Thirty Days in June

Catch up on this little project of mine at the links below if you're new to the blog.

Thirty-One Days in March (Part 1)

Thirty-One Days in March (Part 2)
Thirty Days in April

Thirty-One Days in May

Saturday – 01 June 2013

The first day of VAHI didn't go as planned. They say it's a Sunday festival, whatever that means.  We shall see.  

Song of the Day: Absolute Zero - Stone Sour 

Sunday – 02 June 2013

Day two wasn't any better than one.  I've never had a more disappointing unproductive show, but at least I got my work out there for a couple of days and made some new friends.  The best part of a festival shouldn't be the rain allowing me to load out early.  I'll get my groove back next time.

Song of the Day: Roll On - The Living End

Monday – 03 June 2013

The weekend rain brought the lilies back.

Song of the Day: Gotta Say - Izzy Stradlin

Tuesday – 04 June 2013

And the hydrangeas too!

Song of the Day: Alex Chilton - The Replacements

Wednesday – 05 June 2013

I was out in Marietta for a client meeting this morning – the Big Chicken is always good for a laugh, no?

Song of the Day: Army - Ben Folds Five

Thursday – 06 June 2013

I had a day trip to Jacksonville today and did not get the memo about Tropical Storm Andrea being in town.  She made both flights interesting.  Good day in spite of though – productive meeting, fresh seafood with a view across the St. Johns River and even saw a couple of manatees chillin' around the dock.

Song of the Day: I Ain't The One - Lynyrd Skynyrd

Friday – 07 June 2013

Maynard is feeling a lot better, but I don't think he is too happy about having to go back to the hospital next Wednesday.  You've been home (30) days little buddy!  (60) more and we are hopefully all clear.

Song of the Day: Nearly Lost You - Screaming Trees

Saturday – 08 June 2013

Today was the first lazy day I'd had in a while and I took full advantage (I even turned my phone off for most of it).  Pretending to fold laundry was as close to productivity as we came – it was a very good day!  

Song of the Day: Coming Back - Southside Johnny and The Asbury Jukes

Sunday – 09 June 2013

I got roped into helping a buddy move today but couldn't help but laugh at the irony of the streetlamp banner as the bottom of the sky literally came undone.  

Song of the Day: One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer - George Thorogood 

Monday – 10 June 2013

I went back into the studio tonight for the first time in a while.  I didn't paint anything, but at least I opened the door.

Song of the Day:  Why Bother - Weezer

Tuesday – 11 June 2013

Decided to check out the local flora and fauna after an abbreviated site visit in suburban DC today.  Northern Virginia really is a beautiful place.  Fifteen minutes from our nation's capitol, deer meander along the muddy banks of the Potomac unconcerned.   

Song of the Day: Blood of the Lamb - Billy Bragg and Wilco

Wednesday – 12 June 2013

There's an incredible view of Garden City port on the Savannah River when you make that hard low right flying into SAV from ATL so I always make sure to book a seat on the starboard.  The peacefulness perceived from above however did not prepare me for the intolerable heat when we landed.  I don't know why or even how people live here this time of year.  Ridiculous.  In other news, Maynard received the good word from his cardiologist today – he's healthy enough to start the full treatments!  Wish I could have been there but know that he was in good hands.

Song of the Day: Coming Into Los Angeles - Arlo Guthrie

Thursday – 13 June 2013

Wonderful electric thunderstorm tonight followed by an incredible sunset.  I write about it here.  

Song of the Day: One Headlight - The Wallflowers

Friday – 14 June 2013

Tix to the next show!

Song of the Day: I'm Amazed - My Morning Jacket

Saturday – 15 June 2013

Making my rounds this morning, I saw this wonderful positive affirmation.  There's no telling how many times I've taken that left on Flat Shoals and I've never noticed it before.  I love my odd neighborhood.

Song of the Day: I Was Wrong - Social Distortion

Sunday – 16 June 2013

My Father's Day present from the pups.  I don't know who's more excited, me or Belle!

Song of the Day: My Back Pages - Roger McGuinn (and friends)

Monday – 17 June 2013

I knew the sky was a bit too ominous for a Monday and I found out why after I got home.  Maynard had another episode and is back in puppy ICU tonight.  Won't know anything until he sees the cardiologist in the morning and I of course won't be in town.  Fingers crossed for good news. There was a decent thunderstorm tonight though, so that's something.

