losing track

i look up and suddenly i don't know where i am but i know how i got here.

Life Goes On.....But Where

67" x 60" oil,gouache,acrylic,paint sticks,chalk on canvas.
I am really psyched this painting will be in a show at Benton Nyce Gallery in September...

surrender

down the road of wildest dreams

running in place,

after you,

after me,

the light blinding,

brilliant,

blameless,

blazing like flames.

oh baby, burn in hell with me.

how to

we're collaborating on an exhibition of art and text and I'm trying to figure out how to display excerpts so the viewer observes them much the same way one might observe a painting or a photograph. Of course, one reads from right to left but if the excerpts are positioned horizontally, will the viewer be lazier, less observant?

in the darker days of our humanity

Early morning blends into liquid day

of paint and shoot

and the trickling of words

in between explorations for love and money.

On the stairwell we wonder

if the mind is ours to keep,

if we need to grasp a greater reality

or fall deeper into the mesmeric trance

for the longing breeds the perpetual dance

of time honored and time lost.

Fear not the iron grip

bound and without boundaries

the uphill battle, the down hill slide

past the politics of cruelty,

grazed but yet unchanged.

Hope fades like so many sunsets

in this other worldly place where inequity and injustice,

proof after bold-faced proof (substitute “lie”)

makes a mockery of us.

Timelessness=agelessness

our narrow escape,

stoned on life’s expanding universe

touched by universal truth

but then, what is truth, what must we know

and then to know, how can we live?

detail/work in progress

what to wear

i decided i like to write in my nightgown--long, flowing, free...

untitled

can we stop?

can we stop?

if we don’t make it this way.

if we don’t insist

if we don’t resist

if we don’t desist

if we don’t exist.

can we stop?

mute

too late

In the distance a large crane like a giant insect moves across the Brooklyn waterfront near the site where Brian had developed the architectural design for sustainable living, a joke as far as he is concerned in a world that no longer deserves to exist, and for all intents and purposes would not, not in the same context no matter what measures are taken or how determined its inhabitants. Bottom line: it is too late, too little too late—an expression that whirs inside his head like the rotors of a helicopter that maintains position and altitude but cannot advance or land. Too little too late…too little too late.

art attack

the sound of color

autumn, auburn, audacious

slashing through canvas like the sharpened edge of a knife

so content to claim the space

and the right to preside

among others.

clean chartreuse

behind muted green of copper rising

top to bottom,

curving round chalky blue

and the endlessness of black

deep, dark

down and out,

longing the longing

and then…

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?

geography of a disturbed mind

“That still doesn’t explain what you’re doing with my wife.” I’d like to wipe that shitty grin off her face, won’t leave until she talks, so I take a seat in a chair by a smallish TV. The sound is muted, the room silent. Images of war, mass graves, bones scattered, flash across the screen. It could be happening anywhere. Rwanda, Bosnia, Lebanon, Poland, the West Bank. The human need for destruction is eternal. All boundaries are elastic. They stretch back and forth with enough tension until they break and form new territory.

solitary confinement

I'll just have to paint my way out.......

anatomy of a serial killer

That's the title of the unfinished novel from yesterday's excerpt. What really fascinates me is not the gruesome details but the back story--the family in which the serial killer grows up.

Family is the thread in common that weaves throughout my work--whether it's a play, a screenplay, a short story or a novel. We're not talking 'family values' here; we're talking dysfunction, malfunction, inextricable love and all the complex issues that make family an endlessly fascinating subject to explore. The gay sibling, the straight daughter, the suicidal father, the psychopathic son, the intersex child, the bisexual mother, the adulterous grandparent. You name it. They come in all flavors and sizes.