| Current Work Once apon a time my dictionary fell open to the Morse Code entry. It had a tiny translation of the alphabet into the dots and dashes. It reminded me of Boy Scouts and spies, of the railroads early western expansion, of dueling cryptologist in the theater of world wars, the rhythmic fist signatures of some retreating Viet Cong patrol. Morse code was the tom-tom drum of the industrial revolution, and like all the obsolete tongues fell on hard times and deaf ears. I started painting these dots and dashes into knobby grid-like landscapes recounting in the Morse code the memories and stories of people in my life. Juggling the dots and dashes into a nests of colors and punch drunk patterns I paint my memories of the ones who raised me, loved me, in a language meant to be heard, not seen. Like a P.O.W. tapping out news to an empty cell as the turnkey laughs I accept that the original text is lost, slowly encrypted out of my control with the constant layering of revised intrusions. Where the drama of somber and prime colors in rigid or hapless designs sets the tone of the narrative. In the end I am left with an undecipherable painting of colors and pattern, conveying to the viewer that hidden here, in the mystery of code, is the story of a life hopefully well lived. I strive for a painting that makes amends for forgetting and spitting at its elders, that rises face first out of the mud carrying a limp and bruise in every incontinent brush stroke and color I Killed a Chimp and Stole His Paintings I don't really know where to rate myself as an artist, but for argument I say I am a 3 rate painter, so why are my visualizations of a desired work so James Bond? Perfect, cool, elegant, fearless, so many moves ahead of me I wish I could poison the prick. The real me is always the villain, moping on the secret island, needy and whimpering, "the terp's too dirty, this yellow is a crappy yellow, the light is fading, it always fading....." I don't know how as artists we cobble in the mind these higher calling visualizations, whether they are just uncontaminated potentials waiting for a disciplined effort or mocking magic you imp after. Maybe in the dreamworld our DNA briefly mingles with whatever God's our sorry ass kowtows to just long enough to glimpse immaculate conception artwork, born complete. Ah but then you wake up, sheets soiled, realizing you have to do it the old fashion way. Painting always wins, me, I am just a forensic crime scene shadow of a bungled job with defensive wounds. So if anyone asks me pointing at my art "did you do those", I can honestly say" No, I killed a chimp and stole his paintings"....in my dreams.. Defining Art I don't find "Art" very obliging these days, playing fair and holding still for a pat-down. Too shadowy of a figure never carrying when frisked. But I probably could finger it in a police lineup after it's broken out my windows and ransacked my life. So I will have to take small comfort in good old fashion name calling and recriminations. "Art" is a sulking, forced march guttersnipe perched in the corner of my studio plinking my cold cold ears with it's cold cold nails. It's a gasbagging sneak thief that trashes my space, squeezing drunk paint tubes onto the floor while guzzling terp leaving me high and dry like an exhausted hotel maid as it skips out on the bill. Art writes down the secrets of everything I ever wanted on a burning stick and makes me play fetch in a thorn thicket field. Like a grinning tar baby Buddha I foolishly punch or a hoary fishwife with a raised skillet, art gets the last laugh every time. I am lucky if at the end of the day I can limp away with a truce. It makes me hoarse when it is quiet. It was here first, we're just passing through putting on our sunday best in front of it's fun house mirror. Love it. Like Gulley Jimson from "The Horse's Mouth", he knew at the end of the day an impatient bulldozer waited, he made peace with it. |