Song of the Day: The Sky Is A Poisonous Garden - Concrete Blonde

Tuesday – 18 June 2013

Productive kick-off meeting in Charleston today.  The two hour delay on the return flight gave me a complimentary upgrade and this wonderful sunset view from 30,000 feet.  Still no definitive word from the docs on Maynard and it sucks.

Song of the Day: Surfing With The Alien - Joe Satriani

Wednesday – 19 June 2013

Hectic morning trying to squeeze a week's work into (4) hours before the flight.  I did get to see Maynard before I left though and he is going to be released today.  They're increasing his meds and are delaying the heart worm treatment in the short-term.  After an incredible steak dinner at Gibson's, I took a walk along the Chicago River to clear my head.   It is awesome to be back in Chicago – I have forgotten how much I love this town.  As a bonus, I watched a Blackhawks win with the locals in a local.  Outstanding.

Song of the Day: Call It Rock And Roll - Great White

Thursday – 20 June 2013

Perfect Chicago morning, middle, afternoon and evening.

Song of the Day: If I Should Fall From Grace With God - The Pogues

Friday – 21 June 2013

I may never have been so happy to be back home after a time as I was tonight.  In spite of last night's shenanigans, I made a point  to wake up early and take a final walk around Chicago before I left town.  Having never seen  the sun rise across Lake Michigan or the pristine beauty of Michigan Avenue in morning light before, I was glad I made the effort.  My love affair with Chicago subsists unabated – full story and more here.   Back home just in time to see my Mississippi State Bulldogs close out a win against Oregon State to secure a place in the College World Series Finals followed shortly by epic nap time on the couch with the pups.  Long week, this one.

Song of the Day: Keep The Customer Satisfied - Simon & Garfunkel

Saturday – 22 June 2013

In spite of the fact that this dude digs up basically everything I put in the ground, I can't help but smile when I see him.  He's kind of a bad ass too.  When Belle barks and chases him up a tree, he barks back!  That's awesome.  He's a 'hood squirrel.

Song of the Day: Enemies - Shinedown 

Sunday – 23 June 2013

This morning I noticed these two Thrashers dancing around over by the honey suckle.  They are clearly on a Sunday morning lovers  walk in the park...this is another reason why birds should have hands, no?

Song of the Day: Earthquake - The Von Bondies 

Monday – 24 June 2013

Belle's ready to cheer on the Bulldog Baseball team!

Song of the Day: You're Going Down - Sick Puppies

Tuesday – 25 June 2013

All the wishing and hoping and unlikely prayer I could muster couldn't keep my Bulldogs alive tonight.  It was a good year.  I've loved watching these good kids experience this experience.  We've had a slow spot for a couple of years but I'm confident that MSU baseball is back.  As much as I'm disappointed in the outcome of the season and in spite of how much I hate college baseball right now, I can't wait for next year.  Time to regroup and rejoin the Braves bandwagon – we're apparently pretty good this year too.

Song of the Day: Can't Stand Losing - The Police

Wednesday – 26 June 2013

A little something new on the bathroom wall.  I like it.  I think I'm ready to get back in the studio.

Song of the Day: Bathroom Wall - Faster Pussycat

Thursday – 27 June 2013

Went to MODA with some work peeps and noticed this little peaceful jewel outside as we were leaving.  They have an Eero Saarinen exhibit right now that is worth the price of admission.  Plus-level bar food and libations at Tap after and getting caught in a perfect thunderstorm without an umbrella rounded out an above average day.  

Song of the Day: Get Down Moses - Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros
  
Friday – 28 June 2013

Good sky.
Song of the Day:  Juice Man - StoneRider


Saturday – 29 June 2013

The legendary Bob Weir.  Excellent show.  My Morning Jacket and Wilco sandwiched between two giants.  It was cool to see Dylan but he's horrible live.  Saw some old friends, made some new ones.  Good times.

Song of the Day: Friend of the Devil - Grateful Dead

Sunday – 30 June 2013

This little guy is named Alton and he nearly came home with me today.  Puppies make everything better, no? 

