11.06.2012
Produce Performance
Produce Performance
Mangoes on
my heater
don’t seem to like it
though I thought
they’d miss
the tropics.
Ground Game
Ground Game
I took the pain
in my neck
out the door
down the street
into a deli
where
pickle relish
dwelled,
gourmet mustards
thrived,
and my pain
went to my wallet.
Inter-Office Mail
Inter-Office Mail
Take that envelope
back upstairs.
Does the coffee machine
gurgle and spit the names
of those scribbled out?
Did former employees
drinking free
half & half cups
reading obscure names
think they were next?
What happens
when there’s no more room?
Bullfrogs In Winter
Bullfrogs In Winter
That day when
a Confederate soldier
would serve in
the Union army
is the day he’d shoot
his musketeer
off a bullfrog
through a window
in winter.
Things happen.
8.09.2011
Humble Cottage
For A & N
Humble Cottage
You took me by surprise
Though you shouldn’t have
Clad in warm cedar shakes
Your modern white belly soothed me
Antique America met anew
Riding high set above
Long Island Sound
North Fork rocky beaches
Soft saltwater cool
Full of good taste and grace
Fresh cut grass and lush trees
Supersweet Corn and Rosé
You were in my dreams
Books upon books and smiles
We laughed and were merry
Humble Cottage you
Be less humble
You home full of love
Happy ghost
Till then
Humble Cottage
You took me by surprise
Though you shouldn’t have
Clad in warm cedar shakes
Your modern white belly soothed me
Antique America met anew
Riding high set above
Long Island Sound
North Fork rocky beaches
Soft saltwater cool
Full of good taste and grace
Fresh cut grass and lush trees
Supersweet Corn and Rosé
You were in my dreams
Books upon books and smiles
We laughed and were merry
Humble Cottage you
Be less humble
You home full of love
Happy ghost
Till then
7.14.2011
An Unnatural Death
7.14.11.NYC
An Unnatural Death
America and all of Brooklyn is a flood in tears over the body of the small boy Leiby Kletzky. Straight from a gory novel, he was abducted and butchered by a man Aron Levi. The missing persons report fliers that filled my neighborhood and all of New York City were taped nailed and posted everywhere. They now stand as haunting ghosts in an infinitely incomprehensible nightmarish tragedy gone terribly real. Alien to the experience of the average person of decency and compassion this is no act of a human being, a monster they say. They ask, "Why?", but there are no real answers to be found but the real horror of it all which is that the man is human and he is one of us. This sends chills to the bone as we are confronted with ourselves, that piece of human nature we often keep beneath the surface buried below in the murky depths. I am sadly reminded in these cases that our race is capable of absolute love, beauty, high art and charity and we are also capable of worse as if to balance a scale we can sink to the darkest levels and still be all too human. I cry for the boy Leiby Kletzky and his family. I cry for the man Aron Levi and I cry for all of humanity.
An Unnatural Death
America and all of Brooklyn is a flood in tears over the body of the small boy Leiby Kletzky. Straight from a gory novel, he was abducted and butchered by a man Aron Levi. The missing persons report fliers that filled my neighborhood and all of New York City were taped nailed and posted everywhere. They now stand as haunting ghosts in an infinitely incomprehensible nightmarish tragedy gone terribly real. Alien to the experience of the average person of decency and compassion this is no act of a human being, a monster they say. They ask, "Why?", but there are no real answers to be found but the real horror of it all which is that the man is human and he is one of us. This sends chills to the bone as we are confronted with ourselves, that piece of human nature we often keep beneath the surface buried below in the murky depths. I am sadly reminded in these cases that our race is capable of absolute love, beauty, high art and charity and we are also capable of worse as if to balance a scale we can sink to the darkest levels and still be all too human. I cry for the boy Leiby Kletzky and his family. I cry for the man Aron Levi and I cry for all of humanity.
6.13.2011
Stealing Home Base in Hanoi: Baseball Joey
Like some strange old kid with a grey beard he rode the train on Sundays to Atlantic Avenue but unlike any kid he went to pick up his medications. His mind was never quite right since Vietnam. Joey lived in the projects off Ave. W for the past thirty-five years. His hearing was partially blown during a V.C. grenade attack while out on patrol. As Joey spoke his voice had a tendency to rise to alarming levels but he was harmless. He had a real bad form of P.T.S.D., which gave him a jittery nervous twitch. He rubbed his head a lot and looked at the floor after saying something. He was completely calm and stable most of the time. Through his face you knew that he along with a generation of fellas got left behind in those jungles holding onto a whole world of shit. His smile was warm but it never really could hide the scars of war.
He loved talking baseball. Since he had come back home to Brooklyn so many years ago it was the last thing for him that made any sense in America anymore. He held on so tightly to that piece of his youth. It gave him something to focus on and it was its own sort of therapy. He could watch game after game season after season. He organized stats and kept records tracking teams and player careers. He was a walking talking functionally dysfunctional library of baseball. Through the years of doing this he had regained some piece of his humanity. It’s how he was able to connect with people. It eased his mind and kept the nightmares away. It brought a smile to his face and when he got to talk about a game or a player there was no stopping him. His excitement couldn’t be contained and some people got nervous over his explosive joys. But it was only Joey it was only baseball. It was his salvation, the saving grace for an old man who had found heaven and hell on Earth.
He loved talking baseball. Since he had come back home to Brooklyn so many years ago it was the last thing for him that made any sense in America anymore. He held on so tightly to that piece of his youth. It gave him something to focus on and it was its own sort of therapy. He could watch game after game season after season. He organized stats and kept records tracking teams and player careers. He was a walking talking functionally dysfunctional library of baseball. Through the years of doing this he had regained some piece of his humanity. It’s how he was able to connect with people. It eased his mind and kept the nightmares away. It brought a smile to his face and when he got to talk about a game or a player there was no stopping him. His excitement couldn’t be contained and some people got nervous over his explosive joys. But it was only Joey it was only baseball. It was his salvation, the saving grace for an old man who had found heaven and hell on Earth.
