kim fay

Get in the Bath or Get a Job

2012-01-07T15:22:00.001-05:00

Sit in my studio, paint, think, go take a bath, eat, think some more, change the music, write, paint a little, think. It’s a great job. It just doesn’t always pay too well. Rembrandt ultimately forfeited his swanky house and claimed bankruptcy. Gauguin was banned from France at one point. Not that he objected to his Tahitian exile as he clearly made the most of his situation. Pollock may have been able to create some wealth if he hadn’t died in a drunken car accident. Some artists have done very well such as Renaissance painters, sculptors and architects like Bernini and Raphael who enjoyed regular patronage. Marketeers like Koons, Hirst and Murakami are wealthy. These are the celebrated. What about the rest of us? There’s plenty of talent that isn’t awarded the necessary props from those that can catapult an artist into a spotlight that generates cash flow. For the unhighlighted this sadly means we have to get a job that pays regularly. This may or may not relate to our medium. It does mean less time in the studio, which, for me, translates into underdeveloped ideas. Not to mention a general dissatisfaction with my life and a sense I’m not doing something right.

There has always been a symbiotic relationship between the wealthy and the creative. We already know why artists need the wealthy. The wealthy, such as the Medici family who supported artists like Botticelli and Michelangelo, need to appear generous and altruistic to temper their ambition and greed in turn avoiding minor robbery to murder attempts and rioting. (The 99% are considering their options) It also doesn’t hurt that a great artist can document a family’s power and nobility for all time. The paintings Napoleon commissioned that hang at Versailles make him appear as formidable as he wished he had been. And taller. Artists make homely daughters of wealthy patrons palatable and the money keeps the artists in bread, wine and fetishes.

I haven’t indulged in any fetishes in a while. My lack of patronage has kept me painfully restricted to life on a ledge debating whether just falling off might be the better choice. At least it would be an interesting choice. Standing here merely fighting the cold wind waiting for an invitation inside where it’s warm and lovely is wearing me out. I succumb to my parents’ nodding approval of my alleged fortitude. I’m not that strong. I’m weak. Too weak to just let it all go and run amok! God, I’m dying to just run wild for a while. And I do mean dying. As in my soul shriveling to a fragile withered leaf devoid of even one squeeze of green succulence. I guess I don’t want to lose my house or ruin my credit score. One day, when this is all over and I’m solvent again I’ll be glad I held on? Jeezus, I really don’t know the answer to that. Why is it always some undisclosed magical day on the horizon that holds all milk and honey? What about today for Chrissakes? What if I don’t make it to that horizon line? Technically we never get there. So what the hell am I doing then?

I spend time in wealthier circles. I had a conversation with a man I knew in high school who lives a rat race 14 hour day existence. He’s done very well for himself, but has to keep it up to keep it all up. He colored with envy despite my comparative poverty because I do get days like today that are what I hope every day could be. I painted, ate, bathed, thought some thoughts, and painted some more, then went to an opening for someone else’s thinking and painting where we can all think about what we are looking at and discuss. I live alone and don’t have kids. I have a luxurious life. I did not have the money to go to NOLA this New Year’s with my cousins. I wouldn’t have minded watching my maize and blue win the Sugar Bowl! It was the soul of that city that was the real attraction and I bet I can get there another time when I can fully embrace all the flavor of New Orleans, not just as a celebrating football fan on Bourbon Street. I’m torn between what is considered grown-up behavior and what appears to be utter irresponsibility but is really creative exercise. I am creatively out of shape. While normies join Weight Watchers, I’m looking for a bit of debauchery. (Thinkin’ NOLA should stay on the to do list)

There is some discussion on creative genius whether it appears early or after years of study and practice. It’s both. The difference with the late person is constant dissatisfaction. A sense that a goal isn’t being reached. While some contemporaries hit their zenith at 25 and run with it for a while, I’m still waiting. My experience has shown me what great art looks like. I’m never sure I’ve made anything worthy of leaving the house let alone adorning noted gallery walls. Cezanne didn't hit the bigs until he was 50 and regularly shredded paintings out of frustration. In contrast Picasso, sure of his talent because it was established when a young ego can easily agree with such an assessment, progressed confidently with plenty of patronage to support his endeavors. I’ve had off and on patronage. The current economy has reduced support solely to family. I have a Theo in my parents, a cousin and a few close friends. I’d be out on the street without them. Basic needs are met. My challenge is in meeting creative needs so I can get on those walls.

My one unique attribute is I have a head for business. Despite the patronage I do have, it’s not enough. I still need a blech, choke, ugh, job. I’ve managed to begin to translate my Hollywood moment into some opportunities that are, gratefully, in the arts. I like that I’m resourceful and know how to manage the money I do have. My situation would be significantly worse if I didn’t. The challenge is to hold onto the assets I have ‘til that rapturous day of renewed solvency and still let loose enough to cultivate a painterly mind that generates work I’m excited about and proud of. Work that even I can tell is pretty good.

Like the spiritually devoted, one cannot sustain a meditative state. Life always intrudes. At tonight’s opening, I had a discussion with one of the facility’s directors about the band of painter ladies who take classes there. They are financially secure so their lives are strings of days like I had today, yet they find room to complain. RUFKM? Those of us who need that damn job dream of their situation. Is it possible we have it better? Isn’t life where the art comes from? What do I draw on if I’m not living? Why aren’t these ladies traveling, exploring, taking young lovers? They live close to the vest and adhere to social perimeters. It shows in the work. It may be well composed (often not) and nice to look at (often not), it isn’t provocative, it doesn’t challenge. The most brilliant minds I’m acquainted with in Detroit are constantly struggling for work/money. The comforting news there is I’m in very good company. I’d rather be in the mix not knowing where my next paycheck is coming from than have it so comfortable I don’t take any chances because I’m afraid of discomfort. I am afraid of not getting what I want. The only way to have a shot at getting what I want is to get out there and live. So I suppose I have the life I want and need to meet the goal that hasn’t manifested yet. Huh. Guess I’ll go soak in the tub after all this thinking and then maybe paint something.

As I Am

2011-12-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

Barcelona. Paris. Painting. Writing. Woody Allen you’re killing me. I was never a fan. I saw the value in “Annie Hall” and other neurotic biopics but they didn’t thrill. These recent films (“Vicky Cristina Barcelona” and “Midnight in Paris”) are fictitious in character but are an accurate description of the creative and his/her struggle. We are perpetually tortured. Drinking, drugs, sex can provide a reprieve from the torment. It can just as well destroy everything. I dream of New York in the ‘50’s. In hindsight it appears the equal to the romance of Paris in the ‘20’s with a little edge, same amount of booze, less sex. Not as edgy as New York in the ‘80’s. I was making art then. In Detroit. So close. What about now? Is it happening now? Could they see it when they were in the middle of it? Did Degas know? Hemingway? I think Toulouse-Lautrec may have had his suspicions. Pollock and de Kooning were too drunk. Basquiat may have taken the most vicious thrashing. If it weren’t for Warhol, he’d have been totally alone save the vultures.

Making art and making love are virtually the same experience if I’m with the right person or in love with phthalo blue at the moment it’s on my brush. What’s the point otherwise. It’s all just rote then. Where’s the beauty? The luxury? Unless I can’t tell you what day it is or if it’s hot or cloudy, why bother? I’ve tried to force it hoping for just a tiny shimmer of that. If I’m not lost, it can’t be found.

Does the good art always come from the struggle? Seems all the greats have fantastically weird lives. Because of the struggle the love is so much sweeter. It’s in such contrast to the daily grinding minutia that’s hell bent on wearing me down to mediocrity. I get atta girls for my willingness to resort to manual labor to pay a bill. I don’t find it admirable. It’s pitiful. Sad. Nothing takes me further away from the cracked window I’m experiencing at this moment. Nothing slams that bit shut quicker or with more conviction. If I don’t have my contemporaries to hole-punch this wrestling match (4 more and I get one catatonic depression for free), I could be departed from this openness permanently. No ordinary sun for me. It’s a bitch of a choice that’s no choice at all.