Song of the Day: Last Nite - The Strokes

(21) Reasons College Baseball Sucks

1. I work for a living – I don’t have (3) hours to spare (4) times a week.
2. It’s nearly impossible to follow if you don’t live in the area.
3. Routine ground balls to second.
4. Big yards – what is college baseball without the threat of the homerun?
5. Mike Patrick.
6. The throw to first – you’re never going to get that guy.
7. Good pitching.
8. The new bats.
9. Statistics don’t win games.
10. Eric Filia.
11. The constantly changing subjective nature of the strike zone.
12. Sacrifice flies.
13. The intentional / unintentional walk.
14. The fact that I expect these 18-20 year old kids to be rock stars every trip out of the dugout.
15. (51) wins is only good enough for second place.
16. Bunting.
17. It distracts me from making art or doing anything else creative or productive.
18. Superstars don’t always show up.
19. The hot team.
20. My team lost.
21. I’m going to be late for work tomorrow.

This is a very simple game.  You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball.  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.

I’m still proud to and will always represent Mississippi State University to the best of my ability.  We had one hell of a run this year, but just couldn’t get it done when we needed to the most.  That’s baseball.  And in spite of all the reasons I listed above, I still love it.  Tonight just wasn’t our night, so be it.  Like my grandpa always said, tomorrow will be a better day.  Tomorrow, I will still be a Bulldog – and that makes every day better.  Hail State!

My Windy Affection

I spent a couple of great days in Chicago last week attending a conference.  From my hotel room I could see the Chicago Tribune, The Wrigley Building, Marina City, the pathetic Trump monstrosity and the mossy green of the Chicago River, the splendid chaos of Michigan Avenue, ancient water towers on rooftops, magnificent fire escape sunset seductions, intelligent bums with first-rate yarns, the veritable heartbeat of the city, the past, the future.  On what is now the Tina Turner floor of the Hard Rock Hotel (in the old Carbide and Carbon Building), I quickly reacquainted myself with the love I once felt for Chicago.  I just feel at home there, you know?  There is such a strong sense of “place” there.  Everything about it has always just seemed right to me.  Cicero and Capone and Oak Park and Wright and Harry Carey and Navy Pier and Dick Butkus and Lakeshore Drive and Elliot Ness and the ‘L’ and Abbie Hoffman and The Chicago Seven and gas light mysterious wanderings around the Loop and the Miracle Mile and Sixty-Third and Wallace and Pruitt Igoe and The '68 Democratic National Convention and all the other things that I’ve forgotten.

On the cab ride in from Midway, I passed more buildings that I’ve forgotten the names of (drilled into me during Architectural History Class) than I’ve seen in the last (10) years.  For me and my personal architectural sensibilities, Chicago is quite literally ground zero, much more so than New York or Los Angeles.  It was Frank Lloyd Wright and Sullivan and Adler and Daniel Burnham and later Mies who taught me what architecture was, is, what it could / should be.  My style isn’t close to theirs but theirs is what I cut my teeth on and what I gravitated toward as a student.  What Burnham and Root and Olmstead not only conceived of but constructed on the shores of Lake Michigan in the early 1890’s is phenomenal.  The Columbian Exposition itself gave us the Ferris Wheel, the elevator, the first extensive use of electric light and countless other “modern wonders”.  Far more than any of that though, there is something about the spirit of Chicagoans that I find irresistible – embodied perhaps perfectly in the fortitude of long suffering Cubs fans, right?  The people seem to have always had a chip on their shoulder about not being as good as NYC and I love that – an irrepressible desire to not only just be good, but to be better than.  I find it infectious when I’m there.  I had other obligations this time in town, but I took full advantage of every opportunity to be on the street internalizing every beautiful thing and soaking up as much of the city character as I could in the moments that I did have.   

The upper floors of and in fact the entirety of the Carbide and Carbon Building are a beautifully gilded Art Deco masterpiece.  So pumped to be back in the Windy Wednesday night was I that I didn't even realize that this was the building my hotel was in.  I took an early morning stroll the following day and caught this glistening wonder proudly standing in eastern light.  Stunning.  At the end of the day, there was a big weird dinner with a terrible jazz band and poor lighting in an awkward room at an awards ceremony where I was honored to represent, along with a founding principal, the Fourth Best Firm to Work For in 2013.  To accept an architectural award of any sort in a Burnham designed building (even if it was his kid and not that Burnham) was not lost on me.  What a wonderful thing.  I celebrated (excessively).  I don't always recognize the gravity of my life but that night I did.  It felt good...to feel good.