6.11.2011
Brooklyn Summer
6.7.2011.NYC
It all took place in his backyard, everything. When the sun came back breaking the long cold silence of winter effectually ending our suffering it was finally time for good times and grand times. This certainly included the barbecue. Aaron’s place had unofficially become the hang spot, a base for multiple operations and happenings for the Fort Green patriots and for those willing to make a trek up the hill. Most of the regulars seem to live a step or two away and walk here. Foot power is New York’s real steam, its real driving engine.
We’ve done everything from survive a rapture to watch movies and basketball projected onto a queen sized sheet stretched like hide on a fence. We’ve grilled all sorts of edible goodness and tipped back everything drinkable. The sun shines down brightly from above in the early hours of summer and the yard, part urban garden, shed, patio, is a lovely site to see. It is inviting without any pretension. The signature celebrated earthiness of the space is set off by the massive walls of the Presbyterian Church next door. The old brick walls and stained glass windows cast long dark shadows in the early afternoon. With Aaron’s building working in tandem with the holy, it sets an interesting scene, reminiscent of Shawshank Redemption. We could however not be further from prison while we bask in the warm glows of grilled corn and freedom.
Beer bottles and ash trays are their own flowers in this tiny microcosm in Brooklyn. There again are the actual flowers and tall grasses. The new additions to this Eden are the bamboo shoots that we all watch grow and progress on their journey towards the sun. We watch them with the same attention and eagerness we give to the wings and burgers sizzling nearby. This has become an escape, our dreamland where we can relax and re-absorb life. I thank the Blacks for this haven. This is our new but familiar corner of the world.
It all took place in his backyard, everything. When the sun came back breaking the long cold silence of winter effectually ending our suffering it was finally time for good times and grand times. This certainly included the barbecue. Aaron’s place had unofficially become the hang spot, a base for multiple operations and happenings for the Fort Green patriots and for those willing to make a trek up the hill. Most of the regulars seem to live a step or two away and walk here. Foot power is New York’s real steam, its real driving engine.
We’ve done everything from survive a rapture to watch movies and basketball projected onto a queen sized sheet stretched like hide on a fence. We’ve grilled all sorts of edible goodness and tipped back everything drinkable. The sun shines down brightly from above in the early hours of summer and the yard, part urban garden, shed, patio, is a lovely site to see. It is inviting without any pretension. The signature celebrated earthiness of the space is set off by the massive walls of the Presbyterian Church next door. The old brick walls and stained glass windows cast long dark shadows in the early afternoon. With Aaron’s building working in tandem with the holy, it sets an interesting scene, reminiscent of Shawshank Redemption. We could however not be further from prison while we bask in the warm glows of grilled corn and freedom.
Beer bottles and ash trays are their own flowers in this tiny microcosm in Brooklyn. There again are the actual flowers and tall grasses. The new additions to this Eden are the bamboo shoots that we all watch grow and progress on their journey towards the sun. We watch them with the same attention and eagerness we give to the wings and burgers sizzling nearby. This has become an escape, our dreamland where we can relax and re-absorb life. I thank the Blacks for this haven. This is our new but familiar corner of the world.
3.02.2011
Draw Me Airplanes
A kind old man from Guyana once told me this story in 2007. I paraphrased it from our conversation that afternoon.
I was a teacher back home for many years before I came here. I taught ages 8 to 14. One day a week, we would teach our students art. For one hour on Friday afternoon, 2-3 o’clock. You have to understand my conception of art was very different then, if for instance, I had a picture of an airplane I’d have the children draw it. The colors, lines and shapes. That was art.
So one day as I walked around they were working and drawing away. I remember seeing these bright colors and models of what this plane looked like. We were into the lesson by about 5 or 10 minutes when I went to the back row and I had this young man about 10 sitting quietly. His art book was closed, a pad of about 20 pages or so. I asked him, “Are you finished already?” he quietly replied, “Oh, yes Sir.” I asked him if I could see it. He opened his book. I looked at it, it was a blank page. I asked him, “Where is the airplane?” He silently pointed to the center of the page. I crouched down to look at what he was showing me and it was a small little v shaped mark. I asked him, “What is this?” He said, “The airplane took off.”
I stood there in amazement. It surprised me so much, this student was generally below average in our other subjects, but something really happened there that made me think, what a brilliant idea, the way in which he perceived the idea of the airplane. Later I took it to the Headmaster and he and I both agreed it was correct. It was the assignment, draw the airplane. Now, after working here for about 2 years and seeing art so new to me I remember that child’s drawing from time to time and I am reminded that art is not the picture of the airplane on the paper. It is the perception and internalization of the idea of the airplane in the mind of the artist and viewer. That is where the art is, in each of us.
I was a teacher back home for many years before I came here. I taught ages 8 to 14. One day a week, we would teach our students art. For one hour on Friday afternoon, 2-3 o’clock. You have to understand my conception of art was very different then, if for instance, I had a picture of an airplane I’d have the children draw it. The colors, lines and shapes. That was art.
So one day as I walked around they were working and drawing away. I remember seeing these bright colors and models of what this plane looked like. We were into the lesson by about 5 or 10 minutes when I went to the back row and I had this young man about 10 sitting quietly. His art book was closed, a pad of about 20 pages or so. I asked him, “Are you finished already?” he quietly replied, “Oh, yes Sir.” I asked him if I could see it. He opened his book. I looked at it, it was a blank page. I asked him, “Where is the airplane?” He silently pointed to the center of the page. I crouched down to look at what he was showing me and it was a small little v shaped mark. I asked him, “What is this?” He said, “The airplane took off.”