I can’t resist the chase. Those glorious, yet painfully transient, moments when the universe opens up and shares its secrets. It can happen on a transcendent plane, sure. Spectacular. It can be just as stunning when I hear “I’m just going to say it” from a man I’ve been in a smoke and mirrors dance with for 20 years. Takes some age to have the courage to speak your heart. I had to wait for that one. Worth it. It’s all so bloody worth it. Just don’t ask me on a cloudy day. I’m waiting to take a walk in the rain with someone who doesn’t mind getting wet.

Concrete Leaves

2011-11-13T14:50:00.001-05:00

How does he get from “let’s do something for real this week”, calls on Wednesday for Saturday, adds “I’ll call you Friday” with the details, to no call Friday and no show Saturday punctuated by a lameass text sorry about tonight, I fell asleep? When the Friday call didn’t come, I already knew Saturday was off and made alternate plans. I couldn’t decide if I should even contact him to ask what happened. I did. I wanted to know. He concluded his pitiful text asking if I’d had dinner? Really? You expected me to not only be available (of course I’m home waiting and pining for your call) but to still meet you last minute? Do enough girls agree to this guys actually thinks it’s acceptable?

My pasty out of shape neighbor bought a new leaf blower. He’s clearly not mechanical because he kind of blows the leaves around the yard leaving patches of exposed grass with few leaves actually making it to the street. He had the balls to stand on our property line and blow his leaves into my raked yard. While I watched him do it. You did not just do that. What the hell is the matter with people? You know I’m waiting until he goes to work tomorrow and raking those leaves right back onto his lawn. Asshole. This is how the whole Hatfields and McCoys dispute started. With a leaf blower and some dickishness.

A friend of mine is in the middle of a divorce. She left him stating she didn’t love him anymore. She promptly moved back in with an ex then commenced weeping and pleading she doesn’t have any money and can my friend give her his second car, the rings and pay for her overdue electric bill? Are you fucking kidding me? For a chick, that’s quite a set she’s got there. Steal crafted.

I’m no wallflower. When my marriage began to unravel, I tried to discuss the circumstances with my husband and unearth a solution. When that didn’t happen, I spent a month setting myself up before I told him I was done. I opened a checking account and moved money into it, took his name off certain accounts, moved valuables to my parents’ house. I’m a reasonable person. Until it’s time not to be. You screw with me, I’ll do what I have to. He got served on Devil’s Night. That’s my favorite part of the story. Pure poetry. He was genuinely stunned appearing to have no reference for this action. Where the hell have you been? Did you think that conversation wherein I mentioned I was considering a divorce an empty threat? You underestimated me. Most do. Until they wake up one morning and their leaves are mysteriously back on their lawn.

Festering Human Putrescence

2011-11-10T18:17:00.002-05:00

This has been festering since the news broke. The thoughts I’ve had on others' comments are a whirlwind in my head I haven’t been able to anchor long enough to construct the simplest of sentences. The spectacular contradiction between what I grew up knowing and what has come to be the truth is staggering. My Grandfather, captain of the 1933 National Championship Michigan Wolverine football team, taught me what it meant to be a Michigan Man. He plays the game with toughness, sure, but also with honor and integrity. After graduation, Gramps wound up Harry Bennett’s right hand man. If you don’t know who Harry Bennett is, google him. Mr. Henry Ford hired him to keep the unions out. Back then, they muscled them out. My Dad claims Gramps never beat anybody up. He always maintained “they had people for that.” I think it’s the Fonzie phenomenon. You have to have hit someone at least once to establish your fear based respect. The family has a certain admiration for Gramps’ stint as a professional thug. Are you talkin’ to me? I have thug genes in case you want to take this outside. Americans love a badass. I adored Gramps. We all did. I was completely aware that even as an old man sitting in his favorite leather chair appearing quite innocuous, he could kill you with his bare hands. Ford Motor needed to match the local Cosa Nostra with their own brand of intimidators just to keep from getting fitted with a pair of cement shoes. The mob leaned on Ford, Ford leaned back. In those days there was honor among thieves (I think you can classify either side in this contest as such) and sometimes a good punch was necessary to keep the peace. Gramps ultimately abandoned his post, much to the bitter disappointment of Mr. Bennett. Gramps had a strong compass for fairness and would occasionally revise his role when his sense of injustice was stirred, resulting in hilarious and poignant stories the family retells regularly.

After my Grandmother died, I assumed her season ticket to Michigan Stadium and sat next to Gramps for several years. He impressed upon me the importance of annihilating your opponent, but to do it within the rules. Not sure his thug exploits were completely within the rules, but at least it was man to man, face to face. Akin to a holding penalty? Face mask? Dirty, but part of the game? Ok, I love my Gramps and may be rationalizing a little. Leave it. He can still kick your ass. From the grave. That’s how tough he is. Point made, move on, sheesh. I remember when Penn State joined the Big Ten and the first time they came to the Big House. Joe Paterno. My God. In my book he was second only to the mighty Bo Schembechler. During a pre-game warm up I watched Coach Paterno walk up and down the rows of players and speak to every single man. Even the ones who wouldn’t see a down that day. I was in awe and impressed. Joe Paterno was the gold standard for integrity. Other teams were getting busted for breaking NCAA rules in order to sign the hot players. Not UM or Penn State. I admired a coach that could run a clean program and still beat the pants off damn near anybody. You could be honest and still win. Oops.

What I see happening in the hands of men with power is heinous. From the church to Penn State, the offenders chose their stuff, titles, money, prestige and influence over the welfare of another human being. They tortured and tormented a weaker someone for what? To feel even more powerful? Kept silent to maintain his legendary post as the winningest coach in college football history? That legend has an entirely new ring to it. Sports’ farthest fall from grace in the history of ever. You’re epic, Paterno. Human putrescence.

Why can’t we stand up for what’s right? From student bullying to political posturing, what are we so afraid of? We’re Americans for Chrissakes. Even Hermione Granger knows how to throw an effective punch. We’ve become a nation of cowards. It’s time to name names. Come clean and speak straight. I’m going to tell you this. I could have lied and kept all the money the productions paid me last year like Ariana Gallery did. Ann got paid $15,000 by ABC to rent art to Detroit 1-8-7. She cited the labor involved in preparing the art for delivery and paperwork left no commission for the artists. They’d get national exposure in return for the use of their work. Really? You got $15,000 and you couldn’t manage even $100 payout? You are that greedy, desperate, what? An acquaintance of mine claims her as his friend and explained that she has “a different way of doing business.” “Yeah,” I retorted, “unscrupulous and I don’t want anything to do with her.” When this event went down, I decided to take the high road and not engage in gossip or badmouthing so I didn’t name her. Is it the high road then if I let her get away with it? If I don’t call her out and other artists fall for her bullshit? I’m calling it. I paid the artists that got rented through me more than I paid myself. I felt that was fair because it was their art. Maybe that was foolish. But I can sleep at night. I feel really good about what I did and I think it may have helped a couple people.

From Lehman Brothers and Bernie Madoff, to the church and Penn State. To the Republican candidates that remained silent (during a debate) while a cheer rose in the crowd over the death penalty and the dismissal of an active fighting in Afghanistan because he’s gay, I’m thrilled to be small and fighting hard for what little I have. Those in power not only have no idea what my life, our lives, is like, and don’t care. If G. W. Bush woke up with my money tomorrow he’d shoot himself in the head. I think this kind of power wielding has been going on for a while. It’s been covered up because those that knew would have forfeited something they didn’t want to lose. Fame, Power, Wealth are that important to some. It’s unfortunate the days of being able to reconcile it via a hot poker up the ass then flung naked into the street are over. How’s it going Edward II? Ouch. We could use a little of that kind of crime and punishment. If only my Gramps were still alive. Once he’d gotten over his heart being broken, we may have enjoyed some old school justice. I’m headed to Home Depot for a bag of Quikcrete. Who’s with me?

Put the Whopper Down

2011-10-27T15:29:00.002-04:00

If only we were pissed enough to invent something akin to the guillotine (don’t want to be a diabolical plagiarizer, originality has much more shock and awe value). Let’s cart families like the Bristols and Johnsons to the town square whilst we pelt them with the rotten food they’ve forced us to live on then lop their heads off. Think that’d get the 1%’s attention?