As I started my career, Atlanta chose me more so than I chose it.  Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but Chicago was my first love as far as cities and where I wished to ply my trade.  I tried unsuccessfully to get there after graduation but it wasn’t in the cards.  Honestly, at times especially early in my career, that fact made me feel like I wasn’t good enough as an architect.  That supposed rejection fueled me and fuels me still at some level to do and to be more, still trying to prove my worth.  I’ve put down roots here now or at least what I consider roots and my windy affection for Chicago is just another memory of what might have been.  As bad as it once stung, moving to Atlanta was exactly the right move.  I’m on a path that is exactly the right one for me and in spite of my predilection toward hyperbolic scenario I know I am where I should be.

I had an unexpected conversation with an ex last night that brought my feelings for Chicago into specific focus.  It’s not that I’m not a good enough architect to be a quote-unquote Chicago architect; it just wasn’t the right time when it was presented to me as an option.  Sometimes, when you miss your window it closes.  The window on both has been closed for a lot of time and the hell of it is that I know that’s the best possible conclusion, on both fronts.  But in much the same way as one might always care about someone who they were close to once, I will always have a certain affection for the wonder and possibility I still see Chicago to be.  In much the same way as the prior, part of me may always wonder what might have been.

Meantime I’m engrained in this city now.  This is my home and where I will most likely spend the rest of my life.  History books that no one reads are filled with names that no one remembers.  Cities are filled with buildings that no one looks up at designed by architects that no one knows.  As much as I like to talk about path and obligation and loyalty, I think it’s past time that I get busy making Atlanta aware of the fact that I'm here.  If I don’t insist that my name is included in the book, there’s no way that I will be.  I have an intense desire to leave my fingerprints.

There is no Chicago School now. There is no standard against which we as architects are measured – the world has become too big for that.  We are way past Architectural Record being the thing that matters at least on a local scale.  I wonder if we can get back to what we all started doing this for in the first place, what my early heroes strived for.  I can only assume that we all became architects so as to make the world a better place to live in.  If you didn’t, I question your motives.  (I question mine everyday so don’t take that the wrong way.)  If you’re not an architect, whatever you do should be in some way making this world a better place to live in.  That should be everybody’s goal, right?  If we don’t leave this world better off than when we found it, what is the point of being here at all?  Maybe that’s what my windy affection has taught me and what I was reminded of walking the streets of what I once perceived as the Promised Land last week. 

I left Chicago more centered than when I had arrived, my hope in tomorrow’s possibility rejuvenated.  If that’s all I get in return for my unrequited love of Chicago, so be it.  Hope is a perfect wonderful thing.

That Wonderful After

It’s astonishing how quiet the city is during a power outage.  The freeway is still alive but everything else grinds to a slow steady numbness.  It’s as if we don’t really know how exactly to function normally without it – like our very existence is dependent upon Edison’s contraption.  In all reality, Thursday’s near city-wide blackout was a minor inconvenience and presented more of an opportunity than an obstacle.  As with all things, it’s simply a matter of perspective.

The storm was awesome.  Thousands of lightning sky dances and strikes.  Booming thunderclaps.  Wind. Temperature swings.  Weird colors.  Few natural events are as satisfying to me as a good strong summer storm.  I’m filled with near equal measure of excitement and wonderment at the power of nature as I am with consternation and anxiety as to whether or not the pines will hold.  I’m overflowing with anticipation when I know weather is approaching and relieved we made it through when it’s gone.  It’s wonderful.  I love it.  I can’t wait for the next one.  Belle doesn’t share my enthusiasm and enjoyed the show from the safe confines of the guest bathroom (behind the toilet).  Maynard, on the other hand was on the front porch riding it out with me – a man after my own heart.

When the storm passes and I’m sitting in the inevitable darkness a calm comes over me that I can’t quite explain.  Once I’m resolved to the fact that the lights will most likely be out for a while, I relax and let the quiet stillness all the way in.  I open the doors and let the damp night waft through.  A silent solitude is a rare experience and I find that I relish it when it happens.  Alas, too much time alone with dogs and thoughts will drive one to madness so after a modicum of time passes I’m compelled to go outside and wander up the street.

I love my neighborhood.  We don’t always talk but when weather happens we’re always in the street after a storm…folks just checking on one another.  It reminds me of growing up in Mississippi but with honest concern replacing seditious nosiness.  I checked on Miss Alice first and as per the norm she said she was just fine.  “I didn’t even know – I got my gun though!”  Poor thing hasn’t ever heard a word I’ve said to her.  I sat in the truck and listened to game four of the NBA finals with some guy who may or may not live down the block.  Nice enough fellow nevertheless.