I stood there in amazement. It surprised me so much, this student was generally below average in our other subjects, but something really happened there that made me think, what a brilliant idea, the way in which he perceived the idea of the airplane. Later I took it to the Headmaster and he and I both agreed it was correct. It was the assignment, draw the airplane. Now, after working here for about 2 years and seeing art so new to me I remember that child’s drawing from time to time and I am reminded that art is not the picture of the airplane on the paper. It is the perception and internalization of the idea of the airplane in the mind of the artist and viewer. That is where the art is, in each of us.
12.08.2010
Dearly Departed
Release: The Death of my Grandfather
I have been fortunate enough to achieve greater understanding of life through death. At the moments when perspective and solace are needed I have found some comfort through knowledge and wisdom. With the clarity offered only through time, I am reminded that we will and must confront the reality of our mortal natures at various moments throughout our lives. Sometimes these passages can be abrupt and painful and a deeply felt sense of treachery towards life can incite a violent bitterness while other times the loss of life seems akin to kindness, as though it were a merciful act of love upon one by a mysteriously divine grace.
A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to travel and meet with my mother at my Grandfather’s bedside in Arizona. The desert sun of late September still scorches the earth while the arid dry air burns the eyes. It was not a visit of pleasure but a pilgrimage. We made this trip not knowing what would happen. We were fortunate to eventually bring him home from the hospital and share precious conversations with him. We were lead to believe his life would outlast our previous expectations and were comforted in this new knowledge. Our times together were sparse and brief, my Mother and I spent a great deal of time alone together and with Grandmother. What did transpire in those conversations was of great importance for all of us and will be remembered dearly.
We left Arizona knowing things would get a little better before they got worse. In reality, it would actually be no more than a month before his transfiguration. Hours before his passing, I had a restless anxiety. I wrote to my mother to let her know I was thinking of her. My tension eventually gave way to an uneasy sleep. The morning of, during my commute on the subway, I happened upon one of many possible Jorge Luis Borges’ stories. This particular story was The Immortal. I had nearly finished it when my mother called me to tell me the grave news. I could not help but draw the comparison that man, though he wishes for the eternal, might indeed be more satisfied to live as we all do, briefly.
In the face of my dying Grandfather my senses were capable of directly confronting the eventuality of death but my language could not. I could not speak to my Grandfather as if he were dying though the reality was open and real. There was no need to speak about death while living, as there was still life to live. We had plenty of things to talk about and not talk about. We both could feel the silent waiting patience of death and chose not to discuss its presence. I think we rested knowing it was on its way and instead were comforted by each other while remembering the better days we had spent together.
My Grandfather William passed this October twelfth. The fruit of his labors and the Irish American surviving members of three descending generations walk among us. He lives on in living memories and will be missed.
10-20-10
I have been fortunate enough to achieve greater understanding of life through death. At the moments when perspective and solace are needed I have found some comfort through knowledge and wisdom. With the clarity offered only through time, I am reminded that we will and must confront the reality of our mortal natures at various moments throughout our lives. Sometimes these passages can be abrupt and painful and a deeply felt sense of treachery towards life can incite a violent bitterness while other times the loss of life seems akin to kindness, as though it were a merciful act of love upon one by a mysteriously divine grace.
A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to travel and meet with my mother at my Grandfather’s bedside in Arizona. The desert sun of late September still scorches the earth while the arid dry air burns the eyes. It was not a visit of pleasure but a pilgrimage. We made this trip not knowing what would happen. We were fortunate to eventually bring him home from the hospital and share precious conversations with him. We were lead to believe his life would outlast our previous expectations and were comforted in this new knowledge. Our times together were sparse and brief, my Mother and I spent a great deal of time alone together and with Grandmother. What did transpire in those conversations was of great importance for all of us and will be remembered dearly.
We left Arizona knowing things would get a little better before they got worse. In reality, it would actually be no more than a month before his transfiguration. Hours before his passing, I had a restless anxiety. I wrote to my mother to let her know I was thinking of her. My tension eventually gave way to an uneasy sleep. The morning of, during my commute on the subway, I happened upon one of many possible Jorge Luis Borges’ stories. This particular story was The Immortal. I had nearly finished it when my mother called me to tell me the grave news. I could not help but draw the comparison that man, though he wishes for the eternal, might indeed be more satisfied to live as we all do, briefly.
In the face of my dying Grandfather my senses were capable of directly confronting the eventuality of death but my language could not. I could not speak to my Grandfather as if he were dying though the reality was open and real. There was no need to speak about death while living, as there was still life to live. We had plenty of things to talk about and not talk about. We both could feel the silent waiting patience of death and chose not to discuss its presence. I think we rested knowing it was on its way and instead were comforted by each other while remembering the better days we had spent together.
My Grandfather William passed this October twelfth. The fruit of his labors and the Irish American surviving members of three descending generations walk among us. He lives on in living memories and will be missed.
10-20-10
2.02.2010
Artist Statement: The Abstractions: 1.30.10
In regards to painting's numerous limitations and belittled status in current discourse, I will dismiss myself from judgment and continue the conversation.
Figurative and representational modes cannot on their own encapsulate the whole complexity of contemporary life. I utilize abstract languages to extend the dialogue towards these other ever expanding realities. It's a methodology in art that has existed in its maturity for more than a century. It is obvious that abstraction has taken it's own historical foothold in art but it continues to remain fresh in my thinking process because of its fluid capacity to mold itself to change. That is to say that it seems capable of keeping in step with time.
I took the task upon myself to develop an artistic approach that could be flirtatious while not referencing the body. I wanted to build a painting that could be stern and comedic while not being didactic or funny. I wanted to evoke the new worlds of motion graphics in static form, to maintain that spirit of visual movement in silent stillness. My works seek to be familiar by making slight reference to the world while also being unique singular events held on a shallow stage off Broadway.
The paintings concern themselves with several overarching ideas. They are organized on a formal basis utilizing geometric forms. I use many reductive shapes, boxes, and post and lintel junctions with other simple elements to construct my images to echo the framed rectangularity of the image. I construct my paintings with the illusion of shallow space. By layering images I develope the awareness of the third dimension. Utilizing over painting and under painting, the works never abandon the material nature of paint or its inherent object qualities. I allow paint to behave in a natural fashion where layering and textures are able accumulate in the process of working.
