitalization Network) in empty storefront windows ... because downtown Kingston is blighted with empty storefronts right now, and (apparently) I'm not the only one who's noticed. They're organized! x} Not only organized, but they'll have a table at the Skeleton Park Music Festival (a side note: how simple and lovely is the visual identity for this festival? it's *exactly* what a small-city festival should look like). x} Is it just me, or is it true that after

i'm not there

Last night we watched I'm not there . I'm not there. I'm not a story. I'm not constructing some 'plot' for your convenience. I'm not a regular movie. I'm not average. I'm not a normal cinematic experience (I'm not so pedestrian as that). I'm not linear. I'm not worried about the audience. I'm not worried about making sense. I'm not taking you along. I'm not waiting. I'm not beyond the kind of thing that an art student would conceive of. I'm not anything more, really, than a collection of scenes. I'm not above trafficking in certain pop-culture mythologies. I'm not *The American Experience* but I'll play you the soundtrack. I'm not afraid of naming names. I'm not afraid of such games. I'm not constricting this to any expected length. I'm not going to end this anytime soon. I'm not what you signed on for (am I?). I'm not a movie, really. I'm not here.

yellow boy

yellow boy ; mixed media on canvas, 22 x 24 x 1.5 inches. The string series continues. Three of four in a little show at Studio 330 for the month of June. I posted the first one here and the second one here . Yellow Boy belongs to a story (of course) about a pair of drunks dropped into something more serious.

accents

a short history of the wild west ; mixed media on canvas, 20 x 20 x 1.5 inches. The string series continues. One of four in a little show at Studio 330 for the month of June. I posted the first one here . * * * * * C was quite (unintentionally) funny this morning, talking about this story on the radio regarding a woman who sustained a head injury (falling from a horse -- why is it always falling from a horse?) and woke up with a Scottish accent. Now, there are many ways to react to this story. Two of the most common, I think, are to say, "That poor woman," and/or, "Wow, the human brain -- what a mystery!" But not C. She's a details gal. She once drove both of us nuts trying to figure out how a certain couple on a certain soap opera came to afford their house. Yeah, that's interesting. To hell with all the romances, affairs, failures, heartaches and even murders. Boring! I want behind-the-scenes info on the real estate situation. And with our brain-inju