Passion Flowering

So Small

2009-05-04T20:33:00.000-07:00

It's small, but this is me and my cousin Kara, my mom, my auntie Sarah, My grandmother, Erma Beth, and my great grandmother, Georgia. Gramma George.

And our dog, Josephine. Four generations is an incredible thing.

Up North

2009-05-04T20:31:00.000-07:00

In Vermont, this is a new thing.

BS

2009-05-04T20:30:00.000-07:00

'nuf said.

Chicken

2009-05-04T20:23:00.000-07:00

These things are pretty beautiful. This doesn't capture how green their eyes are.

When Jesse hears me talking to other girls I think all he hears is, "braaaaaaak, brak brak bock".

A joke I came up with: "The chickens are all real left wingers; every time I confront them about the state of the garden, they just say, 'Baraaaaaak', as though it's all that needs be said."

I am really good at coming up with ground-breaking jokes, by the way.

Not at all.

Sweet Hearts

2009-05-04T20:20:00.000-07:00

Another dog clock. Totally piercing.

Love

2009-04-22T19:08:00.000-07:00

This is me and Jesse before our show at the Iron Horse. He bought a suit thing at goodwill for the occasion. I changed shirts 4 times. And we were sitting there, all ready, ready to go wait somewhere, as usual. It's such a stressful couple of hours. You're ready, and you just want to: GO! but, you can't, so you wait.

The Secret Life of Cinderblocks, Part I

2009-04-05T14:15:00.001-07:00

I saw a man pursuing the horizon. I told him, "you can't--" "No!" he roared, And ran on. --Paraphrased from something I once read

The Secret Life of Cinderblocks, Part II

2009-04-05T14:13:00.000-07:00

Amazing--the small worlds all around us. Galaxies on motes of dust, and this is the pull out view. And it is the abandoned-looking front porch steps.

Foghorn Leghorn

2009-04-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

Peas peas please peas appease some pea-diddly-dees! PPPP P Peas!!

The Artist Formerly Known as “The Yellow Teapot”

2009-04-05T14:10:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, that's about the long and short of it. I can't wait to see it up. I always thought the old sign looked tiny. Oooh. The world is full of optical illusions. Maybe just plain old illusions.

Violence

2009-03-24T19:38:00.001-07:00

The other day we had moved the chicken tractor to the garden. Jesse's been doing a bunch of stuff out there, and we had been putting up the fence around the garden. I'm thinking about the chickens giving us eggs, pooping beneficially and also doing some much-needed mowing. I'm thinking about the vegetable bounty to come, and the tiny sprouting calendula doing their journey thing, and then. . . . THEN. . .
Our neighbor comes out of his trailer and walks across what used to be a yard and is now a parking lot dedicated to his collection of junky pieceashit cars. He’s talking on his phone and he’s carrying, no, setting down, a few cardboard pieces and a bunch of Styrofoam packing, and, what’s this? He’s setting fire to it!
Great plumes of black smoke belched from the burning chemicals. Jesse and I just looked at each other and shook our heads. Jesse likes to comment on peoples’ stupidity loudly, and in this case, I hope that stupid man heard.

How can that happen when the information is impossible to miss?

Moon

2009-03-23T07:12:00.000-07:00

Moon in Virgo--that's me, Sun in Pisces--that's Jesse. Books on the subject say of this combination in a relationship, "Run Away!"

But it's very hard to run away from a man whose flaws are (barely) outnumbered by his more lovely qualities. And he's just a sight for sore eyes, even when I haven't had relief from him and his ways for days days days.

I was looking at some emails at about 10:36 pm on March 10th and I opened one that said, "the full moon in Virgo will appear at 10:37 pm on March 10th. Well! I ran outside and the sky was clear and the moon was beaming down on me and it and the universe are doing this thing to me--marrying me to a more difficult, more rewarding series of events, and I have not been fighting it. Which is good, because if I had I would be seriously, multifacetedly, black and blue now.

So, I raised my arms to the sky, trying to imbibe the SHEER POWER (Believe it or not), and I smelled the damp earth and then this f'ing dog who comes around, I call him Todd, started barking, and I was like, "Shut up Todd!" and he did. And I turned my attention back to the silvery moon, and it was good.

American Gothic with Camaro in Background

2009-03-23T07:06:00.000-07:00

I am so excited about our garden this year. I built that little greenhouse in December and we have radishes, mustard greens, micro-greens and spinach in there. And we got some chickens for whom Jesse built a sweet little chicky tractor. And wonderful Molly Dodge came over with a load of mulch and made many of our dreams of deep rich dark beautiful soil come true. Thanks to Betsy and Molly for helping us spread it all around. And for bringing the poop of many chickens.

Personally. . .

2009-03-23T07:05:00.000-07:00

When wondering what materials I wanted to work with in my "career", I thought along the lines of some gloriously pigmented scratch-goo; papers and syrupy paint; wire; fire; decibles, perhaps. The very furthest materials from my mind were plastic, excrement, adult rash ointment, chocolate smelling lotion, pollygrip. I mean, that's still the case, but I've been working with extremely old people lately as part of a class I'm taking. This is an experience that forces me to picture the childhood and adult versions of these stick figures who now need feeding and bathing and compare those ghosts to my current self. Simultaneously, quietly, hesitatingly, it's pushing the question: will my mind someday turn traitor and leave me with only a whistle and a moan? My body Benedict Arnolding me, becoming tiny, shriveled, creaking audibly? No. I suppose not. I mean, I really can't imagine it. I'm sure not.
Many are so confused I have to wonder what reality they are seeing and reacting to. It's certainly different that mine, which may or may not be correct. I only wish they could make the best of altered reality. Maybe that's the whole shame.
When I leave the facility, I look around at people on the street, in the grocery store—there are actual babies out there—and I'm screaming in my mind, "LOOK AT HOW YOUNG AND VERILE WE ARE!! WE'RE ABSOLUTELY DAZZLING!"