The vocabularies of elements that have been used are thought of as parts like those found in erector sets, legos or machines. These parts are tinkered with into the various apparatus constructions you see. I have a tremendous interest in engineers and their ability to take parts, tools and knowledge to develop and create functional things of value. The film projector is an item I find to be as interesting as filmaking itself. The projector if it were to cease its harmonious operation would leave us without the film performance, we would still have a film but no way to see it in its intended form thus technology acts as the second half of the art. I think of machines, engines, stock material, distribution, warehousing, manufacturing, and production when I paint, not always in this order. The ideas they generate help in translating my experiences into a painting language.
My compositions often play with or emphasize bilateral symmetry like that of a building façade. As in reference to most biological organisms, they are never quite perfect or exact; they give way to varying degrees of mutation. They mirror themselves and deviate all together. They are in the process of conversion or function. Often they can float un-tethered in space or can be anchored in delicate balance. My paintings find themselves at a tenuous moment, as information is spilling out or focused inward. They imply scientific origins but reveal no concrete datum. As cropped spaces from a larger scale world, my paintings imply the viewfinder or aperture. Unlike the traditional window view in historical art these attempt to ride a fine median between conventional space and modern flatness. These paintings use windows within windows to echo the computer interface. They attempt to be unplugged luminescent beacons of a new program immediately abandoned by software developers.
My palette often focuses on high key colors in an effort to compete with and compliment the every day experiences of advertising, objects, architecture, garments, etc. Gradients and broad sweeps of color can converge and diverge over super sweet day-glow hues in ways that fold space and insinuate dynamic range. Natural, soft, hard, and toxic colors spill out and over an empty terrain of storefront displays. I include graphic and pattern elements as a way of broadening the image reference pool to engulf cultural and popular motifs. These examples would include elements from street fashion and popular objects in our natural and synthetic environments, i.e. the ubiquitous faux animal pattern.
The Danimal exploits series refers my interest in the animal print, to utilize natural variety found in wildlife and the human exploitation of it. I find a pervasive reference to the animal kingdom on bed sheets, t-shirts, panties, purses, and overcoats. At once both meaningful and banal, the status of high and lowbrow consumer culture, the animal print has become a loaded symbol of luxury and the cheap exotic. The zebra, leopard, tiger, peacock, etc. all have come to symbolize desire and beauty. I imagine if tigers had lawyers would they collect royalties for the use of their stripes on pillows and coffee mugs? What if animal species could protest the copyright and trademark infringement over their respective brands? I continue the exploitation and abstracting of animal forms into a new value system. Authentic skins and furs continue to be held as valuable commodities in poaching markets, but the world at large has moved on towards the synthetic, towards the extrapolated marks of exotic beauty. I re-hunt these new abstracted animals across the broad American plains from Vegas showbiz glitz to the fashion glamor of 5th Avenue and fluorescent isles of Wal-Mart.
1.28.2010
Catcher in the Rye: J.D. Salinger: We Loved You
Catcher in the Rye: J.D. Salinger: A True Story, No Kidding, I Mean Really.
It took me roughly ten years to pull myself together and return to this book and actually read it. It was assigned when I was a High School student and I never completed the damn thing for what ever reason. I’m not sure if I was too immature, too scared, or just plain lazy not to read it but I didn’t. As it turned out, I was more like Holden then I could have ever even imagined.
A week before my 26th birthday I decided to buy another copy of the famed book Catcher in the Rye. I picked up the edition at my favorite book shop in NYC with the original cover design loosely drawn depicting the books last scene, not the rainbow student edition. I think it was that bland cover that made me never want to pick it up; the minimal design never caught me when I was young and it still doesn’t. I wanted to finally come to terms with that one novel that kept resting in the back of my mind all those years and meet Holden Caulfield once and for all.
I was hooked from the first page. When I came to the book I had finally lived a little and been through the likes of Kerouac, Hemingway and even Steinbeck. Salinger’s character Holden and I became good friends in my mind, honestly. No kidding. I mean I really wanted to give old Jane a buzz. I did. The book was released in 1951 and here I am reading this in 2010 and I dig it like none other. I understand it. I get underneath it and Holden has got a hold on me like we see the world through the same eyes. When people say please, it depresses me too. It actually does.
The last scene of the book when Holden finally realizes his decision and enjoys the moment we both share in the revelation that is coming home. On my way back to Brooklyn after my long day at work and the gym I finished the book with that feeling you get when you are not too sad to let go but also excited for what will happen next even though you are only left in your own isolation.
I finished this wonderful story and I felt like I knew something intimate about its author. As I finished this story in silence J.D. Salinger was also slipping into his own. He would die that same day Wednesday January 27th of natural causes. He was 91.
I sit here now Thursday afternoon. My fiancé Katya sent me the news. I remain stunned that after a decade of keeping myself away from this powerful story, I finish the day he died. Full closure.
Immortality in art, it’s why we make it right?
"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."
~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 26
It took me roughly ten years to pull myself together and return to this book and actually read it. It was assigned when I was a High School student and I never completed the damn thing for what ever reason. I’m not sure if I was too immature, too scared, or just plain lazy not to read it but I didn’t. As it turned out, I was more like Holden then I could have ever even imagined.
A week before my 26th birthday I decided to buy another copy of the famed book Catcher in the Rye. I picked up the edition at my favorite book shop in NYC with the original cover design loosely drawn depicting the books last scene, not the rainbow student edition. I think it was that bland cover that made me never want to pick it up; the minimal design never caught me when I was young and it still doesn’t. I wanted to finally come to terms with that one novel that kept resting in the back of my mind all those years and meet Holden Caulfield once and for all.