We've been conditioned to think individually and as such we are powerless. For the love of god man. Put the whopper down and pry your fat ass off your disgusting couch. I hope you realize the Bristols view us with disdain, a pitiful shanty town of lemmings. And when I say “us” that includes millionaires to crackheads. And when I say “Bristols”, of the Bristol-Myers Squibb behemoth, I mean those that manage to maintain a hubris about themselves despite never having worked a day in their lives, didn’t earn $1 of the money they live on, have never accomplished a damn thing and are a complete waste of space yet control everything. And when I say “everything” I mean to include the White House, Congress, Ben Bernanke as well as what we eat and what we believe we can't live without, their products. The truth is the power is with us. The masses. We have numbers. What if we don’t buy Kleenex? What if 300 million people simultaneously pulled what money we do have out of those colossal banks? Those bastards would notice. They NEED us to maintain their homes, cars, compounds, planes, yachts, really soft toilet paper made from Swedish rabbit fur, etc.

I want to hurry up and add I support capitalism. Bristol, Myers and Johnson saw an opportunity and took it, expanded it, maxed out the potential. Isn’t that the dream? Some of the anger I have is jealousy. I wouldn’t turn down a chance to live like that. I don’t really notice the disparity in their life and mine when I’m solvent. But when things take a nasty turn, all of a sudden I’m mad and screaming for my rights! I do think there has been perversion of what our country was founded on. A political post was a service position, not a career. You did your term, then went home to the occupation you had before you served. Our representatives were truly “of” the people. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Those that live on their personal Ponderosa, paid for by us, are missing humility. It happens when wealth is passed down to a generation that didn’t build the wealth but had it handed to them with no effort on their part other than a trip down the birth canal. I’m disappointed it wasn’t me. I think I’d feel better if they showed a little gratitude. Or if their head was rolling around in a basket.

Goody Good

2011-10-11T15:55:00.000-04:00

Money. It’s a hit. Don’t give me that do goody good bullshit. Money isn’t the root of all evil. The LOVE of money is. When there isn’t a lot of it, it’s supremely difficult to keep god and art first. It’s all I can bloody think about. I had a conversation with a fellow artist/sufferer Saturday night and it’s somewhat comforting to know I’m not the only one who burns up good studio time worrying about money. I’m hoping to remedy this habit. ‘Cause that’s all it is at this point, habit. I’m enjoying the worst economic year I’ve had in 20, yet the government thinks I have too many assets for Medicaid and a Bridge card. Their definition of destitute is possessing less than $100 in cash with no hope of at least $25 coming in the next couple days. I never thought I was destitute. I just need a little help. I’d prefer to keep said assets, my house and paid off car, since that’s all that’s left.

Art is an absurd career choice, but I made it. I had some crazy idea I could be financially successful and make art. It is possible, but I think I have a better shot as a 5’2” female in the NBA than riches via art. My background in Bloomfield Hills was awesome in several ways. Education not withstanding, Dad’s monumentally cool job at Sports Illustrated afforded suites, VIP parking, 4 star restaurants and a country club membership, all available with valet of course. I never doubted the presence of money. It never occurred to me I couldn’t get it. Until I married a man who decided that, due to my father’s station, he could spend what he wanted. One problem. It’s Dad’s money, not mine. Our 3 year marriage concluded with cumbersome debt and the IRS camped on our doorstep. I’ve haven’t felt secure since. I don’t seem to realize that I wasn’t the problem. I am responsible. I can count on me. Too late. Once traumatized, the scar is set. I’m hoping the trauma of the past 3 years will overshadow that old scar and grant me a new one.

I take responsibility for choosing poorly in marriage. I’ve done nothing but play by the book since. “That’s your first mistake,” I can hear my old lawyer friend Tom saying. Ha. He’s likely right. Regardless, I worked hard, invested in a house and an IRA, kept my debt load to a minimum with the American Dream lit up on the horizon. Nope, it was an oncoming train. Along with millions of other Believers, I lost damn near everything I’d worked 17 years for. Once the shock wore off, it was time to figure out what to do. As you know, Hollywood came to Detroit and granted a year or two reprieve until, again, powers I have nothing to do with, destroyed that. I have felt like a leaf in the wind. I have never experienced anything this scary. Way more frightening than my idiot husband. I could kick him to the curb and start over. I have to choke the banks and the government down. Live on next to nothing. Yet, here I am. Warm, dry and fed. I’m hoping that I can finally learn that no matter what I’ll be just fine. Somehow. I have amazing family and friends. I’m rather resourceful. Being a fraidycat saver doesn’t hurt either. I know how to pinch a penny. Ask Peg. I rarely pay retail. I’m much more patient that I thought. I can wait for damn near anything. Wait for it to go on sale. Wait for someone to help me. Wait for a job to come in. Wait for love. While all this waiting is going on, I’m free to make art. I’m committed to reversing my worry habit. It’s been my go-to response for 20 years. It hasn’t accomplished much. I’d rather spend that time painting, writing, or dare I say it, dreaming? I’m not too old to dream. I don’t think the banks or the government can regulate those? Better get after it before they figure out how.

Girls Gone Wild

2011-09-11T15:59:00.001-04:00

There is no experience like being in Michigan Stadium for one of those epic gridiron match ups. I’ve been going to games since I was 10 or 11, after we moved back from New York, or I would have started earlier. In those days, every game kicked off at 1P, none were televised except M/OSU, which was pretty much always for the Big Ten Championship, usually decided on a field goal. The family held season tickets starting in 1934 after Gramps graduated having captained the 1933 National Championship team. I adored Gramps and Grandma and football Saturday was just an afternoon out with them. You dressed for the game then. Blazers and wool pants. Women pinned yellow mums to their lapels. Cocktails were served in actual glasses at a tailgate that didn’t require a parking pass. And we regularly pasted every team that dared enter that stadium by 50 or more points. Superstitions were reverently observed to ensure that record. I got to witness moments that make every ESPN highlight reel, not the least of which was the John Wangler to Anthony Carter touchdown pass. I’ve watched some of the greatest coaches in college football history from Woody Hayes to Joe Paterno, and, of course, the mighty Bo Schembechler. Watched Desmond Howard earn his Heisman and framed my home game ticket stubs from the 1997 National Championship. For me, that stadium wasn’t about the game as much as it represented time well spent with my family. We could have gone to the library every Saturday, it just happened we went out to Ann Arbor.

Change is inevitable. At last night’s instant legendary game, seated in front of my cousin Linda and I were 2 hold outs from the old days. They barely clap and never participate in cheers. My old section, section 2, was loaded with these kinds of fans. The wave always died at my section. If it made it through section 1, the students gave us a resounding cheer. That stadium is so large, when the crowd sings the Victors, our side of the stadium is one beat behind the students. It takes the sound that long to travel from one side to the other. These days, the fans are the 12^th man on the field. It was deafening in there last night. I can’t describe what it feels like to be part of a 114,804 crowd all focused on the same thing (even the ND fans). The air is electric and the camaraderie is unparalleled. Yet, these two fans sat there in their old school reserve pissed that we weren’t towing the propriety line. Linda and I received everything from their offended fingers in ears, to the stink eye to a final pinched faced, pursed lipped, “you girls are really something.” You bet your maize and blue ass! That stadium was way overdue for a makeover. The throngs of fans like those two old schoolers prevented that change for years (Money calls the shots and, whew, there’s a lot of money out there). I resisted it myself. It was Gramps I didn’t want to let go of. Dad, after 60 seasons, called it a day. I did what I could for as long as I could until the perfect storm of my eroding personal economy and surging ticket prices finally did the Fays in. I walked out through the gate at that last home game and said out loud, “the Fays have left the building.” 70 years in total attendance.