A rose, is a rose, is a. . . rose.

2009-03-23T06:37:00.000-07:00

Unusual tongue

2009-03-23T06:33:00.000-07:00

Well, I've decided that there is no god beside Haribo. They're just better. They're. . . somehow, gummier? And mostly things are not the same old crap. Newness is so good for this old gal. I'm aging. As are you, but I'm going about 5 years a day now. I'm 109 right now.

Dog Clock

2009-01-28T19:11:00.000-08:00

A clock, and there’s a watercolor painting of a dog in it.

Glasses

2009-01-28T18:46:00.000-08:00

Well, don’t I look smart. This is the first step to personalizing this blog. I thought it was professional to have just artwork on it, but it’s not as fun. I want to have something interesting, but not quite a journal. Yet, what is one to say? We rent. I have a greenhouse, my spinach babies are not going great guns, and we have no money. NO Money. Just, like none. I don’t know what we’ll do. Not a pity, we’ll figure it out. The state of “poor” well, t’aint so bad really. Makes you think about what you really need, do you need it? Is something free just as good? My former cheapness has been amplified (as impossible as that must seem) and, darn it, I don’t mind. Just look at these glasses—they were free!

So sweet

2009-01-28T18:33:00.000-08:00

Other things: Ever hear of this Saturn returns thing? Maybe too out-there for some people. I don’t care, I say, if it seems to make sense, then why not take a little something from it.
26
We just watched Kung fu Panda and Jesse just karate chopped me and I thought I erased this whole thing, but it turns out that a little edit, undo corrected the whole incident.

I love this little guy. Such a Cutie.

2009-01-28T18:20:00.000-08:00

I can’t wait to start the waitressing season again!! This is inside-head-idea-modification. I can’t wait!!! I can’t wait to wait! So soon I’ll be serving lovers Valentine’s meals, oh it will be so romantic. So romantic.
Yes!!!! I’m going to be bringing food to people!!!! YES!!!!
And, working at a resident care facility!!!!!! I will meet wonderful people who happen to be very old or with not-so-working bodies, and I can’t wait to meet them and take care of them. Actually, I really can’t. I have an easier time thinking of that than of –Starting the waitressing season (!!!!!!!!!) Weddings!!!! Oh weddings, and dinner service!!!!!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!!!! SALT AND PEPPER!!!!! SPOONS!!!!!!!!
Hey, it all boils down to T I P S! And those are good things. I am a geisha. That is my goal. The elegance, not the sexual favors.

clock dogs

2009-01-28T18:12:00.000-08:00

There's all this stuff. I've been wondering if I should make the blog into something a little more personal.

Well, it’s the dead of winter here. That means 55 degrees and a lot of rain. Everything’s brown, you know what I mean. I am taking a class where I learn to wash my hands.

Today, disaster. Kitten disaster. She was in the music room, fucking around with everything as usual, and she tipped over a piece of bead board, which tipped over onto my guitar on it’s stand, and then pushed the guitar over onto a chair a la Million Dollar Baby, and my baby broke her neck. Clean off. If Jesse’s bass hadn’t met the same fate just one month ago I would think less of it, but as it is, I feel jinxed. Maybe this house just can’t stand us being here all the time. I don’t know. But, it’s expensive. I know that. Oh, she rang like silver and she shined like gold, and she shook it.
But she won’t for a while. Oh it makes me sick.
And, my instant messenger won’t work. I was trying to talk to my cousin, and it pooped. WOE IS Me. Oh mercy, woe is me.
I kid. Everything’s as beautiful and magical as it used to be.

Box

2009-01-28T18:09:00.000-08:00

2008-12-15T18:36:00.000-08:00

I knew something looked wrong about chi wa wa s, but, what, what's missing? My spellcheck was a traitor. Chihuahuas.

Flowers Who Can See You

2008-12-12T21:50:00.000-08:00

This is a little shadow box thingy that I thought would be a nice wedding present for my friend who just got married. In the usual way, I did not finish it til after the wedding, but it had to go through the obvious incarnations before it really worked.
The doves are like love. LOVE! All you need is it!!

It's rustic, y'all!

2008-12-12T21:40:00.000-08:00

Mom and dad were out and we went for a little hike at that picnic spot before paint rock, on the other side of the road, you know? Last year it was full of ticks and when Jesse and I and Blue all went for a hike, we got home and, Jesse was clean, even Blue was pretty clean, but I had like 20 ticks on me that I kept finding at intervals even though I had showered to within an inch of my life—anyway, when I and mom, (see what a bitch grammar is?) dad, Jesse, and blue went up there in September, it was beautiful and sunlit and I found a bunch of amazing things. At one point we were all holding these enormous pinecones all saying, “look at thi. . . oh.” at the same time. I found reds and softs and twiggies and conie-pines and mu mu mushrooms and. . . no ticks! So I strung them out on this wreath thingy that I found at the dump. I forgot that wire picks work best, so it’s wrapped in upholstery thread leftover from Diana and the Button Days. Reminds me of me mam and da.