I was hooked from the first page. When I came to the book I had finally lived a little and been through the likes of Kerouac, Hemingway and even Steinbeck. Salinger’s character Holden and I became good friends in my mind, honestly. No kidding. I mean I really wanted to give old Jane a buzz. I did. The book was released in 1951 and here I am reading this in 2010 and I dig it like none other. I understand it. I get underneath it and Holden has got a hold on me like we see the world through the same eyes. When people say please, it depresses me too. It actually does.
The last scene of the book when Holden finally realizes his decision and enjoys the moment we both share in the revelation that is coming home. On my way back to Brooklyn after my long day at work and the gym I finished the book with that feeling you get when you are not too sad to let go but also excited for what will happen next even though you are only left in your own isolation.
I finished this wonderful story and I felt like I knew something intimate about its author. As I finished this story in silence J.D. Salinger was also slipping into his own. He would die that same day Wednesday January 27th of natural causes. He was 91.
I sit here now Thursday afternoon. My fiancé Katya sent me the news. I remain stunned that after a decade of keeping myself away from this powerful story, I finish the day he died. Full closure.
Immortality in art, it’s why we make it right?
"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."
~J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Chapter 26
12.01.2009
Selections from: The Jazz Series: Spring 2005
In New York
When we're dancing
cheek to cheek,
ask if I love you
and make a funny face
You're here in my arms
heart of mine,
I want to be happy.
Just a lucky so and so,
stompin' at the Savoy
in summertime.
You go to my head,
But who cares?
It's alright with me
But now its my turn now
and it is a lovely day
today in New York
_____
Together Now
That sweet embraceable you
I'd dolphin dance in to a blues walk
like someone in love
like the old folks in summertime.
We can boogie-woogie
under old devil moon
only seven steps from heaven.
Just you, just me, and out
of no where, polka dots
and moon beams.
Let's watch what happens
Tangerine tenderly
my funny valentine.
_____
Perdido
We made Giant Steps
through autumn leaves
softly as in the morning sunrise
darn that dream
days of wine and roses
I jumped for joy night and day
when we fell from heaven
I still remember you
and quiet nights spent
on the sunny
side of the street
_____
Lady Day
As time goes by
In my solitude
I'll be seeing you
You were my thrill
My old flame
I'll cover the waterfront
Trav'lin' light
Until the real thing comes along
A dream of life
Say it with a kiss
That's all i ask of you
I'll never be the same
I'm funny that way
Carelessly
Foolin' my self
This is a fine romance
_____
To John
Bye-Bye Blackbird
And deal old Stockholm.
When the lazy bird
riding the blue train
locomotion awaits
the wise one
where crescent moons
and velvet sunsets
shine down on Avalon
west bound
til' Sunday,
remember your lady,
that promise of
a love supreme.
When we're dancing
cheek to cheek,
ask if I love you
and make a funny face
You're here in my arms
heart of mine,
I want to be happy.
Just a lucky so and so,
stompin' at the Savoy
in summertime.
You go to my head,
But who cares?
It's alright with me
But now its my turn now
and it is a lovely day
today in New York
_____
Together Now
That sweet embraceable you
I'd dolphin dance in to a blues walk
like someone in love
like the old folks in summertime.
We can boogie-woogie
under old devil moon
only seven steps from heaven.
Just you, just me, and out
of no where, polka dots
and moon beams.
Let's watch what happens
Tangerine tenderly
my funny valentine.
_____
Perdido
We made Giant Steps
through autumn leaves
softly as in the morning sunrise
darn that dream
days of wine and roses
I jumped for joy night and day
when we fell from heaven
I still remember you
and quiet nights spent
on the sunny
side of the street
_____
Lady Day
As time goes by
In my solitude
I'll be seeing you
You were my thrill
My old flame
I'll cover the waterfront
Trav'lin' light
Until the real thing comes along
A dream of life
Say it with a kiss
That's all i ask of you
I'll never be the same
I'm funny that way
Carelessly
Foolin' my self
This is a fine romance
_____
To John
Bye-Bye Blackbird
And deal old Stockholm.
When the lazy bird
riding the blue train
locomotion awaits
the wise one
where crescent moons
and velvet sunsets
shine down on Avalon
west bound
til' Sunday,
remember your lady,
that promise of
a love supreme.
11.28.2009
Late Nights and American Muses
9/7
All by your lonesome waiting for the clock to strike at the midnight hour wondering, why? Why not sleep? You’re too tired to get up and too busy to stop thinking about it, so why not talk to yourself instead? The bottle of cheap red wine you bought at the Russian liquor store down the street that you’ve been drinking out of won’t save you now. No matter what happens you’ll still be a transplanted white suburbanite from half way across this broken dreamland misplaced like a peanut in a bag of skittles.
You were born in the country but never lived there. Yours is a world of fluorescent lights and store bought goods. Stand there tomorrow at your stove-top and contemplate the universe contained in the thin shell of the free-range chicken egg. Whirl your self into a frenzy and be mystified over Nina Simone and the wonder that is a halved grapefruit in sunlight. But for now in the waning minutes of this day, pinewood dust, the same color as your pale skin, is littered across your new apartment floor and arms sore from cross cutting on the miter box for what felt like the same time it took to grow the once majestic tree rests now neatly at your feet like fresh snow on Christmas morning.
Charlie Parker fills your mood of discontent over 11:57. Solo to a new low and swing back up into an early morning serenade but don’t forget to slow dance with your dreams on full moon beams streaming in like mp3 downloads off the worldwide void. Boom. The clock hath stricken and thy still awake.
Crash! The sound of beer bottles cluttered. Let’s dance together. Labor Day. Living a Labor Day life. This is your life.
There is no poetry that could encircle the slide guitar notes of Robert Johnson singing his tune about life in this great big American party.
You stand at a crossroads and look East and West. What’s it going to be junior?