Turns out it wasn’t completely over. My biological mother’s family is enjoying third generation alumni. The last couple seasons I had tickets I shared them with cousin Dave. It was really odd for me. Nice, but odd. I didn’t get seriously acquainted with this side of my family until I was an adult. Hard to book a plane ticket from New York to go visit fam in Michigan when you’re 8. But, they’re pretty cool, so ok, let’s go to a game. Isn’t this a happy surprise! Like Dave’s wife wisely says, “it’ll either be a good time or a good story.” It’s both. I love going out there with them. I love when Linda comes to town from Texas and we hook up with her now sophomore daughter at the tailgate. One decidedly Gould trait is a great set of lungs. And guess what? Girls like football, too. We cheer our livin’ butts off! Holy hell, alert the media! Girls gone wild. I feel sorry for that couple alone in a sea of screaming fans, mad that we were so raucous. When we scored that winning touchdown with 8 seconds on the clock, it was an uproarious reaction. The entire stadium erupted. Mass hysteria. Glorious Victorious. I was home by 1A but couldn’t sleep until 3A I was so jacked up. Those two fans missed all of it to nurse a resentment. I completely understand where they are coming from. I don’t like change either. But once embraced, you get to scream, hug, high five and dance with total strangers in one purely celebratory moment. And my family. It’s still about family. I have a brilliant, kick ass, loud, passionate family. And chicks who cheer. Emily Post may have to update her files. I don’t think the Goulds have plans to tone it down any time soon. GO BLUE!!!!

Pride and Spinster

2011-08-31T13:12:00.000-04:00

Jane Austen said it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should refuse an offer of marriage. Not much has changed. The offers are weaker, but still met with disbelief by the proposer. I had a man who was very enthusiastic about spending time with me, even willing to refer to the outings as actual dates, but never once asked me what I like, where I might like to eat, anything I might be interested in. He continued to make specific offers he thought were amazing and never figured out why I kept rejecting him. I mean, how could I possibly entertain such an option when he was clearly brilliant? How do I explain the couple guys who did consider what I’m interested in, made corresponding dates, but never went for a good night kiss? Even after 4 or 5 outings? Seems I remember something about learning to be friends with a woman. My favorite bullshit offer is the “hang out” offer. The best some men can muster is the opportunity to bask in his presence as long as he doesn’t have to account for anything up to and including sex. At least in Jane Austen’s day there was some sense of propriety, a woman’s company was worthy of effort and sex rarely came without commitment. Not that a man wouldn’t accept a salacious offer, but the participants were risking dire social consequences, particularly women, keeping most corsets tightly laced.

The excuses are more creative and seemingly sensitive. I fear the art of courting is dead and we have no one to blame but ourselves. Women do the calling now. We do the chasing. We are the breadwinners and keep the household. What’s left for him to do? Younger guys seem hapless but they do know what to do. They are just so infrequently called to do it. Why climb to the first branch, let alone to the top, when they can pick fruit up right off the ground? Sure that fruit has some bruises, maybe it’s been there a couple days, but it’s easy. We made it easy. I’m all for liberation and equality, as I’ve clearly and frequently stated. I prefer living in an era I can earn my own way and don’t have to stick myself with some fat bald guy in order to ensure my family’s survival. But, damn girls. We can still make it a little difficult to get to the vagina. All we have left is the Promised Land. They can spend some time wandering the desert looking for it, working for it, sweating for it. Those that fall over with their legs open are making it increasingly difficult for those of us who don’t. Self respect is a great thing. Gaining a man’s respect is a worthy pursuit. When did that ensure a cold winter?

If you want to give it away I can’t stop you. I’m just hoping there’s a man out there who’s not afraid to stake a claim. Boys can keep walking. Don’t even bother to fill out an application. The answer is no. Unless by some miracle you look like Benecio Del Toro, then by all means, let’s hang out. Was that my corset coming undone? How on earth did that happen? Oh dear.

It's In the DNA

2011-08-14T16:52:00.001-04:00

I’m not convinced the sexual revolution did women any favors. There is still an appalling disparity in pay between men and women for the same job. Women chase careers while still the primary at home. The area I see the most distressing result is in dating. I’m eternally grateful my orgasm matters. What I find astonishing is the cavalier attitude I’m met with in its pursuit. I am beyond exhausted with the I-can’t-commit-but-let’s-still-have-sex offer. You don’t really believe that’s possible? Other than women keep insisting it is. Men don’t have to work at it anymore so they’ve gotten lazy. They very often claim they like strong independent women. Why? So you don’t have to do it? She’ll just handle it? Is she truly strong if she allows a man’s complete absence in their daily responsibilities but still gets in bed with him every night? Any woman who accepts that doesn’t think much of herself. The man in that situation doesn’t like himself either.

Men haven’t gotten up to speed with their new role. Neither have women. It’s in a man’s DNA to be the provider and protector of their family. To deny him this undermines his confidence. Women can earn a living and keep a tidy household, but I think she needs to let her man be a man. A man who feels like he’s the conqueror instead of the conquered is happy and therefore, a better partner. So how does he fill his need to feel like a captain of industry and still let his woman fulfill her potential without being intimidated, or worse, give up on his. It’s going to take a very delicate balance that requires trust and respect. Values that have taken a beating over the last couple decades.

Women cast off subservient roles in the 60’s. They fought hard for 20 years and finally won a seat in the board room. We have our own money. We own property. We have some power. We can get pregnant without the benefit of a lover. Once a woman discovers her own power, she no longer needs a man. But what if she wants one? As a society we’re going full circle. From bra burnings back to cramming ourselves into Spanx. I grew up when the likes of Gloria Steinem were breaking ground for my generation, an era unknown by younger women who are living in the result but don’t have a corseted reference point. We are obsessed with coupling up and getting married. Yet, marriage is less and less effective. Let’s take an honest minute and acknowledge that marriage is a religious based institution. And if I want to get on a feminist diatribe, I can claim it was created to keep women caged and obedient. Holla to the burqa. There will always be subscribers to marriage. In this new landscape, what does a loving partnership look like?

It is only in recent history I am able to live the life I live and no one bats an eyelash. I own my home and live in it by myself. I am starting a business from scratch. I’m not a pariah, a lesbian or a bitch. Just a gal with a brain in her head that’s not afraid to use it. I’m also kind of cute. I get a lot of cougar offers. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t inflate my ego a little. As much as I’m flattered, I’m equally offended. I am that strong woman. For real. So make me a real offer. The man who knows I’m worth it won’t have to make much of an effort at all. It’ll be like breathing. Easy breezy. I can’t believe I have a woman this cool to hang out with. I’m there because you were man enough to step up and claim me. Trust, respect, courtesy and manners are awfully good company.

** I want to hurry up and add that this is sadly from my own dating experience. I do know some amazing men who are happily, equally married to truly kick ass women. It's the source of hope for me. Otherwise, it's a Frank Pentangeli ending.

Northwoods Family

2011-07-31T10:17:00.001-04:00

I think the Dalai Lama is right that we put undue pressure on one person or group to fulfill all our needs. For Westerners that is usually the romantic partner. In other cultures it can be religion, government or the family. My father is one of those scary smart types. He doesn’t just listen to opera, he investigates the composers, reads their biographies, studies their musical strategy. One brief glance at Napoleon’s Wikipedia page won’t remotely satisfy. I know the names of Napoleon’s generals because of his relentless acquisition of knowledge. Who really needs this information? I was exposed to several schools of thought, pursued the beauty of the natural world in tandem with college football on fall Saturdays. All of it with a side of art. Dad’s a painter. He’s always painted. I grew up with the smell of linseed oil mingled with a meatloaf baking in the oven. (Does anyone make meatloaf any more? Are you cheese or tomato sauce?) The New York years tattooed creativity and an expansive perspective on my life. I’d rather be wide than narrow. Also means my conversational resources have to be wide. It’s not as easy as you’d think to work Mortier’s and Berthier’s names into conversation, but I’m prepared should the opportunity arise.