2008-12-12T21:26:00.000-08:00

I did this clock over four times for perfection reasons. This is the first draft. I like drawing dogs, but the other night I was listening to a boring book about a psychopath twin thing and stopped listening somewhere near when there’s a startling discovery, and started narrating the drawing a la Bob Ross, and it was like, “first we take some brown, and then a little more brown, make sure the brush is saturated with brown because dogs are brown- or black—in that case get a lot of black on your brush. Finally, use the brown or the black to render a dog! The dogs are all so cute and they’re so well taken care of. I like that. This week I did three clocks which I forgot completely to take pictures of, they were a lab and a fuzzy terrier thing, Chloe and Sam, and a wrinkly underwear-stealer called Atticus and then these two tiny chihuahuas wearing Steeler jerseys (football team) and they are so eager and adorable, and the clock was, thank god, Steeler themed. Don’t worry about that. Gold and Black. Got it.

Greenhouse

2008-12-12T21:04:00.000-08:00

In Vermont, my hometown, it is 27 degrees, there is snow, more so in the hills. Nevertheless, two things are happening, the auger in my parents’ pellet stove is delicately pushing pellets down the fun-world slide, into the hot heat, delivering an economical and conscious heat—and here, in 52 degree Hot Springs, in a tiny 3 by 6 frame, my delicious little spinach babies are popping out of the soil as though it were spring itself. Nice.

Beautiful beautiful beautiful chairs

2008-10-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, believe me, I know, I haven't posted much in a while. . . Sorry. I've been busy, with. . . well, I made seat covers for these chairs. They're his and hers. See if you can tell which one's which.

They were so ugly before, you have no idea. One was the color of diarrhea, ripped up and stained, and the other was just. . . really ugly. Pukey, you know? It was like totally gross that we sat in those horrible chairs for so long. Ick.

Also, not so much with the dog clocks lately. We bumped the price, because, not only are they a hand made piece of art, but the personalized watercolor of the dog takes a long time, and where is a person going to get that from at such a price? So. I do have a couple of boxers coming up and they are full of it. It's going to be a good one. Perhaps that mixed with the gas crisis of Asheville and the slumping economy are to blame. And I've stopped doing art and am instead reading everything Steven King has ever written.

Do not read "The Shining" (read it!) it is so scary.

2008-09-26T20:56:00.000-07:00

Who are you, in Mountain View? It is amazing to see how many people ALL OVER THE WORLD have looked at this country girl's blog. Amazing.

Alfred E. Newman

2008-09-26T20:34:00.000-07:00

This is my Da's partner, Alvin, and he wants a dog clock of himself to give to his wife (who will love it?).

Dog Clock Conviction

2008-09-26T20:09:00.000-07:00

Hi Everyone,
I just wanted to say that I misnamed a few of the dogs, and I have amended those errors. When I’m working on a dog, I am sitting there, thinking of how to depict him or her, doing the artwork in stages as I think of important elements, and implementing them. When I posted them, I guess I just named them myself as I was working, trying to get the essence of their eyes, their noses and their silky/wiry manes. Their name is so secondary to their beauty, the tremendous way they are loved, and their obvious personality.

I just wanted me mam and da to see the fruits of their daughter’s labor, however humble.

AND, I wanted to thank Susan at the Funky Mutt who has done so much to help these clocks get into the hands of people who truly appreciate them. It gives me so much satisfaction to delight people with that which I make from my own hand with pleasure.

Thanks, Susan.

If you want to buy a clock of your own dog or of another’s (actually, of any animal you would like) you can buy them at The Funky Mutt in Asheville by emailing
susan@funkymutt.com
All you have to do is email her and send her some pictures of the beloved, and a brief description of what kind of clock you would like, ie, colors, poses, etc. and she will notify me. I will make it and she will ship it. Voila! They are $89, and well worth it. Seriously, no one will ever labor over your beauty like Susan and I will. Promise. Supporting local shops and artists--nothing could be better.

Thanks for looking. Will post more soon.

Dog o'clock extravaganza!

2008-09-05T22:07:00.000-07:00

Brindle, Ginger and Erwin

2008-09-05T22:06:00.000-07:00

Louie

2008-09-05T22:03:00.000-07:00

2008-09-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

Bonnie

2008-09-05T21:59:00.000-07:00

Corgi

2008-09-05T21:57:00.000-07:00

Sancha

2008-09-05T21:55:00.000-07:00

Limey

2008-08-19T16:31:00.000-07:00

Don't let it get you down.

Look at you! You're full of wonderful stuff!!!!

Count your blessings, your friends, your haywire brain cells, count the hummingbirds outside and the countries you haven't been to and

Stop scowling!

Come on now, you have options. . . the sky's you're oyster and

You are not stupid.

Look at you! You're full of wonderful stuff!!!

Green

2008-08-19T16:22:00.000-07:00

Not a clock.

"maybe not, call the favor insurance.

Okay, Quinn?"

I mistakenly picked up some books on tape that are devotional--

"Laura didn't believe in the resurrection, she would take him to pieces with her probing questions"

And the tall dark, handsome man enjoys contemporary christian and his bible is well-worn.

I've had my fair share of people who look at this poor little heathen and wish and pray to Santa that I one day embrace the idea that after I die something besides nothing happens, and that has been plenty for my impressionable self, thinking, "Is the reason I just hit that bird that Jesus is trying to tell me to believe in him?" But. . . once I start a book, I just can't stop it, even if I have no idea what's going on. Like (I think) Kellerman's "Bad love". I had no clue, but I waited until they apprehended. . . somebody.

If you want to feel cerebral and adopt beady shiny eyes, read Donna Tartt's "The Secret History" or, better yet, listen to it unabridged, because the author reads it and she's got a wonderful strange voice for piggy, I mean Bunny.

LeRoy

2008-08-19T16:20:00.000-07:00

LeRoy? Yeah, I guess it's LeRoy.