9/10
Mind up in a bind while trying to find a piece to the pie. “Can I get a regular slice?”, two dollars and fifty cents to happiness, why not? Get it while you can. Keep it moving over hot sauce and fresh basil. Belly full dig deeper into the bottom of that bottle and find the ancient wisdom of old sages in fermented harmony with the universe. Roll back the kind wishes and start saving them for rainy days in this autumn season. They say winter will be cold and the women are covering up their toes in leather shoes and boots. Combat operations commence on the rainy days sure to come. It’s the end of summer-skirts, as overcast skies roll on till Spring.
11/29
Kick back Jack with that old indigo mood on parade. It’s just a smooth brush stroke or two to the point of being happy or not so make it happen kiddo. With the sweet taste of Mexican beer on my lips I listen to Mississippi John Hurt wound me in gentle song. He had the softest touch of all of them combined. He could kill a man with his delicate old hands on that guitar. We all have to walk that lonesome valley our selves. It’s just that when I started I took along with me a bunch of stuff to schlep for the trip to keep me occupied. I got a harmonica in one hand, a beer in the other, and I’m toting a wagon filled with a case of Tennessee whiskey, paint, and a wet canvas that won’t leave me the hell alone. Now if I'd a only brought some ice.
All by your lonesome waiting for the clock to strike at the midnight hour wondering, why? Why not sleep? You’re too tired to get up and too busy to stop thinking about it, so why not talk to yourself instead? The bottle of cheap red wine you bought at the Russian liquor store down the street that you’ve been drinking out of won’t save you now. No matter what happens you’ll still be a transplanted white suburbanite from half way across this broken dreamland misplaced like a peanut in a bag of skittles.
You were born in the country but never lived there. Yours is a world of fluorescent lights and store bought goods. Stand there tomorrow at your stove-top and contemplate the universe contained in the thin shell of the free-range chicken egg. Whirl your self into a frenzy and be mystified over Nina Simone and the wonder that is a halved grapefruit in sunlight. But for now in the waning minutes of this day, pinewood dust, the same color as your pale skin, is littered across your new apartment floor and arms sore from cross cutting on the miter box for what felt like the same time it took to grow the once majestic tree rests now neatly at your feet like fresh snow on Christmas morning.
Charlie Parker fills your mood of discontent over 11:57. Solo to a new low and swing back up into an early morning serenade but don’t forget to slow dance with your dreams on full moon beams streaming in like mp3 downloads off the worldwide void. Boom. The clock hath stricken and thy still awake.
Crash! The sound of beer bottles cluttered. Let’s dance together. Labor Day. Living a Labor Day life. This is your life.
There is no poetry that could encircle the slide guitar notes of Robert Johnson singing his tune about life in this great big American party.
You stand at a crossroads and look East and West. What’s it going to be junior?
9/10
Mind up in a bind while trying to find a piece to the pie. “Can I get a regular slice?”, two dollars and fifty cents to happiness, why not? Get it while you can. Keep it moving over hot sauce and fresh basil. Belly full dig deeper into the bottom of that bottle and find the ancient wisdom of old sages in fermented harmony with the universe. Roll back the kind wishes and start saving them for rainy days in this autumn season. They say winter will be cold and the women are covering up their toes in leather shoes and boots. Combat operations commence on the rainy days sure to come. It’s the end of summer-skirts, as overcast skies roll on till Spring.
11/29
Kick back Jack with that old indigo mood on parade. It’s just a smooth brush stroke or two to the point of being happy or not so make it happen kiddo. With the sweet taste of Mexican beer on my lips I listen to Mississippi John Hurt wound me in gentle song. He had the softest touch of all of them combined. He could kill a man with his delicate old hands on that guitar. We all have to walk that lonesome valley our selves. It’s just that when I started I took along with me a bunch of stuff to schlep for the trip to keep me occupied. I got a harmonica in one hand, a beer in the other, and I’m toting a wagon filled with a case of Tennessee whiskey, paint, and a wet canvas that won’t leave me the hell alone. Now if I'd a only brought some ice.
8.24.2009
Ari Fish: Run Away
8.24.09 Brooklyn, NY
I am sitting in our small apartment with boxes and stuff in half-packed-mode for our move in a few days to a new apartment, still in, you guessed it, Brooklyn. As Truman Capote once said, "I live in Brooklyn, by choice." My girlfriend, Katya and I just finished watching the internet bootleg copy of Project Runway's opening to the 2009 season filmed in LA. An old friend and classmate of mine, Ari Fish, was a contestant on the show, in which she only lasted one episode.
Thoughts on the matter would not warrant much discussion, but I figured I'd procrastinate further and try to give my own two cents to perhaps make sense and shed some light for all you out there scratching your heads saying "huh?"
It starts in Kansas City. Mid-Coast America. Where is that? Well, it's on the Missouri River on the border between the states of Kansas and Missouri, mostly Missouri. Historically, it began as a French fur trading outpost and grew into the last main gateway for Western expansion of early settlers California bound. Later as infrastructures developed K.C. functioned as a major cattle and freight train junction with its relative central geographic placement in the U.S. As time would have it, it's primary contacts to the outside world were the railroads and roadways in all directions with St. Louis and Chicago to the East, and Wichita, Omaha, Denver, and eventually L.A. to the far West. Isolated? Somewhat, then there was Radio, WWII, TV, Interstates and the Internet.
Fast forward to the 20th-21st centuries and put yourself in K.C. and you have a major urban oasis in the middle of an industrially-federally-subsidized-farmed America with less isolation and more people, highways, sprawls, etc.
In the middle of all this is Midtown. No, not the one you might think of with Rockefeller Center. We are talking about a small region with a few art museums, the Kansas City Art Institute, West Port, and Broadway Cafe. Not the kind you'd find in Times Square, but Kansas City style, a local favorite coffee shop made even more famous by driving a Starbucks out of business.
Kelly's, an old Irish bar converted from a carriage house in the West Port neighborhood that railroad men used to frequent back when they still hadn't connected the country, stands as the area's oldest building. Legend has it that during the Civil war it even served as a stop on the underground railroad where slaves were freed from their shackles and that the chains are still in the basement to this day. The Art Institute's former star professor Thomas Hart Benton who taught Jackson Pollock everything he never used, used to hit up the joint weekly as did many art students and teachers for years.
