Sugar Coated

Sugar Coated
Pixie stick powder with glue on stretched canvas

Shallow Depth

If only I had sunk my roots in further,
Relying more on those I love
Than on my own selfish stubbornness.

Perhaps I would not be so bothered
By the trivialities of circumstances
That lay just beyond my reach.

By learning to work with what I have
Rather than what I do not,
The ground will seem much sweeter.

Should I learn to sink my roots in deeper
And draw upon others’ strengths where I am weak,
I know that I can better weather the storms.

Mall Portrait

Mall Portrait
Photo booth self-portrait

Uncommon Ground

Uncommon Ground
Coffe grinder with pebbles & sand

Dragon Slaying

Despite the lack of light
that night,
the dragon took flight.
His vision was slight,
but the knight
he did sight,
and in his might
he sought a fight.
The plight
of the knight,
as he did sight
the dragon in spite
of the dark of the night,
was knowing the fight
would not turn out alright.
The knight,
in fright,
closed his eyes quite
tight
and held his sword upright,
awaiting the might
of the dragon that night.
He regained his sight
and looked to the right –
a most bizarre sight!
The dragon in flight
had managed to alight
on the tip ever slight
of the sword he’d held tight
in the hand at his right!
The dead beast he did sight
as the night
became light –
it had turned out alright!

Dare I Awaken the Dreamer?

Dreams, whether enshrined or entombed,
are still restrained in their gilded cages
like trapped nightingales with songs unsung.

Flitting madly from perch to perch
in haphazardly synchronized bounds,
they hurl themselves against bars of doubt.

If I open that gilded door,
will my hopes freely soar in a peaceful state
or scurry away, forever lost?

Would ego then get the better of me,
changing my dreams into aspirations
of grandeur and pompous circumstance?

By planting my own seeds of doubt
I walk the beaten path like so many,
with my mind lost to a quandary.

Evidence of My Existence

Evidence of My Existence
Sewing machine drawer with bottles containing detritus from my life

Ideas

Ideas Taking Flight
Digital collage icons for 2ndStory Space Studio

Skin Deep

My skin is…
Always in need of lotion
Blotchy only once in a while
Callused on the soles of my feet
Dry with tendencies toward cracking
Eczema-prone on my hands
Fair with some moles and scars
Generally free of Goosebumps
Hardly hairy with only a fine fuzz
Itchy when dehydrated
Just starting to wrinkle from age
Kind of knobby at my ankles
Lightly olive complexioned
Makeup-free most of the time
Not prone to bruising
Oily only at the roots of my hair
Pale, but with some color
Quicker to tan than to sunburn
Rarely ever ruddy
Scantily freckled from the sun
Too sensitive to temperature
Unaffected by poison ivy
Very smooth with fine pores
Without any tattooes or piercings
Xanthochroid as a child
Youthful and elastic for the most part
Zit and acne-free most of the time

Paulo Bruscky

How to Make Paulo-Bruscky Change His Character
Mail art for Focus Latin America: Art Is Our Last Hope curated by Vanessa Davidson and John Held Jr.

Paint Your Own Pottery

Paint Your Own Pottery
Text reads:
Lately, I have found myself contemplating the distinctions between those artworks which are shown in galleries and museums and those which are displayed solely in the common home. Take, for example, this piece of paint-your-own pottery. Paint-your-own pottery is an easily accessible art form that people of all ages and artistic ability can enjoy regardless of their knowledge of ceramics, but it is not exhibited in galleries and museums. Is paint-your-own pottery poorly regarded because of a lack of formal training? Outsider art, which is created by people who lack any formal art training, is becoming more accepted; there are even galleries devoted to just those works. But many outsider artists have developed an advanced level of skill with and knowledge of the media in which they work. Is paint-your-own pottery seen as lesser because the artist has not had a direct influence over or knowledge of the entire process? Throughout history, many great artworks have been made that did not require the artist’s attention to and involvement in every detail of their creation. Some well-known modern artists have even outsourced their work to industry. Are artworks then exhibited solely because of the notoriety of their creators? Many galleries enjoy showcasing cutting edge artists who are virtually unknown in the art world as a means of responding to cultural changes and advances in both how we make art and what we perceive as art. What about concept: is it partly the idea behind an artwork that elevates its status? If an artist were to make a piece of paint-your-own pottery from a conceptual standpoint would that then cause us to reassess its value and artistic merit? Would it then be able to find a place in the arts and not be displayed solely in the common home?

Migrations

Migrations
Marker on matboard

Paddling Downstream

Oh, what do you do with a canoe leak that grew into a huge flue?  Water flew into the canoe as you and the two fish you drew from the river to stew sank deeper into the water too blue.  You wanted the glue that you threw on the dock since you knew no leak would find you in your brand new canoe.  The two fish you drew from the river to stew flew from the canoe to the river they knew.  Now all you can do is rue leaving the glue on the pew as the canoe sinks deeper into the water too blue.