Lula

2008-08-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

Ava

2008-08-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

Bonnie

2008-08-19T16:16:00.000-07:00

Frida

2008-08-19T16:14:00.001-07:00

Latest Frida doll.

Frida

2008-08-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

Latest Frida doll.

Pup

2008-08-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

Bluebell

2008-08-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

Devil Blue

2008-08-11T18:58:00.000-07:00

Sandy

2008-08-11T18:57:00.000-07:00

Purple

2008-08-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

T-bone

2008-08-11T18:54:00.000-07:00

dog clock

2008-08-11T18:51:00.000-07:00

Puppy

2008-08-08T11:12:00.000-07:00

I like the look on this dog's face. Sort of like, "oh, please".

Can You See

2008-07-30T20:32:00.000-07:00

The little blue heeler?

The little homunculous?

Happy!

Lackaleeen

2008-07-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

Is this not a striking similarity? Lackaleen has been in and out of my artwork for years. I guess I have never told her that she figures into my paragon of an aesthetic show of women's strength.

By the by:

http://www.thebreastcancersite.com/clickToGive/home.faces?siteId=2

Cate?

2008-07-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

This one is based on a picture of my cousin Cate outta South Bend, Indiana, based, I say, based, on her, she's a fresh little posie, and this portrait seems like a depiction of a haggard Brittney Spears in 4-5 years. Sorry cuz.

The first doll

2008-07-30T19:54:00.000-07:00

This is the first doll I ever made. I had been racking my brain trying to figure out how the whole thing works and then I learned the sew-then-turn-inside-out trick and I was on my way.

On this one, the 11 year-old me used a red nylon that had a run in it for the head, and lots of jazzy, cool fabrics for the costume.

My mother did not like that (#*$&%@) sewing machine, but she showed me the things I needed to know--how to gather, surge, threat the machine, and I am grateful for that. Fabric and thread are mostly harmless materials, yet so dynamic.

Doll. . . (parts)

2008-07-30T19:35:00.001-07:00

Dolls: Why? I don’t know. But they are dolls, that’s the name that our history has come up with—a way to call something that looks like a female but 1/8 the size and not alive. . . So many forms: corn cob, fabric, puppets, marionettes (puppet master—why do we want to do a thing like that?) a doll of a twig, or plaster, moving dynamically, pulled to zero velocity—and, these dolls, the ones I make, are a certain thing. For some, they are not important, for others, they are special objects. The latter are the people who buy the dolls. They see her, they want her, they have to be with her. Have to have her be with them.
Imagination was a large contributor to my primitive childhood. Surrounded with blocks and pencils and paints and all of those games that you accrue during the duration, the babies held a more primordial reality suspension for me. Children always play what they imagine adult life to be (Fischer Price cash register, anyone? I didn’t have one, but god what I wouldn’t have given--perhaps as many as five (5) red coin shaped pieces of plastic- so real!), and for me, taking care of the plastic babies seemed important. We had a game where we went around rescuing children from unpleasant circumstances and using toilet paper to cast and recast their broken limbs.
And, memorably, I was once trying to make half a living selling these at craft shows, and I was going to college and living on the cheap so I spent some time making the ancestors of what I make now, and one night at about 12 AM, I had finished yet another doll. I sat back and stretched and looked at the fruit of my labor; row upon row of shiny pretty dollies! All staring at me from between the gaps in the weave of the muslin—an ARMY OF BEAUTIES! My minions!
And anyway, my point is that I love it that sometimes people really love these gals. That is neat—it makes me feel like a hippie. That they are assembled and weigh something, and that they are aesthetically interesting makes them an exceedingly easy pleasure to enjoy for people who are susceptible to sensory information, which we all crave to some degree. But really, type q people don’t givem a second look, type p people drag their whole shopping party down because they just have to look closer.
These, incidentally, are arms and bodies. Hanging out.

Dolls

2008-07-30T19:07:00.000-07:00

Back to the Future

2008-07-20T19:50:00.000-07:00

Marty's like, "Doc, what's happening, why are there two mes?" and "We have to make my parents get it on so I can exist." And Doc says, "where we're going we don't need roads."

"you must be extremely careful not to run into your other self."

--Doc Brown

PS. Aparently 2015 is going to be hella cool--(hella-ha!) hover cars and boards and jackets that dry themselves off and announce it in a robotic voice.

1

2008-07-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

2

2008-07-20T19:45:00.000-07:00

3

2008-07-20T19:44:00.000-07:00

Bird Clock

2008-07-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

Apparently the Funky Mutt of Asheville, which features my clocks, also veers into bird world. This is definitely a bird on a dog clock, but I think it worked out pretty well. I love that tatted lace. So cool.

Passion Flowers

2008-07-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

My passion flower won't bloom. It's not a metaphor for my mental state or love relationship, as in my song, "Thinking about cutting this passion flower down", which actually wasn't a metaphor either, just a proclamation of how poorly the thing was doing at the time, I want flowers from Mars and they just won't bud! And they (the internet) say do nothing, it's a weed, it has its own propagation at the top of its to-do list, but, what? Why? Why won't it turn to flowering?

Also, if you'd like to buy anything at all, send me a comment and I'll try to figure out a way to get in touch. These are all for sale, so step right up. Also, on the topic of copywriting, everything here is copywrit. I. N 2008. Just in case.

Also, it's so nice to see that people actually look at this thing. I got a sitemeter, and it's true--I'm not just out here in the abyss, floating along.

Blueface

2008-07-10T21:29:00.000-07:00

Just a little thing. No big deal, just a doodle, like I had some extra paper and thought I'd put it together into something, a face, but just a cartoon, just a little bit of something, just a bite, just a bit, nothing special, just a lullaby of no such thing, merely a gnat, a curio, just a little dash of sompinorother. No biggie, just a little. . . blueface.