Despite the well intended but off point suggestion I make “art” for a local shop, causing a mental oy, there is a thread of creativity that runs through my Northwoods family from jewelry making, sewing and interior design to a general appreciation/support of the arts. I understand that abstract work can be particularly challenging. There isn’t a subject to grab on to. No loons in my paintings. Yet there are. Their nocturnal haunting call is in the marks because they are in my soul. So is my family. We love the smell of the sweet fern and admire a Bald Eagle’s grace and fishing prowess. Get a kick out of Merganser parents teaching their young to dive. We are collectively soothed by the calm of the lake at dusk. As much as we are different we are that much alike. They are my heritage. Their presence in my blood is obvious the minute you meet any one of them. Quick with a good story and a belly laugh, told at several decibels accompanied by animated hand gestures for emphasis. We bitch and squabble, but if someone is in trouble, help is on the way. No hesitation. We love a party. The bigger the better. Everyone is invited. Hell yes. My Star Lake family can get a quizzical look on their face or simply glaze over at some directions I take. I don’t follow prescriptions. A few of us don’t. Shit, there’s too many of us not to have spawned a couple deviants. Whether we fan the Maize and Blue or not, the love is true. Isn’t that the definition of love? Different, but so what. Man, it’s hot this week. I’m gonna go jump in the lake. They will be right behind me.

Whiskey and Pie

2011-07-07T10:47:00.000-04:00

Technology has irrevocably changed the human landscape. Studies have proven, however, that we’re not quite the multi-taskers we fancy ourselves to be. In fact, we’re more distracted than ever. I sure feel more productive when I have a minute at a red light and I can read an email or return a text. It’s allowing me to take a vacation because even in the deep woods of northern Wisconsin I’ll have phone, internet and fax. Thanks to Verizon, I can hear you, text you, email you, while sunning on the dock. Gotta love that. I also have to quickly admit I miss the days I’d get in the car to go see a client and no one could get a hold of me. It was 15 minutes of peace. Each way. I don’t need to see you anymore to have a relationship or do a deal. Easy breezy. Seems ideal. Reminds me of growing up in Bloomfield Hills where the neighbors barely knew each other’s names let alone have a conversation or develop a relationship. You’d pull up in your driveway, hit the garage door opener, pull in, and close the door behind you. Brilliant when I’m tired and crabby. What about the other days?

Whiskey and Pie. It’s an old automotive colloquialism. Let’s get together, hang out, do a deal. As much as I enjoy Facebook and its ability to alleviate some occasional loneliness, not to mention its networking attributes, I want to work with folks I like. I can’t tell if I like you on my laptop. I really can’t tell if I can trust you. Behind our emails, I see your face, hear your voice, remember your smile. It matters. I currently live in a sidewalk neighborhood. I had no idea how awesome that could be. Lathrup Village is about 1.5 miles square. It is a true community. Residents are involved in city activities. I have loaned my expertise to the art fair a few times. We wave to each other as we drive by. We know each other’s kids, dogs. Keep an eye out. I need my BlackBerry to keep up with business and I like it to keep up with friends. I miss alerts if I haven’t gotten one in a couple hours. Don’t you love me? Where is everybody? Technology is here to stay but it isn’t pie. I love pie. Let’s have some whiskey and pie. I’ve got about 15 minutes.

2011-06-04T16:45:00.000-04:00

New additions to the maps & charts series

Red Face

Blue Lake

Frank

In the Basement

2011-06-04T14:58:00.002-04:00

I don’t seem to have much sense of where I am, what month it is or the current time. I’m doing enough to keep from pissing anyone off, but I am entirely unmotivated to pursue anything. Things had gotten busy in the past couple months. My plans to hang out, get a tan and paint were no where on the calendar. What happened? I am, for better or worse, a dependable hard worker. There was more demand for my time than I had expected. Summer was escaping before it had arrived. I was just becoming aware that Snyder’s shocking tax proposal and its results had taken the wind completely out of my sails. Fear kept me accepting work delaying the break I was increasing my need for.

I had grown accustomed to daily physical demands. My legs and ass had been sore for a solid month. My body felt strong. After a quick burnout on film crews last summer I was pleased to discover I’m not without stamina. The trouble is I work full out or not at all. I never learned pace. 8 hours into a 14 hour crew day I was already toast. I’m not built for crew. I burn too hot too fast. Bummer because I’m good at it and I love being on the set. Thank god for vendor or I’d be out of the biz entirely. I always run hard. It takes an illness, an act of God or an injury to stop me. The torn back muscle was right on time.

Films could be green lighted as early as next Wednesday. I want to be ready, focused, 100% on board. A distinct reliable work pattern has become foreign. A distant memory I’d like to reconstitute. Enough of this all-over-the-place-who-knows-what’s-going-on shit. It’s been strange and unpredictable for a couple years. Throw in a mid-life hormonal recession and you’ve got cuckoo on your hands. Huh? What? Who are you? The timing on this life cycle is perfection. Might as well get all the nut out at once. I am simultaneously grappling with prying my mood out of the basement while bailing/mopping an unprecedented amount of rainfall rapidly flowing from the fireplace wall. This too shall pass isn’t much of a comfort when I know it won’t by tomorrow.

Occasionally I get an undercurrent of happiness. No homestead disasters in a week or so. The St. John’s Wort is working. The weather is cooperating. Clients are either silent or satisfied. I cling to those moments. I know happiness won’t return resembling any variety of happy I’ve previously experienced. This is a big fat hallway with no room to turn around. Incremental windows allow for a temporary fresh sweet breeze before I’m plunged back into the unknown. Scariest ride I’ve been on in a while. Where the hell is the eject button? The good news is it will end. The car will come to a sudden and abrupt stop. The industrial steel safety harness will magically release and I’ll be free to exit with absolutely no fanfare. It’ll just be over. Next week works for me. I think the Universe has other plans.

Ouch

2011-06-03T17:36:00.000-04:00

My threshold for pain astonishes me. Good God. I’m not even shocked when my basement fireplace springs a leak on the outside wall allowing 2 gallons of water every 15 minutes into living space. Of course. After a brief smirk and “huh”, I begin systematic bailing/mopping that lasts 4 hours. All this on an already pulled/strained back muscle I acquired taking on gardening work to keep bills paid while the government continues to argue about the film incentives. In an attempt to heal my back, I mowed the lawn with one arm. That was fun. Ran out of gas with 4 swipes left. Of course. I tarred my own roof this spring. Just in time. Wet basement. Bone dry ceilings. Roseanne Roseannadanna runs through my head. This followed by efforts to diminish the unpleasantness via comparison to tornado victims. Coulda been worse. Yeah, but it still sucked ass.

I love that I CAN do all this on my own. I’m also sick of it. I’ve more than demonstrated my independence. I’m sick of not being the girl. It does keep me fit (when I’m not injured) and saves money. So fucking what. I’m tired of bruised and beat up knees/shins in shorts. Trashed hands that are 15 years older than the rest of me. Manual labor can suck it.

I do love a strong body. My theory is that body will come through in old age. My elderly nightmare is shuffling around a nursing home with a workout consisting of lifting nothing heavier than a checker. My Gramps passed on the athlete genes and was living proof the body you nurture lingers. Even as an old man he had a massive chest and could kill you with his bare hands. (For real. Thug experience not withstanding.) A body in motion stays in motion. This strained back muscle is part of pushing physical limits. I’d rather be sore or in pain than a gelatinous mass on the couch. Motion also helps my head. Move a muscle change a thought. I can indulge in delectables at book club, eat my weight in cheesy potatoes at Easter and still rock the skinny jeans with no muffin top. For an old broad, that’s a feat worth acknowledging.

The torn muscle also indicates it’s had enough. It’s tired, over used and needs a break. My life has been unrecognizable for a while. I’ve hung in, battled hard. I’m exhaustified. I want to go to bed and stay there. I can’t wait to get to the cottage this summer. I always think I need more time than I actually do. I like my life, as weird as it is. After a few days I’m ready to get back at it. I’m really hoping the State House passes the new bill to support films made in Michigan next week. I’m ready to devote myself to renting and making art. I’ll move my body via mountain bike. I’m somewhat alarmed at how much pain I’ve learned to tolerate. I’m also grateful I’m not the whiner I used to be. Balance. Some lolling on the dock cultivating a tan while reading a trashy novel is warranted. Will someone get me a drink? I’m too tired to move.

Ride

2011-04-24T11:51:00.000-04:00

Knight to Queen 3. I can see the pieces moving. I am unable to detect any strategy. All I have is a feeling. A sense that the sun is coming up and the night is receding, but what that light will reveal is a mystery. I’m terribly willful. It’s a gift. Until it’s not. I had been pushing hard for 2 ½ years. I tried everything. I’ve had a ridiculous number of jobs in the past 3 years. One hit, accompanied by the possibility of unprecedented growth. All right. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Then a decision I had no contribution toward came in. Sorry. You won’t be doing that. Go somewhere else. We don’t want your business. Shit. I give. Uncle. You guys figure it out and fill me in later. I’m out. It’s in that moment my hands signal surrender things get very interesting.

