I had this bizarre dream recently that I saw some
maniac driving in circles around my neighbourhood in what looked like a Reliant Robin, ready to crash into whatever they could at any given moment… yes, my mind (awake or asleep) works in weird ways but it gives me ideas so, hurray?
The nearby pine tree has dropped quite a few pine cones, all in different states of decay. I enjoy looking at the different shapes, sizes and colours of each cone, each with its unknown story.
A 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle I recently painted as as gift for my grandma on her 85th birthday, using objects and photos of significance from her life. :)
Yet another senseless lynching that has me here with a broken heart. Like my other paintings on this subject, I wanted to focus on life. Tyre was dynamic and energetic, so I wanted to paint him soring. I also wanted to paint him defiant in the face of his oppressors. He was a skater, and they are no strangers to defiance. Thankfully, I found some excellent references to help me with the composition. Aesthetically, I wanted the comp to be modern, colorful, and hopefully impactful. I went for a pop art, illustration, and false-color vibe and minimized blending and refining layer edges. I painted this in Rebelle 6 and Photoshop. Much respect.
Shea Coulee is an amazing performer and personality. Her recent work and Instagram feed were the inspiration for this piece. Each layer is digitally painted, but I love the overall screen print feel.
A wonderful reflective poem from Wendell Berry entitled "How to be a poet" is a fantastic foundation for an art curriculum. The last of three stanzas reads as follows:
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
I generally make marks on something every day, but I'm really TRYING to do it purposefully in one singular location (journal). Here is a successful attempt from that particular day. I'm also super lazy, which means I never go up to my actual studio and only use what's out on my computer desk.
I generally make marks on something every day, but I'm really TRYING to do it purposefully in one singular location (journal). Here is a successful attempt from that particular day. I'm also super lazy, which means I never go up to my actual studio and only use what's out on my computer desk.
To be perfectly honest, the latest lockdown announcement here in Scotland was bound to influence my art in some form or another...
Needless to say this is going to be one looooong winter, one that’ll have me blasting “Here Comes The Sun” by The Beatles once it ends, or at the very least stabilises.
I had a rock tumbler as a child and really enjoyed it. When my youngest was a child we bought her one. She was eager to enjoy it too, but somewhere after starting on that path, we lost track and it everything inside turned into a solid mass. We tossed it and forgot about it. On a recent beach trip, I collected handfuls of rocks, as I am always likely to do, and, upon return, remembered how I loved my childhood rock tumbler. I immediately researched, ordered and eagerly anticipated its delivery. Of course, with Amazon Prime, that was only a couple day’s wait. As soon as I unboxed it I thought “what am I doing?” I have neither time, nor space for yet another hobby. I thought “what will I DO with a pile of polished, pretty rocks?” I would gather them in my hands and feel their silky smoothness. I would likely gather them in some beautiful glass bowl and…then what? I have toddler grand kids frequently at my home. They put small colorful things in their mouths and up their noses and feed them to the dogs regularly. And I don’t even have a single space to display a bog bowl of pretty rocks. So I quickly decided “I’m Returning the Rock Tumbler” and will, for NOW, stick to painting them when the mood strikes.
Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching.
They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light.
Perhaps this is all of us:
stretching through shadows,
searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.
Lino cut print over pastel. The story goes: The bird fell in love with the whale the first time she saw him break through the ocean’s surface, sunlight dancing on his back. From high above, she sang to him, and deep below, he answered with a song as old as the tides.
She longed to dive, to join him in the rolling blue. He wished to rise, to fly beside her in the endless sky. But air and water would not trade places.
So each day, at dawn and dusk, they met at the edge of their worlds—she on the wind, he in the waves—singing a love song carried by the breeze and the tide, never together but never apart.