Just Funny

2008-07-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

Django. With a real lampshade. And a sandwich, his favorite toy.

Work in Progress

2008-07-10T21:05:00.001-07:00

Before, and. . .

Cleopatra

2008-07-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

And the final product.

You may be thinking that this woman, with the witchy gaze, piercing your soul, cannot be named something as feminine as Cleopatra. That is because, many times, when we think Cleopatra, we inevitably think of that 70’s remake where Cleo is adorned in gold and eyeliner and a slit in her skirt up to the crotch. But, actually Cleopatra, it is said, despite her sheer sexuality, used a snake to kill herself. She picked up a wriggling serpent, and put it’s fangs into her arm—thereby rejecting her fate. That’s not an act for the faint-hearted and I can see the subject of this piece doing the same. So, I think it’s apt. Asp.

Go USA!

2008-07-06T21:31:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder:

The Declaration is the document from our history that sets the goal of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" for our nation. It states in part, "When a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government and to provide new guards for their future security."
And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor."

And just imagine if old Donny Trump and the tycoons and the throw-away rich mutually pledged to each other their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor.
SACRED HONOR?!

2008-07-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

Silkworms

The hurt you embrace becomes joy.
Call it to your arms where it can change.

A silkworm eating leaves makes a cacoon.

Each of us weaves a chamber of leaves and sticks.

Silkworms begin to truly exist

as they disappear inside that room.

Without legs, we fly.

When I stop speaking, this poem will close,
and open it's silent wings.

Rumi

2008-07-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

Since Feeling is First
E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
Will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry

-- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Sometimes people think I lack common sense. I simply have no use for it.

Serapha

2008-07-06T18:42:00.000-07:00

So, possibly these Beauties are a little predictable, but I was going for continuity. This one is just really beautiful, and I wanted to say, I make dolls and sell them, so if anyone needs a gift for somethingrather, or you just want one yourself, don't be shy, I'll make you one! I made this one for a woman who wanted lush fabrics, brown hair, and a sophisticated yet funky look to her.

Honey-gold Baby

2008-07-04T08:23:00.000-07:00

Have you dug the spill
Of Sugar Hill?
Cast your gims
On this sepia thrill:
Brown sugar lassie,
Caramel treat,
Honey-gold baby
Sweet enough to eat.
Peach-skinned girlie,
Coffee and cream,
Chocolate darling
Out of a dream.
Walnut tinted
Or cocoa brown,
Pomegranate-lipped
Pride of the town.
Rich cream-colored
To plum-tinted black,
Feminine sweetness
In Harlem’s no lack.
Glow of the quince
To blush of the rose.
Persimmon bronze
To cinnamon toes.
Blackberry cordial,
Virginia Dare wine—
All those sweet colors
Flavor Harlem of mine!
Walnut or cocoa,
Let me repeat:
Caramel, brown sugar,
A chocolate treat.
Molasses taffy,
Coffee and cream,
Licorice, clove, cinnamon
To a honey-brown dream.
Ginger, wine-gold
Persimmon, blackberry,
All through the spectrum
Harlem girls vary—
So if you want to know beauty’s
Rainbow-sweet thrill
Stroll down luscious,
Delicious, fine Sugar Hill.

-Langston Hughes

Trois

2008-07-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Rhino

2008-07-01T18:19:00.000-07:00

what does American mean? I realize I have been awakening to the answer. It occurs to me that today people have so many different perceptions of what’s “significantly American,” because culture, technology, and the range of phenomena that are socially excepted have expanded, leaving citizens of this country confused, unaware, and often disheartened in a fermenting, putrid stew of wondering “who are we?”, and further, “who cares?” Sometimes, these times, America seems like nothing more than a dirty tarp all woven with plastics and sort of blowing across a parking lot. Fortunately, and without meaning to brown-nose, I found that taking American Literature this semester illuminated the past and provided me with a bit of hope that because America was born of great minds and true endeavors, all is not lost. Somehow, somewhere, that spirit lives on, or at least can be found, and by taking those ideas and being transcendent and industrious maybe we can reclaim America for Benjamin Franklin, for Henry David Thoreau, for Ralph Waldo Emerson, and for ourselves—Americans-- who are in serious danger of being swallowed whole by our own degeneration.
“America”—the place, the meaning, is one of newness. This is a common theme and one of true importance. Human beings have so much limitless energy, and each moment that we say yes to life, we say yes to all of creation. As Thoreau says in Walden, Chapter 2, “Morning is when I am awake and there is dawn in me (1855)” metaphorically expressing this newness in terms of the time of day. Later on the same page he says, “We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep (1855)”. I feel like this idea is lost to us modern-dayers, who close our curtains hoping that the dawn will never come, that sleep may save the moments and the hours from coming to us with another round of crap—toil, stress, pharmaceuticals, money, video games, school shootings and states of union addresses by the phony prez. Let us embrace the sentiment that “Every morning [is] a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself (1854).” Go right on back to nature—for there’s nothing so sweet and pure, so new and bursting with optimism than every moment in nature.
Maybe nature can save the Americans—even if the Americans cannot seem to save nature, but rather treat it as an enemy. Perhaps the state we have put nature in is corollary to the state of society—often polluted, sealed with cement, unenjoyed, becoming unenjoyable. Yet, as Emerson says in “Nature”, on page 1111 and 1112, in accordance with the resurrecting powers of nature and of newness, that “To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before and which shall never be seen again.” To see the perfection in nature, which seem to be becoming a lost art, affects a human being with spirituality, and perhaps the two are the same. As Emerson says, “The visible world and the relation of its parts, is the dial plate of the invisible”. This goes hand in hand with Thoreau’s sentiment that there is “dawn in me,”—and perhaps if people can imbibe nature, and believe in their own dawning, if they have spirituality, then maybe the rest will fall into place.
What is quintessentially American is, I believe, a mixture of the nature, the spirit, and the perseverance. Industriousness can be found in later writings, but the best example of it is in Benjamin Franklin’s “The Autobiography,” where he actually makes an account of his pursuit to attain moral perfection. His chart shows that he is human; he does not arrive at moral perfection at the end, but the point, the big point, the point that needs to be driven into the hearts of the downcast and corrupt, is that trying is necessary if one is ever to succeed. Never give up, allow ambition and imagination to coincide and bloom exponentially. Don’t be too severe with yourself; child of nature, but keep the wheels turning—try to arrive—that’s all we need to do. I suppose it really all boils down to having faith in something. Today it seems that people have no center, no belief. This dilutes them, makes them susceptible to dissipation and to laziness. We must look to the perfection of nature in providing spirituality, spirituality then makes a person self-possessed and full of hope and therefore driven to be what we hope is truly an American-- more than a leach, more than a boil on the ass of mankind, more than a belligerent mass of bigots and small-minds, bombarding other countries and killing their children, feeding our own our of the charity box at the supermarket. The Americans, I think, were the people and the progeny of people who settled here, who worked hard and prayed hard, and who had to endure. Their moral fervor was the forbearer of a very humanistic bunch of creators, industriously choosing nature, the spirit, and ultimately-- life-- in America.