It reminded me of the tornado in the spring of 2008.  For whatever reason, I hadn’t bought tickets to the SEC basketball tourney at the Georgia Dome but I was locked in to the television as my Bulldogs battled Alabama.  Irritated would be an understatement to describe my demeanor when the lights went out that night.  I was sitting in the truck when the twister hit the dome and play was suspended.  Knowing the storm was heading east I ran back to the house, warned the family and went to the back door just in time to see in a lightning flash, the funnel passing over Settle.  I rushed all of us to the basement and at the same time searched for batteries so I could hear the end of the game on the shop radio – I have priorities after all.

The first time I realized that I lived in a good neighborhood was after that storm.  Walking out of the basement to see the devastation all around was humbling to say the least, but it was comforting to know that my neighbors were there and willing to help if they could.  Luckily, I only lost a couple of trees and both fell away from the house that night.  If that wasn’t enough, my ‘Dawgs beat ‘Bama in OT.  We lost to UGA the next day and power was restored a week or so later but that hour or so after was wonderful. 

Thursday night’s frivolities weren’t near that magnitude – in storm quality or audience participation but it still felt just about right to me.  Past the excitement of the squall and the resultant peaceful quiet and the requisite reconnecting with the ‘hood; the most wonderful piece of after was as it always is, the color of the light.  It doesn’t seem like air can or should change color but it does.  Or that the sky can become so passive and emotive so quickly after erupting in violent spectacle moments before.  That magnificent dreamy glow paralyzes me.   That wonderful after makes the storm not only tolerable but welcome.  With every tempest comes the promise call of a clearing sky and the soothing response of cleansed spirit.  

I like to think that it’s God’s way of saying, “My bad, I got a little carried away with that one.”

Art and Fear

I had a weekend last at the thing I love that fell light years short of my expectations.  Festivals are a crap shoot (at best), but this one was especially brutal – complete with near zero financial return, unrequested emotional stumbles down unresolved memory lanes and a Sunday rain-out fiasco of epic proportions as a finale.  So be it.  In spite of my perception however, I hung out with some first-rate humans, made a few dear new friends, enjoyed fine festival food, re-read a favorite book and didn’t do whatever nonsense it was that I did last weekend.  I even saw the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra Brass Quintet Sunday morning, so there is a lot of positive tucked inside of the ball of shit that was my VAHI, but all I’ve been able to see to this point is the negative.  For whatever reason, in my mind, this was supposed to be the show – I didn’t sell a single piece on festival grounds.  It’s hard to see the good in a weekend where you don’t even make your booth fee.

The hundred feet square of my tent and a few feet in front of and in back – that’s my domain.  That’s where I shine.  That’s where I feel whole; my hallowed ground, right?  It’s the no bullshit zone that I can’t seem to locate consistently in my day-to-day.  It’s where I’m honest, where I truly pull back the curtain and let the curious inside this circus.  I protect those four walls and everything inside like it’s the Alamo and I’m Davy Freakin’ Crockett.  I’m Eddie Van Halen, Live Without a Net, I’m Social Distortion that glorious night at The Roxy, I’m The Beatles on the roof of Apple Records.  It’s the safest and most creative and inspiring circumstance that I’ve discovered in this world thus far but the gilded walls of my self-imagined cathedral came crumbling down last weekend.  In spite of my aspirations, I was Nero as my Rome burned.         

It was my first juried show and I was undoubtedly apprehensive of that fact.  There is a certain amount of truth to the assessment that I went into this deal with a chip on my shoulder.  Saturday morning late, a member of the jury remarked, as she jotted her thoughts on a clipboard, about how she loved the assault of color in my paintings.  At the time, I said some suck-up something like, “Life needs color, no?”  In hindsight what I should have said was, “You can leave now”.  Her intent may well have been harmless but it galled me to my very core.  If all you see is color then you aren’t seeing anything – you aren’t hearing a single word I’ve tried not to say.  Because it doesn’t fit into the polite little box that you’ve labeled art doesn’t mean that it doesn’t belong there or that it isn’t in fact art.  I felt like a retarded kid in a class full of prodigies.  In all honesty, I was devastated by her flippant comment but I blew it off.  Yes, I read way too much into it and it most likely was indeed a well intentioned compliment – she seemed like a nice enough lady – but my handling of that two minute exchange wrecked my confidence in the work for the balance of the weekend.  I emotionally and physically retreated to the safety of behind the curtain after that.  I didn’t defend my perimeter and as a result I was defeated, but why?  The only fossil of explanation that I can uncover is fear. 