Art on the Spot

Collaboration with Emily Hemeyer at Art on the Spot, Chesterfield Arts donation event

In My Shoes

I’ve been demonized for being fat.
I’ve been criticized for being thin.
I’m sick of all the starlets saying beauty lies within.

When you’re working the red carpet,
Graded by the latest trends,
Just ask yourself if the means ever justify the ends.

Chorus:
‘Cause until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes
Please don’t even dare to think that you can cure me of my blues.

When you’re catwalking the runway,
A hollow focus in your eyes,
You’re selling more than just a look so please don’t patronize.

I’m plagued by insecurities.
Self-doubts confound my soul.
I yearn to be accepted for who I am as a whole.

Chorus:
But until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes
Please don’t even dare to think that you can cure me of my blues.

I’ve been chastised for
My sex, my race, my age, my weight,
My pain, my fear, my love, my hate,
My sin, my rage, my mental state,
Will this turmoil always be my fate?

Chorus:
So until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes
Please don’t even dare to think that you can cure me of my blues.
Yeah, until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes,
Please don’t even dare to think that you can cure me of my blues.

The Princess

The Princess Secretly Enjoyed Kissing Frogs
Jar assemblage with toy frogs, doll wig & hat, kisses stickers

Rejection Letter

Another rejection letter arrived in email today.
No surprise - I knew it was a stretch anyway,
especially with so many submissions.

I’ve begun a practice of submitting art
that questions the legitimacy of said opportunities,
brings unspoken taboos into the forefront,
and pushes the boundaries of what art is.

I’ll just file it away with the others.
I’m getting used to the rejection.
It only reinforces my desire to rock the boat.

Galatea

Galatea
Figure drawing

Waves Lapping at Her Feet

Waves Lapping at Her Feet (If the Shoe Fits)
Assemblage with designer shoe

Cooking Lessons

Many a phase
our food plays:
in a mid-morning haze
of sunlight rays,
the animals graze.

But the hunter’s craze
is the beasts he slays.
To the butcher he strays,
and the meat he lays
on countertop trays.

The butcher displays
the meat that he frays
into fine fillets;
the price he will raise.

The chef will laze
about in a daze
while at the counter he stays.
At the butcher he brays.

The meat the chef splays
over a fiery blaze,
coated in hollandaise,
a meal he portrays...

Folk Singer

With the public, he tries
to sympathize.
Out his voice cries,
so to harmonize
with the guitar he plies
as, over strings, his hand flies.
The sweat dries
on his brow as he lies
with innocent eyes.
His voice will rise
with needs to equalize,
rather than downsize:
why feudalize?
This he’ll emphasize
as the public vies
to buy what he buys
and the shirts he tie-dyes.

House of Tumlinson

I was grounded in the garden
Behind the House of Tumlinson,
Just being one with nature.
Awash in a sea of green
I sought guidance from the martin.
She watched with hesitant eyes
While she sang, “What’s yours is yours
and what’s mine is mine.”
She declared her boundaries
In a steady stream of hostility.
The little bird told me time and time again
That my presence was unwelcome.
I had invaded her space, so she let me know;
In so many words, she talked my ear off
And with it she flew just out of reach.
Thus, in the garden, it came to pass
That I learned to bend and sway
With unwavering strength,
To be content with the silence.
One with the plants, not the martin.

Be Yourself

Be Yourself
Mail art invitations

Vistas and Views

Les Bourgeois Vineyards
Blufftop Bistro,
sipping wine and gazing
out over the Missouri River...

Vision 598

Vision 598 (Mary Gets Around)
box assemblage with found Mary figure

Vision 384

Vision 384 (Mary Gets Around)
box assemblage with found Mary figure

Vision 157

Vision 157 (Mary Gets Around)
box assemblage with found Mary figure

Mass Produced Patriotism

Mass-Produced Patriotism
Assemblage and window display installation at Cranky Yellow

Bad Dream

Maybe it was something I ate
too soon before going to bed.
I recall a glass of water,
but my stomach thinks otherwise.

I had a dream I was asleep
with a vague, sneaking suspicion
of an intruder in my house.
My bedroom seemed quite true to life.

I dreamt I woke up in a blur
to something standing over me.
At some point its shadowy form
morphed into my orange tabby cat.

Now, the details are still hazy
and I’m not certain of my state.
Am I still dreaming or awake,
or am I even here at all?

Spent Wishes

Today I found what was once a penny.
A patina encrusted Abraham Lincoln
faded to an almost uncertain oblivion,
naught but a nearly nameless profile
on a worn, discarded metal shard.

The patina of time roughens life around the edges.
Like pennies, memories are lost to circumstance
and photographs of unremembered relatives
wait in cluttered closet shoeboxes,
their edges curling in the dank, stale air.

If immortality lies in a false continuation,
a permanent relic of a life now forgotten,
then perhaps we are too much akin to pennies.
Seeking a fountain of youthful eternity
while our true fortune resides in our mortality.

Found

Found
Chuck & I found this bracelet broken on a walk.  I took it home, restored it and returned it to the place where I'd found it in the hopes it's owner may find it restored.