If Mom & Dad's House Were Underwater

2008-06-24T18:10:00.000-07:00

You ponder your rubber belly as the kids arrive, screaming. It’s hot inside the suit, and it still smells like Davy : a sort of a burning bottle of medicine smell, you always thought. You were next in line for this position after Davy, and now that you have it you are at once confused and proud. The eyeholes aren’t quite big enough.
You jump up. “Hey kids!” you yell, “Who likes Go-Go Gorilla’s ?”
In unison they fill the tiny restaurant with twenty-four shrill “I do!!”s. You wonder how it’s gotten to this point: you feel like an amnesiac wondering who you are and what series of events led up to this moment, and surprisingly are contented by telling yourself that life has its little twists. It seems like you were going to art school in Boston last time you checked, and now you’re here and you’re wrapped in furry rubber. You remember your last job, the one you were promoted from: human drive-through-speaker. You liked the people, but the rain and snow were a bit taxing. The standing had caused you to suffer shin splints. What in the world you’re doing in a gorilla suit sweating like a pig is actually beside the point, and also a completely unanswerable question. The tragedy of Davy’s untimely death ended in your promotion, but you don’t care too much, he stank. But then again, if only Davy were here to. . . be here. . . in the suit--specifically. Every time you gaze at the frialator you can’t help but see his face, sort of like Jack’s from the blockbuster movie “Titanic,” sinking down into the bubbling grease to the bottom of the ocean.
The kids are done with their kids-happy-time-fun-meal and it’s your cue to bring in the band. “It’s time for the happy birthday song!” You say, thoroughly irritated by having to humor children. Maybe this isn’t the job for you either. The brass band files into the “party area” squeezing the children into the room. The packets of ketchup that the children were throwing around are squirting into the air as the tuba section receives new red pinstripes on their white wooly uniforms. Angela comes in with the birthday cake, and the kids, ever screaming, run at her and throw her to the ground. They beat her with their little fists and break her glasses, and then start gnawing on her flesh. She’s screaming and there’s something eerie about the blood on the birthday boy’s face. His mother stands adoringly watching on. Why can’t parents control their kids? You are annoyed as the children dig into the band and in a barrage of red and white stripes and little tassels, and of course, brass—“damned irritating bloodbaths” you snarl, and jump into a tube to wake up.
The dream instantly pours down your spine as you open your eyes. You get to the coffee maker on your sleepy weak feet and pour the water, and grind the beans, and wait watching as it percolates. In the car on the way to the bank you pass Go-Go Gorilla’s and think ‘what a disgusting idea,” picturing a variety of dishes, all black and furry. What were the owners thinking?