So an Art Institute in the middle of the country? Yes. It makes sense if you want a cheaper city, with room to work and without all the B.S. of LA or NY. Ari, a local of the Kansas City area, myself from the Chicago area, and many other Mid-westerners as well as coastal dwellers were drawn and continue to be drawn to the best-kept-secret tucked between the Mississippi and the Rockies. So where am I going?, well its back to Ari.
Ari Fish. In school for four years together she always amazed me with her approach to work and in conversation, which was natural, flexible, and challenging. If I said she was a socially responsible free spirit renegade, she might disapprove of labels. She is the ideal student-- a perpetual learner that continues to evolve herself and others. Ari always had an edge and was comfortable on that edge where she could operate with intensity and with the unique experimental nature only she could provide. I have distinct and vague memories of us all working in studio and her ideas, projects and comments always surprised me and kept me guessing. Russell Ferguson served as a major instructor and muse giving her more fuel for the fire. In her studies she changed majors from painting to ceramics and continued to develop her unique vision and most importantly, continued asking questions. As Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."
As I mentioned earlier, the city and all the creative life it generates acts as both an insulated incubator and distorted amplifier of coastal influences. The major universities in K.C. and with Kansas University in Lawrence Kansas 45 minutes away function as the community's life-blood bringing in fresh views and talent every year. Kansas City, unlike many American cities, has over the years (with it's unique geography) cultivated its own collective voice. Bustling within these social communities, artists are able to live and work in affordable spaces that would make anyone in NY cry if I mentioned rents. This said, I believe Ari is one of our finest examples of creative tenacity fueled with absolute fearlessness. Let the cream rise, as the saying goes.
It is no real surprise that Ari's work was not accepted by the judging panel, as Michael Kors said, "Maybe I'm not smart enough to get it?" This may or may not be the case but it sets the tone that I'd like to convey which is this, though the show presented her as 'spacey' there is a tremendous amount of energy and volume in space which if you follow logical reasoning, gives you room to grow and flourish. Ari will continue on a path unique and with the vision and people behind her that matter. We wish her the best in Germany from Brooklyn, where she is working on a new fashion collection in Berlin.
If you are still scratching your head. Don't jump to conclusions. You don't walk out on a first date by accident. As Buckminster Fuller once stated in regards to expectations, "There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly."
_________________________
Dan Bina
Artist
Blogger
NY-er
KCAI class of 2006
I am sitting in our small apartment with boxes and stuff in half-packed-mode for our move in a few days to a new apartment, still in, you guessed it, Brooklyn. As Truman Capote once said, "I live in Brooklyn, by choice." My girlfriend, Katya and I just finished watching the internet bootleg copy of Project Runway's opening to the 2009 season filmed in LA. An old friend and classmate of mine, Ari Fish, was a contestant on the show, in which she only lasted one episode.
Thoughts on the matter would not warrant much discussion, but I figured I'd procrastinate further and try to give my own two cents to perhaps make sense and shed some light for all you out there scratching your heads saying "huh?"
It starts in Kansas City. Mid-Coast America. Where is that? Well, it's on the Missouri River on the border between the states of Kansas and Missouri, mostly Missouri. Historically, it began as a French fur trading outpost and grew into the last main gateway for Western expansion of early settlers California bound. Later as infrastructures developed K.C. functioned as a major cattle and freight train junction with its relative central geographic placement in the U.S. As time would have it, it's primary contacts to the outside world were the railroads and roadways in all directions with St. Louis and Chicago to the East, and Wichita, Omaha, Denver, and eventually L.A. to the far West. Isolated? Somewhat, then there was Radio, WWII, TV, Interstates and the Internet.
Fast forward to the 20th-21st centuries and put yourself in K.C. and you have a major urban oasis in the middle of an industrially-federally-subsidized-farmed America with less isolation and more people, highways, sprawls, etc.
In the middle of all this is Midtown. No, not the one you might think of with Rockefeller Center. We are talking about a small region with a few art museums, the Kansas City Art Institute, West Port, and Broadway Cafe. Not the kind you'd find in Times Square, but Kansas City style, a local favorite coffee shop made even more famous by driving a Starbucks out of business.
Kelly's, an old Irish bar converted from a carriage house in the West Port neighborhood that railroad men used to frequent back when they still hadn't connected the country, stands as the area's oldest building. Legend has it that during the Civil war it even served as a stop on the underground railroad where slaves were freed from their shackles and that the chains are still in the basement to this day. The Art Institute's former star professor Thomas Hart Benton who taught Jackson Pollock everything he never used, used to hit up the joint weekly as did many art students and teachers for years.
So an Art Institute in the middle of the country? Yes. It makes sense if you want a cheaper city, with room to work and without all the B.S. of LA or NY. Ari, a local of the Kansas City area, myself from the Chicago area, and many other Mid-westerners as well as coastal dwellers were drawn and continue to be drawn to the best-kept-secret tucked between the Mississippi and the Rockies. So where am I going?, well its back to Ari.
Ari Fish. In school for four years together she always amazed me with her approach to work and in conversation, which was natural, flexible, and challenging. If I said she was a socially responsible free spirit renegade, she might disapprove of labels. She is the ideal student-- a perpetual learner that continues to evolve herself and others. Ari always had an edge and was comfortable on that edge where she could operate with intensity and with the unique experimental nature only she could provide. I have distinct and vague memories of us all working in studio and her ideas, projects and comments always surprised me and kept me guessing. Russell Ferguson served as a major instructor and muse giving her more fuel for the fire. In her studies she changed majors from painting to ceramics and continued to develop her unique vision and most importantly, continued asking questions. As Einstein said, "Imagination is more important than knowledge."