My dear friend Rob and his family are moving to China for 3 years with Ford Motor. Which means, I’ll be going to China on a visit. And what the hell, while I’m all the way over there, I’ll pop in on Nepal. The last time I took a geographic chance I discovered the American Southwest. I’d been intrigued by Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon. What I found beyond the clichéd West was a spiritually potent experience. It was also one of the weakest financial periods of my life. I do enjoy fiscal responsibility. When biz is good, I get on that adult train with enthusiasm. Buy homes, make IRA contributions, lower my debt. When it dissolves, I lean into a fight. I was brought up on buck up Bucky and his bootstraps. Sometimes you just get bloody. Know when to pack it in. Save your strength for another day. It’s a retreat from the fight into the soul because there’s no where else to go.

A successful Hollywood director was interviewed on Oprah today. You could tell how cool he is through the TV. That’s some pretty strong juju. It’s not the first recount I’ve heard delivered by a person who acquired substantial materials only to realize it didn’t feed their soul the way they expected it to so they give it all up to pursue what’s in their heart. Admirable to be sure. The rub for me is they are still in a secure financial position. They made their money. They can downsize, donate funds and pursue their heart undaunted by relentless windowed envelopes. Where is the person doing this who still has to put food on the table? Things get muddier when survival is threatened. Humans are the only species that take more than we need. A giant sequoia doesn’t take all the nutrients from the ground then hoard the excess. A lion doesn’t kill all the gazelles then sell the surplus for profit. I am encouraged by the generation currently coming up. They seem much more in tune with our natural inclination toward a community of democracy and cooperation. I don’t like the more train ride and consistently pull the cord to get off. The long walk to the mailbox every day and social conditioning push me back on. I’m usually way down the track before I realize I’ve gotten back on and start the cycle all over again.

I’ve never deviated from an artistic career as stupid yet necessary as it is. I get the idea I’m an entrepreneur from time to time. Or a writer ;-) I’m a painter. The price for freedom from the cube is periods of struggle and uncertainty. The cycles of success are far less frequent than I’d like. I make the most of them when they deign to grace me for a year or two. I had a goal. Some direction. A point on a map. Turns out I have Jack Sparrow’s compass and I suddenly don’t know what I want. I’m confident the effort I’ve exerted in the past few years will amount to something. I can see the Universe laying it out. The pieces carefully spread out on the floor. I’m directed to affix bracket A to panel B with screw C. I have no idea what I’m making. Trust the instructions. All I have to do is embrace today. Tomorrow will work itself out. How? You got me. Just when I think I’ve got it down, surprise! I’m riding another rollercoaster. Look Ma, no hands!

Tea Cup Wisdom

2011-04-03T19:35:00.001-04:00

Desire. Happiness. Peace. Desire appears desirable. Especially in love. For me it’s the design flaw. I want. I want it now. Yes, yes Veruca. I don’t always salivate over the material. Recognition. As a painter, it’s virtually the point. I console myself with matins of necessity and passion, which are true, but not wholly. Prestige. Possessing even a little influence causes me to stand a bit straighter. Importance. I want to matter. I do. To some. I have little knowledge of contentment. My perpetual state of dissatisfaction and a need for some sort of accomplishment before I quit this world dogs me. It does produce results. I mean, you can’t go after anything this hard without bearing any fruit. How sweet is that fruit really? Does it nourish? Does it sustain? Or is there always a need for more once that taste in my mouth has dissolved.

Tom Phardel and Laith Karmo created an installation with uniform white tea cups. On the tea cups, in black, are printed words. All sorts of words. Some are crystal clear, others bleed out to barely legible. The premise being, as we age, the definitions of some of these words get more and more difficult to clarify. Desire. Happiness. Success. Failure. Be. Critical. Attractive. Values. Hate. I was pleased to report at the show's opening I felt Values were sharper for me than the blurred version Tom chose. Happiness is my smeared word.

Way down in there, it’s peace I’m really after. I think it’s some far off promise. You know, after I accomplish that something, I can hit the rocking chair and chill. Smile knowingly at those who are still slugging it out. Nonsense. It’s here. Right here. Today. In my hand. Now. My dear friend Nick was hospitalized over a week ago with a dismal prognosis. He’s 53. Life is temporary despite the infinite feeling I get during those long winter months in a wasteland of frozen grey. I spent the last couple days jacked up and running, sent a photographer on a goose chase, for a commercial, only to have the deal scrapped. Instead of making a paltry sum, I owe the photographer $50 in expenses he incurred during his preparations. Fuck. That is it. Done. Enough.

I’ll likely never vanquish my need to succeed. I must dilute it or it’s gonna kill me. My bills are paid. I have lovely shelter, yummy food and more clothes that I need. I have an abundance of love. I even have a little cachet in some circles. It’s not going to be ok, it already is. The jobs ahead of me this week involve gardening. Just typing that made my heart relax. I have had very little peace since 10/08. It seemed not just responsible, but admirable, to be out there sacrificing myself for work. I’m willful enough to get a lot of it. The price just got too high. And where is God in all this? I had my finger on it a week ago Thursday. I’d hit another breaking point (there’s been a few lately). My wise friend Norman suggested it was time to let the Universe take over. Sweet relief washed over me as I put my bags down. The summer list emerged*. Oh baby, that feels good. I do want to deliver art to sets for a paycheck. It’s a kick ass job. But not at the expense of my mind. I can deliver the goods without going Nascar hauling $20,000 worth of art to the set. Remain calm. It'll get there. Peace. Don’t care how, I want it now.

*ref: Fear and Butterflies

Fear and Butterflies

2011-03-25T11:26:00.001-04:00

The happiest times in my life didn’t necessarily coincide with large sums of cash. It coincided with me being true to painter and seeker first. I’ve been authentic broke and solvent. Since October 2008, I’ve been nervous to flat out panic. And bloody miserable. Which is a bummer on a number of levels, not the least of which is missing my brief run in the movie biz. I had a couple conscious moments in the middle of it last summer, but mostly I was poised in the blocks on high alert. The most tragic result was I hardly made any art. If it hadn’t been for the Motor City Brew show I don’t think I would have made anything. I was better served supporting my own community than I was any production as evidenced by art department calls this week but no orders.

I got caught up in the magnitude of it. The money. God, the MONEY. I miss money. My eyes were shiny in anticipation. I was never poor. I have a rich life. Maybe that’s the language of the downtrodden looking for silver in a tin pile. It consoles a failure. It cushions another hard fall. Aren’t I the one who claims if you’re not making mistakes you’re not really living? This is the bitch part.

The Adagio from Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major is just a gorgeous piece of music. With savages soothed I remember. I am the queen of sticky notes on my bathroom mirror due to the fleeting shelf life of said memory. I have 2 notes currently on the mirror. They’re lists. What I’m planning on doing in April and what I will be pursuing this summer. Ride, garden, paint, beach, sex and ice cream make the list. I’m going to the Opera for the first time in May. Rigoletto. It’s just the dress rehearsal but I can’t wait to expand my resources for joy. Joy is so transient. Explains why it’s so coveted. It’s mercury in the hand. You can’t squeeze it to keep it. But it will sit calmly in an open gentle hand. So will a butterfly. And love. That’s the gold standard.

Looks Like University of Illinois

2011-03-24T18:10:00.002-04:00

Born under a bad star. That’s gotta be it. I mean, what other explanation can there be? How could it all go so bad so fast and for so long? My mother should have named me Jane, if only she’d lived long enough to see that name to its fruition. It’s not for lack of effort. I sobered up, spent a year and a half in therapy, started 2 businesses, years of meditation and spiritual pursuit, blogged, mountain biked, rafted, painted and cried into countless bowls of ice cream. Here’s hoping for even a partial fairy tale ending. What was that cartoon? Fractured Fairy Tales? Yep.

