Thursday, August 20, 2009

Joke from Russia and paintings of Mike

From Russia:

Due to the recession and to conserve resources, there will no longer be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Meanwhile I paint my friend Mike:

while Feather sits out the heat onslaught:

photo: Jan Meissner

...and the golden rod gets ready to bloom:

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Hot Light

The sun pounds through the glass, pierces the shadows and obliterates any cool thoughts in ones blood... the air of many fans I paint anyways, piling the brush strokes towards the emotional pitch I can taste in my flesh but not explain with my tongue.

Meanwhile Feather curls and melts into the sheets on the massage table...

Monday, August 10, 2009

flower, music & creek

Blooming on the window sill: the extravagant passion flower like a cross between a helicopter and an alien fairy.

...and then the music choices of the day for painting accoutrement:
(you can actually read them if you click on the image)

..and the image in progress:

Saturday, August 8, 2009

from above

Yesterday evening while sitting on my fire escape: below me a man doing his bows to Mecca on a folded flat Sabrett hot dog box. He has taken off his shoes and placed them carefully next to the cardboard. He does a few on-the-knees-arms-stretched-out-to-to God and in between stands quietly, head lowered. A woman is on the sidewalk asking someone where to get the B or D train. The praying man leaves his cardboard post and explains to her how to get them by taking the A train and then changing at West 4th. He returns to his spot and shrugs his feet into his shoes, gathers up the flattened box, and returns inside to where the hotdog carts are kept.

Friday, August 7, 2009


He's back, scribbling across the beach & waves of 1969's California.....drifting through the brains of various, wonderful looser-heroes. Its mythic, hilarious and sure to break your heart before the end. I'm only on page 119, having just arrived there with my morning coffee.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Mist and Sun

In the garden the shapes melt and fur in the mist. Their shadows soften and their leaves kiss.
It is not so with the ghosts that flit through the body like needled threads. One cannot avoid them any more than the air can stand aside from the passage of birds.

What color is mist? Is it blue or violet or simply just a dissemblance of form?

..and then the sun turns everything to color leaning against black. One underestimates the charisma of black until green gets drunk in summer's seductive fold.