Descartes' Dream

2008-06-20T10:09:00.000-07:00

These hands; I'm watching them hop up and down on the keyboard. They seem real to me; that is, I believe in them and rely on them and would feel sorely unfortunate if I found that they had left me. I see them in my dreams as well. In my deepest sleep they appear before me, much as they are now, and I believe in them during this time. Upon waking, however, I see that they have, in fact, been snuggled under covers for hours, and not actually holding the reins of a rainbow horse. I am tricked over and over, every night. The dream world seems as real as waking life, until it's over--though I imagine the same thing can be said of waking life.
How do I know what's happening in my dream? I see it. I feel it. I hear it and sometimes I even taste and smell it. I use what I might call my senses to perceive it. And yet my senses deceive me, for surely I wake to a lack of evidence of that dream life, just as much as I come into that dream world to find no evidence of what we call "awake".
I rely on my senses to navigate me through this life. If my senses can be so misled, to think I am walking across a tundra holding a chickadee when in fact I lie here breathing, then everything-- I mean everything-- can be called into doubt. We think what we see and perceive is true, but is it only really true in our minds? Rene Descartes wondered about this over four hundred years ago. He said, "it is a mark of prudence never to trust wholly in those things which have once deceived us" (Descartes 13). How can we ever trust our senses again after such shenanigans as dreaming?!
As far as my consciousness goes, Descartes never existed at all. I know he did because I've been told, and I've read his work and seen drawings of his face. I have never encountered him with my own senses, but am compelled to disregard his absence in my perceptions. My senses are useless in proving the existence of Descartes, and thus my senses are not comprehensive.
Things are not always as they appear to be. This is a universal human idea that manifests in religion and spirituality, but how far can this idea be taken? It does seem unlikely that there is nothing outside of mind, but things, as I have said, are not always what they seem. When I put a paintbrush into a jar of water, though I believe in its essential straightness and solidity, it appears to be broken and the top half is levitating on the surface of the water while the bottom half, magnified, rests not unusually on the bottom.
What about real things that are perceived only by myself? Pain, for example, exists urgently in my shin right now, as I tripped up the stairs in the dark a few moments ago. I think it's real, but I cannot see it, touch it, or express it to anyone else accurately. Where is the pain anyway? I may think it's in my leg, but science has explained that electric signals make their way to my brain where they are decoded and register somehow as a very negative perception. The pain exists only in my mind, and if that weren't there, there would be no perception, whereas if my body didn't exist, but only my mind, I might still know pain because that is its true residence.
Descartes also discusses the fallibility of perception when it comes to insane people. I think his discourse is quite humorous. "Insane people. . . continually insist that they are kings when they are in utter poverty, or that they are wearing purple robes when they are naked, or that they have a head made of clay, or that they are gourds, or that they are made of glass". I believe in his concluding statement in this paragraph: "But they are all demented, and I would appear no less demented if I were to take their conduct as a model for myself"(Descartes 14). In other words, he cannot assume that he is sane and grounded in reality enough to draw valid conclusions when this is exactly the same reasoning and feeling that the insane have when they assert that they are gourds. Crazy people have the same amount of, and sometimes more, conviction in that which we see as their delusions.
Our minds, Descartes relates, are much more clearly and distinctly known to us than our bodies are. The concept of the evil genius allows him to disregard the world outside of his mind without the bias religious idea that a supremely good god created all that appears before him. He supposes that everything he perceives is the malicious trick of an evil genius. This part of his argument seems half baked in that he is recognizing personified evil and good. He just couldn't quite dismiss god, so he made an equal opposition to be the devil's advocate. Things are not as they seem, however, and I will take his word for it for the purposes of this argument. All things come into question except the fact that I think therefore I am. Cogito ergo sum. Whether or not anything exists is up for debate, but the fact that I am thinking, reasons Descartes, this, and this alone, not even the evil genius can negate.
The very fact that we can use this world to our advantage is incredible. This is a waking dream over which we have every power. The rules-- laws, physics, structure-- are superfluous and the only real rebellion is the individual taking place in the higher reaches of the mind.
How can we assume that our perceptions are so rock solid that we may use them as the foundation for all other knowledge? An illusive posteriori supposition is not an honorable foundation to stand on, and yet so many minds go through their whole lives blindly building up, at best, a house of cards.

Motherhood

2008-06-20T09:50:00.000-07:00

Why would it be trendy to have babies? Is it just that I am that age and noticing? Not so much. Did you hear about the 17 girls in their teens who made a “pregnancy pact”? No? Oh well they’re 16 years old, or 15, and decided they wanted someone to love them unconditionally. What a load—no, a baby when you’re a baby will almost certainly not make your dreams come true. Who’s non-parenting these kids into thinking they don’t have to find themselves and be responsible before duplicating? I’m almost 27 and not quite there yet myself. Hence, no babies. They are mighty cute though. The outlaw says rednecks like babies and puppies, not kids and dogs.
As interesting as pregnancy is, sometimes I just want to steal a baby from some idiot who has no business rearing a child.
I might blow this up larger, it’s simple but complete somehow.
I did read somewhere that it is trendy for upper-class bitches to be having 4 and 5 kids for some reason, and tabloids seem to exalt on high such Hollywood babies as the infamous Shilo, who’s probably already started smoking, and using the occasional ambian, and I just walk by that shit and think, are we all rednecks? (A parlance of our time loosely based on farmers tans that I think has come to mean idiot, so no offense to farmers) It’s a baby, not a god. It takes babies a long time to get up to speed and they’re all permanent and stuff. They aren’t cute all the time, and whenever I get the urge, I replace the baby image in my mind with a real teenager that I have to manage. Not so cute, extremely ungrateful. Pubescently ugly, raw and insecure. That pretty much turns the urge off.

I want one. Later.

Le dejeuner sur l'herb in wonderland

2008-06-20T09:12:00.000-07:00

Such a strange piece, I mean, this, yes, I guess it’s weird in an unliberated way, but the original—why is she not dressed? Why is he in a tux? Ooh, it was just so controversial at the time. The way the model was easily recognizable as the subject of other Manet works—highly irregular, and pssst, I heard she’s a prostitute. Only a harlot would pose for such blasphemy. I personally think, ah, those were the days when men were men and women were beauty. She looks intelligent though—piercingly so, actually. . . anyway, that was before all this feminist equalization, and all this current feminine divine stuff. Let’s go have a picnic! And, oh, I know, you can make the sandwiches and then be nude! Male ego. Geesh. Fun to recreate though.

Edge of Knife

2008-06-18T06:08:00.000-07:00

This is only a work in progress at the moment. Having poured over the shades and shadows, I had neglected to conceive of a tableau to house this strange piercing gaze. I'm considering triangles now. TRIAN GLES.

For Your Consideration

2008-06-18T06:01:00.000-07:00

I guess I just like it how mares eat oats, and does eat oats, and little lambs eat ivy, but if you say it a little faster it sounds like marseydotedanddoseydotesanlittleamseativey, oh and a kiddleetiveeytoo, wouldn't you?