I’m not regular. This can either result in a Bill Gates scenario or something along the lines of Kafka with part of his ear missing ala Van Gogh. If only I’d taken the beaten path. Mom would have slept easier and had a grandchild or two to spoil. I would have been up nights trying to unravel a quiet but persistent gnawing in my gut. So, bloodied, weary and compelled by a force I both bless and curse, I draw my sword to charge the battlefield.

Things were already eroding in 2006. It went bad for good October 2008. The Bull was gelded and the Bear was chewing everybody’s ass. Years of working for mediocre wages saving any spare in a valiant attempt on the American Dream was gone in seconds. They lied. About everything. The working (wo)man bailed out the banks and the auto industry truly believing the favor would be returned. Nope. Greed ruled the day. Banks make those obscene bonuses on our feeble debt ridden backs. Tough beans baby. The air’s damn fine up here and I’m not giving it up for that noodle you call a spine. If you’re willing to forfeit integrity, you can have it too.

Except peace of mind is free. The intoxicating smell of the sweet fern at the cottage is free. The property taxes sure aren’t, however. Always that pesky financial fly in my serenity ointment. It is possible to come up with enough money to support basic needs allowing for a lung full of northern air without compromising values. Can I be satisfied if I accomplish nothing but that? There’s the rub. As a Westerner who grew up post 1950 in the American rise to superpower, it’s tough to let go of that sales pitch. Stuff. We love, love, lovey, love our stuff. And up to October 2008, you could pretty much get your hands on anything your heart desired. Damn. Blast. Back to sniffing linseed oil for thrills.

Even at the onset of American success, we honored the regular Joe. My parents never bought anything on credit. You saved. When you had enough, you went out and bought that shiny new washing machine. In cash. Whoa. Then came TV, advertising and branding. Andy Warhol seized on our developing infatuation with acquisition immortalizing Campbell’s, Brillo, and Sunoco. For a price. Of course. I maintain Warhol was far more a genius marketer than he ever was a celebrated fine artist. Society has fully embraced celebrity. Whether it’s Mercedes Benz or a humiliating but viral run on YouTube, collectively we are willing to do anything for one Andy Warhol moment. Narcissus would be hospitalized by now. As China owns more of us funding Tomahawk missile launches into countries we are trying to “save” while leaving our beleaguered own on idealized Main Street to starve, I think we’re still lolling about in a dream haze. My problem is I’m fully awake and it sucks. It’s ugly. My ideas on how I thought my life would play out are being pried from my cold dead hands.

I resist. Fight. NO! You can’t have it! But it’s already gone, ahem, with the wind. Not unlike the days of the glorious South, of cavaliers and gallantry, it had to change because it was supported by heinous practices. The Roman foundation cracked on depravity. Civilizations begin with good intentions in the pursuit of wisdom, spirituality, equality and freedom. It always starts with an idea that appears to benefit even the commonest of citizens. It always ends benefiting a few at the expense of everyone else. Is this the end of America the Superpower? It’s certain as long as we ignore America the Beautiful.

Working Girl

2011-03-06T12:08:00.002-05:00

The timing on Snyder’s budget proposal was perfectly awful. Michigan’s film industry was on the precipice of exploding. Producers were just starting to trust us and give us the big accounts. I’m blown away by the immediate fallout incited by what appears to be Snyder’s flat out lies to key players meant to create a sense of security only to turn around Mussolini. His proposal protects corporations and the wealthy while sending the poor and unemployed to the brick pits. He’s charged an already beleaguered citizenship to build his palace. What happened to the United States of America that values the working man? We clearly learned nothing from the Wall Street collapse. Don’t worry, the working man will pay for it with no return on his generosity. Chris Rock was right. We worship at the Church of Money. And these are the politicians it’s fostered. The wealthy get wealthier while we build scar tissue from the taskmasters in lieu of an IRA.

I find it fascinating the lengths we go to justify reprehensible behavior. Religion is a common tool to temper the realization I’m totally getting screwed and the entities doing the screwing don’t give a rat’s ass about my predicament. There is no conscience in lining their pockets at the expense of my sense, and sometimes actual, security. If I'm counting on Heaven’s reward for my sacrifice, it's possible I may be in for some serious disappointment. I can, however, live with myself. Whatever that's worth. The US runs to the rescue of foreign oppressed and murdered selling freedom and democracy while we allow our own to starve on the street. What the Hell? Bring us your tired and poor. We’re HERE goddammit. The American Dream is dead. We don’t care about the middle class anymore. I want to be famous. I’ll render myself a court jester to get it. And I don’t care who I hurt in the process. When did we get so selfish?

When we got scared. 9/11? The Wall Street crash? We’re terrified. So we hoard and protect what’s mine. We’re the seagulls in Finding Nemo. Get off the raft people. It’s sinking. If we don’t unify we will divide and fall. Little pink crack houses will line our formerly family friendly streets. A person has no power. We the People can move mountains. Johnny get your shovel. He’s not marching home, he’s going to work. I could care less if I ever get noticed for anything. I just want to go to work. Hurrah. Hurrah.

Immortal Beloved or Snyder Can Suck It

2011-02-18T08:19:00.002-05:00

I want to be a forest ranger. This was not the year to skip the Kresge attempt. The new governor thinks axing the tax incentive, therefore killing Michigan’s new status as the darling of the film industry, is good business. This hilarious news came two days after the Kresge deadline passed. Even if the budget proposal doesn’t pass as written and the incentive stays competitive (must be 30% plus) the damage is done. Word hit LA instantly and the feedback is “Michigan is dead”. Two years of effort down the tubes in a New York, I mean LA, minute. Productions that were coming here late summer are going to Louisiana. I have what is left of this year’s Hollywood run to squirrel away whatever I can make and find a new income. Again.

I’m watching back episodes of Sex in the City. A recent one was about great loves. How many do you get? I have no idea. I’ve only had one. Work was always a means to support the art. I’ve been toying with the idea of grad school. I know I have talent and occasionally I hit on something interesting but have never fully explored my voice because those damn windowed envelopes never take a month off. When films hit Detroit, a friend whispered in my ear to sign on with the Michigan Film Office and translate what I’d already been doing into a job. Took a year from that moment to stand on my first set. An exciting job that was possibly quite lucrative. I was willing to put art aside to pursue what I thought was an investment in my future. Maybe help a couple art pals along the way. I can see it’s never a good idea to postpone great love.

Ain’t gonna lie. I love the energy on the set. I don’t watch a movie the same way. I don’t watch TMZ the same way. I’ve never been in on the ground floor of anything. Knowing where RAD could go was a rush. I’d resigned myself to champion, not maker, of art. One tiny problem. I love spending the day in the studio. I like painting barefooted on a warm summer day. Art feeds my soul. If the incentive remains in some form that can attract productions, I’m in. A girl needs to eat. But the governor’s announcement reminded me that I can’t rely on government, corporations or even my interior clients. The only reliable source is much less tangible. I’m aware of film’s undertow. I’m as susceptible as anyone. I have to apply all my hard won wisdom not to wind up out to sea. Happiness comes in a whisper. It strengthens in its peace. Chido Johnson is adding to his “Let’s Talk About Love, Baby” installation. Yeah. Let’s talk about it while I get into the studio and make a little interpretation of what I know to be True. Great. Unconditional. Yes. My boyfriend is a paintbrush. My lovers are Jack and Willem. I go a little bi for Helen. I get a little too excited picking out new pastel colors. My immortal beloved. Ever mine. Ever thine. Ever yours. Oscar who? Ok, maybe I’m not quite over him yet. I haven’t eaten the requisite gallon of ice cream while watching, ouch, movies.

Temptation and the Hawaiian War Chant

2011-01-23T16:32:00.002-05:00

Made a brief stop at Time Warp on 89X this morning. They played some Cure and old Chilis when they were good. That was one of my favorite periods in life, so far, despite living in the throes of youthful dramatic totally girly mood swings. Up one minute, in the ditch the next. But I was FREE. Divorced, making art and had just started my interior business. Those were the rabble’s days. Love, love, lovey loved that place. It was the second coffeehouse in Detroit after Java opened. Located in St. Clair Shores of all places. I could pick up and go there anytime and always find someone cool to hang out with. The owners were committed to the arts. Everyone who hung out there was a painter, writer, musician, something. And legit. Published, gallery shows, etc. Not a wannabe in the place. I was unfortunately unconscious to all the life I’d already lived and had no sense of myself. Yet, every day presented charged with freshness and promise. That feeling can get you out of bed on the greyest of days.