I readily admit that not selling at this show was as embarrassing as anything I’ve ever experienced publicly and embodies my greatest fear prior to going public: that thought alone prevented me from putting brush or knife to canvas at all for a lot of time.  It doesn’t really matter that the only artist making bank last weekend was the old birdhouse couple from North Georgia.  Maybe it was just a weird crowd.  Maybe the threat of weather kept the buyers away.  Maybe it was simply a zombie walk and there’s nothing that I could have done about it.  Maybe a million different explanations exist but none of them have assuaged the sense of failure that I felt and still feel at some level.  The big question is though will I let fear preclude me from jumping into the ring again?  Hopefully it goes without saying that the answer to that question at this point in my life is a resounding “no!” 

I always knew this eventuality was a risk but for whatever reason I was willing and able to take the plunge, to fully put myself out there.  Going public wasn’t easy the first time and it never will be for me.  I’m physically sick and emotionally wrought with doubt and fear the days leading up to a show, absolutely sleepless the night before – nearly unrecognizable to myself by opening morning.  I don’t see that changing anytime soon so I can’t think that it’s a bad thing.  It’s just what is.

So now what?  I just keep being me, you know?  If you don’t like color, you’re never going to like what I do.  If you don’t want to see emotion, look elsewhere.  If you don’t want to observe the expressive possibility of a human being, then stay home.  Don’t play.  I’m not satisfied with the outcome of the last festival but I won’t let that prevent me from moving forward.  I won’t, I can’t let the fear of not being this thing or that terminate or in any way extinguish my desire to produce positive.  I won’t debate the merits of what art is, but I will continue to show you what I think it is.  And if you think art is something else, that’s fine but I can’t not be me.  The colors are only going to become more defined and vibrant.  The canvases are only going to get larger, the ideas more personal.  Whatever I decide to do next is exactly what I will do.  If what I do pisses you off, buckle up – it’s only going to get worse. 

I would love to experience the supposed validation that selling tons of work in public would give me and I have.  It’s surprisingly hollow, and if that’s all I want then I’ve forgotten why I started doing this in the first place over half a lifetime ago.  I make art for myself and I refuse to let my fear of it slow down the momentum I’m building.  I’ve lost sight of that truth and unfortunately replaced it with a false desire to sell.  If I never sell another piece, I’ve already won.

I’ve already won, because I didn’t and won’t allow myself to be satisfied.  Show me an artist who is content with his work and I will show you a dead man.  For that matter, show me a man who is satisfied with his life and I will show you the same.  If you don’t want more, regardless of how you define “more” then what is the point of living?  There is no imaginary line in the sand that once you cross all is well.  You have to keep pushing.  You have to keep digging.  You have to keep moving forward.  Ultimately, you have to allow yourself to change and adapt – things that don’t, fade away and are forgotten and then they die.           

As a prelude to the inevitable Sunday night meltdown, I enjoyed a conciliatory perfect steak and libations with some bros.  I thought about something an old friend had recently inadvertently reminded me of from my roots – something that I had forgotten to be aware of recently.  She’d been away from the South for a while and still recognized it when she returned – I’ve been here basically forever and have missed it almost every time it shows up, real world blinders or whatever.  She spoke freely but I’ll paraphrase.  There’s a soft “comforting orange light to the South” in the summer time, especially just before and right after a sun shower that I’ve never experienced anywhere else on earth.  If I can’t paint what that feels like, then I’m not an artist.  More importantly though, if I don’t allow myself to see and internalize what that feels like then I might not be alive at all.  If my innate fear of what you will perceive me as prevents me from seeing it, then I’m not only not an artist, but worse I’m a coward too. 

I know what art is, and I’m well aware that the singular responsibility of expressing it doesn’t reside within me alone.  I do feel compelled to express how I see it though.  How I see art and its unshakeable lover fear, are critical to my understanding of how I live life.  I see art in every movement of this planet, but I see fear on display more often.  I want art to win.

I can’t be afraid of that “orange light” or any other emotion.  You might not always like what I see, but I can’t unsee it and I can’t not feel it and I can’t not paint it.  My love of making it prevents me from being afraid of your perception of my art.  My love of art insists that I make more, and continue to suppress the fear of you hating it. 

Most days it’s the only thing I do that makes any sense to me. 

            …but it ain’t no contribution…

            to rely on an institution…

            to validate your chosen art

                        and to sanction your boredom

                                    and let you play out your part.

                                                       – Jim Carroll