As I mentioned earlier, the city and all the creative life it generates acts as both an insulated incubator and distorted amplifier of coastal influences. The major universities in K.C. and with Kansas University in Lawrence Kansas 45 minutes away function as the community's life-blood bringing in fresh views and talent every year. Kansas City, unlike many American cities, has over the years (with it's unique geography) cultivated its own collective voice. Bustling within these social communities, artists are able to live and work in affordable spaces that would make anyone in NY cry if I mentioned rents. This said, I believe Ari is one of our finest examples of creative tenacity fueled with absolute fearlessness. Let the cream rise, as the saying goes.
It is no real surprise that Ari's work was not accepted by the judging panel, as Michael Kors said, "Maybe I'm not smart enough to get it?" This may or may not be the case but it sets the tone that I'd like to convey which is this, though the show presented her as 'spacey' there is a tremendous amount of energy and volume in space which if you follow logical reasoning, gives you room to grow and flourish. Ari will continue on a path unique and with the vision and people behind her that matter. We wish her the best in Germany from Brooklyn, where she is working on a new fashion collection in Berlin.
If you are still scratching your head. Don't jump to conclusions. You don't walk out on a first date by accident. As Buckminster Fuller once stated in regards to expectations, "There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly."
_________________________
Dan Bina
Artist
Blogger
NY-er
KCAI class of 2006
8.18.2009
Jack Kerouac: Dharma Bums
In the last few pages of his second major novel Kerouac's character Ray Smith as a fire lookout at Desolation Peak Washington writes in his lengthy solitude-
...I'd go out to my snowfield and dig out my jar of purple Jello and look at the white moon through it. I could feel the world rolling toward the moon. At night while I was in my bag, the deer would come up from the lower timber and nibble at leftovers in tin plates in the yard: bucks with wide antlers, does, and cute little fawns looking like otherworldly mammals on another planet with all that moonlight rock behind them.
Then would come wild lyrical drizzling rain, from the south, in the wind, and I'd say "The taste of rain, why kneel?" and I'd say "Time for hot coffee and a cigarette, boys," addressing my imaginary bhikkus. The moon became full and huge and with it came Aurora Borealis over Mount Hozomeen ("Look at the void and it is even stiller," Han Shan had said in Japhy's translation)...
...I'd go out to my snowfield and dig out my jar of purple Jello and look at the white moon through it. I could feel the world rolling toward the moon. At night while I was in my bag, the deer would come up from the lower timber and nibble at leftovers in tin plates in the yard: bucks with wide antlers, does, and cute little fawns looking like otherworldly mammals on another planet with all that moonlight rock behind them.
Then would come wild lyrical drizzling rain, from the south, in the wind, and I'd say "The taste of rain, why kneel?" and I'd say "Time for hot coffee and a cigarette, boys," addressing my imaginary bhikkus. The moon became full and huge and with it came Aurora Borealis over Mount Hozomeen ("Look at the void and it is even stiller," Han Shan had said in Japhy's translation)...
7.31.2009
4-2-09
N. A.M. NYC.
Note-
A heavy fog has set in this morning crossing the Manhattan Bridge gazing Southward towards the Brooklyn, the city looks as if on the edge of the world. It just ends. The old stone bridge becomes the last and only crossing joining the two strange remaining islands on Earth. Then begins the light misty void extending into infinity as it swallows up all that it can off into a sublime unknown.
Note-
A heavy fog has set in this morning crossing the Manhattan Bridge gazing Southward towards the Brooklyn, the city looks as if on the edge of the world. It just ends. The old stone bridge becomes the last and only crossing joining the two strange remaining islands on Earth. Then begins the light misty void extending into infinity as it swallows up all that it can off into a sublime unknown.
7.26.2009
Wedding Toast: 4-10-09
N. A.M. NYC
Friday. One of the the most glorious six letter words in the English language, particularly at 5 p.m. that very day. A good day to be alive & well with sunshine & slight soreness from yesterday's workout. A hot coffee in hand sipping caffeinated life along the N train tracks. Greta and Aaron are having there party tonight. Ellisa is coming up from B-more to visit for a few days into next week for some acro-yoga classes. Hopefully she'll call off the bus and we can bring her up to the party too. Speaking of the party, I need to solidify my thoughts on the matter. A toast is in order for this evening's festivities. It's not every day that these sorts of things happen to your friends. May I forgive myself for any trespassing into cliche territory and for any trampling into the cheese. Here goes:
Friday. One of the the most glorious six letter words in the English language, particularly at 5 p.m. that very day. A good day to be alive & well with sunshine & slight soreness from yesterday's workout. A hot coffee in hand sipping caffeinated life along the N train tracks. Greta and Aaron are having there party tonight. Ellisa is coming up from B-more to visit for a few days into next week for some acro-yoga classes. Hopefully she'll call off the bus and we can bring her up to the party too. Speaking of the party, I need to solidify my thoughts on the matter. A toast is in order for this evening's festivities. It's not every day that these sorts of things happen to your friends. May I forgive myself for any trespassing into cliche territory and for any trampling into the cheese. Here goes:
A.G. Toast
I have not had the distinct pleasure of knowing our friends Aaron and Greta as long as some of us here this evening, but I would like to note that through their generosity of spirit and friendship I know them no less in terms of their love for each other or for their love of us who have have come to celebrate their joyous marriage. To this I say Aaron & Greta, that though you both may defy some conventions, you also exceed expectations and inspire us all in your love for each other, that when two are married they remind us that not only is love possible but it is the most important fundamental thing in the universe, more powerful than gravity, it binds us in ways that can't be quantified and is thusly mysterious & magical in nature. So I thank you both for bringing the magic to each other and for sharing your new lives with all of us, for inspiring us and for making us once again believers in the power of that most mysterious force called love.
Quote from somewhere memory forgotten past: "All of life can be summed up as an approach to or a departure from the phrase, I love you."
Hope this goes well. Didn't want to be the guy with the long one or the zen guy with a word or two.
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