Physiology

2008-06-16T06:50:00.000-07:00

After you cut up a few cats, anatomy becomes shapes and designs and mechanisms, not gore. I was surprised, when I had my hand mutilating accident, that I was so thoroughly disgusted. The former student of anatomy and physiology me would have touched and watched and learned, but the current me could no longer hold that appreciation. Maybe I took it too personally. This piece explores the incredibly functional and elegant structures of the body. If you don’t know what your inner ear looks like, look it up. Possibly the most valuable lesson I learned at school was that although our bodies seem to magically work, their mechanics are completely explainable. You may, if you wish, know this profound secret, and there is so much god in it your cranium nearly bursts.

j'adore le birdy francais

2008-05-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

I asked the outlaw to say what he would about this piece at its culmination. He said, “I like the birdy.”
I like the birdy. Wow. How succinct! What an immaculate estimation of the hours I put in here. Reminds me of the esteemed comments of a certain weather man who once struggled to say, “I love lamp”. Brilliant.
There’s something about boobs. In spite of being bags of flesh sans IQ, they have a lot to say. “I’m sexy but vulnerable,” and “don’t puncture me,” both come to mind. I guess the question posed here from a critical mind is, “which one is the whore and why?” Once that is figured out, the meaning of the piece comes clear. It’s radiating meaning, it’s cloaked in metaphor, and that martini is silently begging to be consumed.
I don’t feel artistically that these are in any way indecent, and yet it makes me nervous to have the eyes of a 12 year old boy roll over it. It’s not for him. It’s just for me for now before we all become dust. And, I guess, for you at this point as well.
Mona Lisa/garden/original sin/animals and plants/vice and liquids/bound vs. not, freedom vs. incarceration/youth beauty/polarization.

A Spaghetti d'art

2008-05-29T10:33:00.000-07:00

I am not good with acrylic paint, but I thought, once again, I’ll just pour the paint on there and smear it around. It will be completely loose, completely intuitive. And, I found out later, completely crappy. It’s good to depart from the tried and true once in a while and just squish it all around. Just squish it. Thought this piece trite in pencil anyway so, as Poppy would say, what evs.

I just wanna ride ma motor cicle

2008-05-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

This is ancient. I just found it. I had tried to draw a lady in an evening gown and as is the habit of a pre-teen artist, I thought it didn't look right and quit. Then my dad picked it up and voila, a masterpiece!

What should I do after college

2008-05-29T10:19:00.000-07:00

As for kitten sink’s career prospects, she should find an abbey, become a nun, and devote her attention to the ecstasy of Christ, become disillusioned by the stances of the church, write four novels and one novella, win the powerball and contend with Oprah on the topic of opening schools and setting up programs for all the people Americans speak briefly of and forget about completely in the wake of a disaster such as gas prices, make the world’s largest ball of string and be commended for her work in trying to bring all of the backwardites up to speed, once and for all. Oh, and cure diseases. And have a farm.

Crybaby

2008-05-29T10:13:00.000-07:00

I think the black paint says it all. I was totally bummed out, and doesn’t that make for some interesting artworks? That’s my sassy little shit, Craig, she loves to scratch me. I’m forcing her to pose here and moments later she raised hell to get down. Oh cats are such independent beautiful wild crybabies.

Serious Rocking

2008-05-29T10:11:00.000-07:00

GENE VINCENT!

Witches

2008-05-29T10:02:00.000-07:00

This is a multimedia extravaganza of three kindly witches brewing god knows what in a big shiny black bubbling cauldron. Oh yes, there’s magic there.

Frida Bambita

2008-05-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

These are some of the latest Fridas, they are for sale. I should probably take a shower.

2008-05-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

First, a little shameless self promotion--Me and the bass at Riverfest, lots of fun. There is nothing not cool about playing this instrument. It destroys all monsters with mind bullets. Please see Jesse James & the Junkman's Daughter for audio.

Hot Dog

2008-04-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

It is impossible to avoid hilarity when a hot dog body is applied to an actual person's head and stick chicken feet are applied to that.

T. Smyrski just asked me again, "what kind of musician would Blue be if he could choose for himself?"

Ponder that!

Got a Hot Date

2008-04-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

This piece is by 12 year old Thurston Smyrski. When asked about the meaning of this definitive piece, his eyes wandered to the heavens, and with great deliberation he replied, "well, I thought of a mobster guy and then of a skeleton and then of just weirdness."

Thank you to T. Smyrski for allowing me to use this image. 24x36, acrylic paint on watercolor paper.

2008-04-06T09:04:00.000-07:00

Newest Beauties By Isobel, For Sale.

Oh Frida

2008-04-05T10:20:00.000-07:00

Another Frida. I made this one back when I was inspired to make her, so I think it may be more interesting than the latter Fridas.

Lackaleen

2008-04-05T10:10:00.000-07:00

Frosty lady of unknowable age, ponders lost moments as indigo and fuchsia rose-of-sharons and violets watch on, contemplating the idea of pointillism. What kind of underwater dwelling is so translucent? She was a farmer her whole life, and now she aches to put her hands in the soil. She will come to realize that she will live forever, and she will spare no effort in illuminating each day with the secrets of the universe by way of one surreal experience after another.

Sunny Suzie

2008-04-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

This is Sunny Suzie, a little lady who frequents jazz clubs and tourist attractions when she isn't at home making cup cakes or playing with one of her many lizards. She likes horseback riding and braiding the fingers of tentacled sea monsters.

Frida Kahlo

2008-04-05T09:37:00.000-07:00

These are a few of my Frida dolls, inspired by one of my favorite artists.