wondering why

you stand there wondering why you're
staring at a canvas...

zipcode art

curious how grants are so lopsided, favoring counties.
aside from the obvious fact that the county designates
funding, why should it matter where the artist comes
from? what happened to the art? that's what i want to know.

speechless

longing to be a visual artist
words so tired, so poor, so arrested.
not sure what being a writer means any more.
without an attention span what's left?
recording for the sake of it
validating the alphabet
creating new syntax
for what?

remember me

don't know what's more important. memory or substance. as in, what do i remember in my conversation with my mother vs. what were we really talking about. and then, let's not forget this other dynamic that gets in the way. huh? the question? why? where? was i there? were you? love, love, love. that's what i keep reminding myself. all about love.

reality check

forget the paycheck. time for a reality check. to check in
and see what's really going on.

1. am i doing what i really want to be doing with my life?

2. if not, how can i redirect?

3. and with all that excess energy from doing what I want, how can
I help someone else do...whatever.

what if we were, no, are happy? what if...

inspire me

thought i'd never look to government for inspiration
but today i think of the possibilities. intellect,
diplomacy, patience, consideration, compassion, endurance.
these are not qualities to which we've become accustomed
but it is time to move in close, take a chance, reach out
to the optimism that has been dormant for so many years,
optimism motivated by activism and involvement. today our
president is capable of empowering so many. tomorrow the
empowered will rise up and take responsibility for governance.
the two will become one and the consciousness of one will bring
justice and harmony to a world out of balance.

Let's Drop Out, Baby

If ever there was a sign that it's time to make art
the priority, the time is now.

A life inspired.

T'ai Chi, a little contemplation, a spot of tea,
writing, making art, a bit of exercise, an hour to read,
a delightful glass of wine, a cinq a sept, followed by a
delicious culinary adventure and a walk to the beach.

All the days ahead, the rest of our lives,
a love, a life fulfilled.

is mother dying?

i really can't ignore the plaintive cry of the Long Island Railroad anymore, especially in the middle of the night. and when i lose all patience, lose all sense, lose all focus, not for anything in particular but for the cumulative effect of life itself, i have to admit (unlike my parents) i know nothing. i do know...i know nothing at all.

gimmeabreak

have you noticed how people are really soliciting out there? doesn't matter what they're after--job, security, escape, love, the hereafter. it's all the same. the moment is all we have. if only...

what constitutes the end?

this is the question. one we ask ourselves over and over throughout our lives. always seems to come up no matter the circumstance. in this case, i'm thinking about the end of my novel which just doesn't seem to want to end, as if it has a life of its own and i have nothing to do with it. and then there's the issue of the end, what it means, death. so much death all around me. always the prospect. so i have come to adopt it as something i encounter in my every day life, part of what to expect and in the case of my novel SEPTEMBER 10TH, death keeps knocking on the door. it's where it started and it's where it all ends (eventually) but that's past the place i intended.

survival of the arts

the current state of the economy puts a new spin on starving artists.
while it's hard enough to stay motivated in an environment
that condones profit over substance, the very survival of the creative
community is at stake here. one false move and a whole slew of artists
and writers will be out on the street. i'm not suggesting that anyone
should be subjected to this or being elitist about artists. i'm simply
addressing the state of the arts, where i live and breathe and on which i
rely to maintain a healthy respect for the passion and spirit of the arts,
art as sustenance as critical as oxygen, food or life support.
how many of you out there have been so distracted by this
threat?

Electro Shock

"There’s all this electromagnetic current," Gracie explains. "The kind you can test with devices that make skin contact. You know, like EEGs and EKGs and that sort of thing, but what I want to know is where does all that energy go when a person dies, the field around the body, the one that intersects and surrounds us, the vibrational field…”

She says, "People didn’t vacate lower Manhattan because of the toxic residue. They didn’t vacate out of fear. They vacated because of the massive amount of electromagnetism unleashed into the atmosphere by 3,000 dying and deceased people.”

Blackprint Series No.22

momentum not momentous

boy. all i had to do was hit return twice and my title became my subject and my post. that's how it is these days. momentum. all about gaining it. weird thing is, i'd like to gain momentum in my work, find that sweep across the horizon, ride the comet trail, the crest of the wave where the sensation of the ride is what it's all about, not the place you arrive. happy new year, y''all.

weapons of mass construction

i need my gum, my cigaretttes, my bobby pins, my simone de beauvoir,
my selective memory, my rich, dark chocolate, my dreams, every one
of them,and a few more. i need my lover to love me even when she does,
my massive assault on social injustice timed just right to make an impact,
that element of surprise, no backlash just flashbacks, the good ones,
no enemy, just cause and justice. a glass of fine wine or two or three, a friend i
haven't seen in years, and then i don't need much of anything really. just to be.
at home. in love. ya' know?

the new new

always questioning this need to be new when we have the same old problems, right? but i'm not talking about boring or unimaginative. i'm talkingabout that layer underneath. the one you have to look for. why is looking such a bad thing?

a miracle

Tonight I have to say it's a miracle that artists (painters, photographers, dancers, writers, performers, actors, composers, every conceivable form) manage to survive with such little support. Have you noticed that those closest to you not only can't relate but can't even find something substantial to say about the work, that is if they even look, read, study (that's ambitious), focus or check it out at all?

art don't forsake me

my mentor

I was thinking back to when I first found out that
Mark Rothko spent some time out here and
was even buried a few miles from my studio.....
I couldn't believe it....Rothko painted here,
agonized over his work here - maybe even
contemplated suicide here.

the short of it

All this thought of food is utterly distracting but he can’t stop the cinematic progression. Artichokes drizzled with lemony olive oil. Savory goat cheese with ash. Mussels in Thai curry sauce. Escarole in vinaigrette. Food as sustenance, that and the lusty bottles of Bordeaux. He thinks of his inspiration—the provocative films of Fassbinder and Sheridan, the rigorous designs of Frank Gehry and Zoltan Pali, the powerful works of Smith and Iglesias, the literary feasts of Nabokov and Roth…all the motivating forces coming together, attesting to the inferiority of his work. Always something wrong when everything is right. Why can’t he jimmy the lock on the past when everything seemed so simple... There were people, the ones you saw every day who were genuinely happy and then there were the ones who wanted to be seen by you. He plays out these scenes loop after endless loop until he recognizes the drift.