Beginning a new series

I started a new series on my other blog sight called The Lives of Dead Jazz Singers. It is a series about female jazz singers. The sight is called the power of h.

Our Lady of Fire

I created this piece under the influence of Leonard Cohen. He had written a song called Joan of Arc and I was struck by a line about Joan – ‘If he was fire, then she must be wood.” Cohen is a riveting character.

mischief and permanent bliss.

I ran across this exciting sight run by a young lady named Cathey in Texas. Its called mischief and permanent bliss. Her sight is packed with offbeat material, everything from skateboarding to Picasso. Go to the sight. You’ll fall in love with this young lady’s enthusiasm.

She describes herself as ‘Thirty-something office peon by day but writer and artist at heart. Mom to an amazing little boy. Stuck in South Texas but loves to travel. Mac lover. Soccer and martial arts fiend. Dog lover. Photography addict. Fascinated by languages. Lover of anything unconventional, activist, global, and silly. Writing and music keep me sane more than anyone can imagine…‘

The Lonesome Thoughts of Bob Dylan…

When I was in college at the University of Windsor a friend of mine invited me to a party in Detroit. I declined. I’d had problems crossing the border. They thought I was a slug. My hair was too long. Or I was the wrong sex. He went. There was a bunch of people in the room. Smoking dope. Listening to loud music. Eating blocks of ice cream. One of the guests was Bob Dylan. He sat in the corner. Talking to no one. His head bowed. Lost in some thought. My friend said Dylan was like that all evening. And I couldn’t lose the impression of Dylan in a world by himself. His mind, drifting.

Line as Abstraction #2

Abstraction. What an odd concept. Why did it become the obsession of the 20th century? In music. Painting of course. In poetry (Andre Breton)  and the surrealists). I suppose Kandinsky represents this urge to move from the canvas to the soul of the observer while avoiding or leap frogging over reality. Kandinsky is the one painter who has fused music and the visual. (I saw an episode on House where a patient suffered from an affliction where he saw music. In my old bad days I recall a number of trips on acid where I saw music. It looked like paisley as I recall. Rather tacky when you think about it. )A close friend of mine, Ed Kuris, has spent a life time painting the inside of his soul. Although he has not abandoned the figure, the abstract lives inside it. The abstract is the soul. And isn’t this what nature looks like when you examine it closely. A leaf, a snowflake, your skin.

Street Dance

One of my best friends fits the description of a street dancer. That’s the way he lives his life. He is that rare combination of hedonist and intellectual (although he would never see himself as an intellectual). He lives his life honestly. But with fun. He’s a grumpy old man who loves to get up and swing some young thing around the dance floor. No matter her age. Victor would easily fit into the Leonard Cohen song, Closing Time. And he’d love it.

Romare Bearden

I’ve just been wiped out by an artist named Romare Bearden. A friend suggested that my work resembled his somewhat. Well, this guy’s work is flying. It moves across the eyes. You can see the music. I have to examine his work more closely. Its very flattering to say that our work is similar but I’d rather focus on his work. PBS did a show on Bearden. Here is a small example of his work.

A Shy Woman On A Sunny Afternoon

The most abhorent images are those of violence to children and women. One understands children. It is their innocence. But why women? Is violence to a man any the less horrible? Right now I’m listening to a song sung by Ella Fitzgerald. It is called Stone Cold Dead In the Market (He Had It Coming) It is refreshingly non-sexist. And yet horrible. Stone Cold In the Market.

Farting Rainbows

Farting Rainbows

The artist lives through his body. Sweats paint. Pisses in hues. Farts rainbows. His semen is squeezed out of him like oil from a tube. He is as afraid of the white of the canvas as a child is afraid of the dark. The brush is a lie. Every stroke like slapping his wife. He feels himself retreating into the same old bag of tricks. He feels like an actor pushing his latest film on the Letterman Show. And the gallery owners expect him to pontificate. And the accountants expect to invest. And the women on their knees. And the critics looking for ecumenical insights. Everyone wants to talk about sensitivity and insight and the position of the artist on the cultural scene. The painter feels like another piece of work ready to be hung in a gallery. Or from a cross beam in the attic.

Faces

The puzzle of women. A patchwork of faces. Recompiled. New smiles.