I tried shit then. Hopped a plane to Paris. Came home and bought myself a set of diamonds. I saw the AIDS quilt the last time it was small enough to lay out all at once. Stood on Gettysburg’s hallowed ground where I swear I could see the grisly twisted bodies strewn at Devil’s Den and the Slaughter Pen. Went to see a friend’s band at the Fuse Box sober while nitrous was sold in the corner and some guy was smacked out on the floor. I’ve stood on a peak high enough to see 5 states at once. Communed at Notre Dame and Valley of the Gods. I’ve seen a sky so blue that the desert’s orange red rocks against it incited tears for the overwhelming beauty. Seen a 1000+ year old petroglyph that’s never been repeated anywhere. Been backpacking deep enough bear bagging was necessary. Enjoyed a country club membership. Season tickets to the Big House most of my life accompanied by Victors Club parking and M Club seating. Front row seats for Pillowman on Broadway with the original cast (ok, that was more recent). Felt the presence of Elizabeth I at Westminster despite her being dead over 400 years. The trouble is, you can’t have one without the other.

I’m either living or not. If I choose beauty, I also choose darkness. I’ve been blackout drunk and on a couple bad acid trips. I’ve been financially ruined, disrespected, overlooked and regularly underestimated. None of that diminishes standing on the edge of a canyon while the Great Spirit runs its fingers though my hair. Oprah frequently grants viewers their wildest dreams. This generally means snorkeling or getting a makeover. It would be hugely embarrassing to be living my life the way I did in my early 30’s but I could use a little of that energy and enthusiasm. I am eternally grateful for all of my experiences and realize that for most women, thinking globally, I live a charmed life. I’m on the threshold of a new enterprise in the film industry, which, frankly, is cool as hell and certainly provides a thrill this adrenaline junkie requires. But wildest dream? WILDEST. If we’re talking on the outside, I’d like to explore the Uffizi and check out Barcelona’s Gaudi constructions. Maybe hang out with the Dalai Lama in Dharamsala. Or go spelunking. Get one woman out of a burqa. I’d like to have the nerve to attend Burning Man. In stark contrast, wouldn’t mind experiencing what it’s like to be Johnson & Johnson kind of wealthy. But the most elusive of them all is the love of a good man. I’ve met plenty of ‘nice’ men. This usually means stable, reliable but a disappointing absence of any sense of adventure. I’ve met men who are all for getting on that ride but wind up distracted and forget they invited me along. I’ll still fully enjoy the smell of the boathouse and the sound of the Evinrude as it carries its cargo fishing or skiing. I’m not missing a thing outside. Hiking into Machu Picchu seems an infinitely easier journey. I’d like to make the trip.

On a footnote, my computer’s dictionary didn’t recognize the words Gaudi, Dharamsala, petroglyph or Machu Picchu. Good God we’re culturally emaciated. We’ll have to take our cues from the likes of Wooderson. “You just gotta keep on livin’, man. L-I-V-I-N.” Eh, I like him, too.

Hopelessly Devoted

2011-01-02T21:53:00.000-05:00

What is it about artists and marriage? Some do it very successfully. And then there are those who, do not. Watched an interview with Wynton Marsalis on 60 minutes. He’s pushing 50, looks 25, 4 kids, never married and is spectacularly gifted. The way he talks about his craft precisely describes how I paint as well as live my life. He describes composers like Beethoven, writers like Shakespeare as the wisest people of all time. How can you know life without art? Nietzsche says art gives us a reprieve from truth. I think art is the only truth. The notes, words or brushstrokes may not seem clear, but there is nothing more honest than an artist who speaks her truth, even if you aren’t sure what it is. With so much authenticity in expression, intelligence, sensuality why do some of us remain unmated? Do we really need to be. If I am already devoted, what’s the point? I have companionship. I have love. I don’t have biological children, but there are kids in my life that mean the world to me. Is it freedom to keep the mind open to unearth new phrases? The solitude necessary to get it on paper or canvas? When I’m painting I have a focus that doesn’t allow for bedtime negotiations or pet accidents, bills, laundry or grocery lists. I’m at my best creatively when daily tasks are abandoned for a looser spontaneous agenda.

So, I have the circumstances I want. Not exactly. I suffer cruel bouts of loneliness. Making art alone doesn’t quell all that feeling. And left too long, say like these past 2 weeks, without much structure, I get a little lost. I do need some kind of anchor. I would very much like to find a man who is reliable and steady but can let me run when I need to. Society has sold the family as the hub of happiness. Most people want the conventional interpretation of that. I tried it once. I can’t stomach it. The source of happiness for me is art and the freedom to pursue all avenues to get there. I use the word freedom a lot. It’s clearly important. My fierce protection of it may also be the Achilles heel of my relationship status.

The antidote: Art creates community and speaks to the human soul. Politics, religion become irrelevant. It’s expansive. It’s inclusive. Enjoy attending a concert because listeners and performers are simultaneously in the same groove. Energy shared and blended in a glorious moment. Book Club. We all just viewed the same word constructions and although we had independent interpretations, we come together to share, move and open each other. It’s glue. It’s also about reaching a larger audience. If I am unencumbered by bedtime atrocities, doesn’t that free (purrrrrrrr) me up to think bigger? Am I not in a position to help advance others? With my loud mouth? Done. I’m blessed with a skill set that doesn’t assist in the kitchen (no way I’m blowing my-oven’s-only-been-on-three-times-in-7-years record) but it kicks ass in the promotion department. Wynton observed that with age comes a natural kind of wisdom. That and some self awareness. I know what I’m designed for and I’m not inclined to force what doesn’t fit. When it’s right it just slides on like a favorite pair of jeans. I’m willing to schooch over as long as there’s still plenty of breathing room. Love is it. With a big fat side of art. Otherwise it’s all just a to do list.

In The Blocks

2010-12-31T15:40:00.000-05:00

Santa brought me an ear infection for Christmas. The antibiotics leave me lethargic and cranky. It’s in your interest I stay home tonight. I won’t be drunk later, but probably more lethal. The only New Year’s events I’ve ever really enjoyed were the smaller intimate dinners with a couple friends. That option didn’t materialize so I’ll be painting or reading. Probably be asleep at midnight. New Year’s Day was always my fave. Thank you BCS for ruining that. There aren’t any games on at 830P tomorrow? What the hell? Christmas has little to do with Jesus. It’s all about stuff and the kids. I’m not terribly interested in either. And since I’ve felt like ass most of these past 2 weeks, I’m ready for the new year’s clean slate.

2010 was about invention. Innovation. Building. Risk. 2011 is the year that pays. The winter solstice is the moment the days start to get longer and we come out of the dark and into the light. If we persist, remarkable things will happen. I’m already a little stunned at what’s transpired in the past 12 months. Not only in business, but I made some brilliant decisions in my personal life. Choices that honor who I am and where I want to go by several times declining what may have brought a temporary thrill but clearly would not sustain. I’m so charged with anticipation I’m looking at a false start out of the blocks. Good thing life doesn’t make you start over. Run!

In my, shall we call it prudent, effort to develop an inventory for this year’s productions, I scavenged cardboard (for safely moving paintings, those non-painters) from Steve Magsig who paints in oils. God that smell! Right there with burning leaves. The air once you hit Gaylord going north on I-75. The sweet fern at the cottage. Clean sheets and a lover’s skin. Beauty. I appreciate those that can communicate the offensive and repugnant with eloquence but I am always drawn to the sensual. I’ve tried to paint the darker emotions and the one time I got close to accomplishing that it still came out pretty. Probably why I was so successful with interiors. Christ. Ok then. Pretty it is. I will paint the hell out of it. Maybe even tonight. It would be fitting since I looked adversity straight in the eye and beat it back with a paintbrush. Either that or I'll be sniffing the cardboard.

Nudity Prep Truth

2010-11-28T12:32:00.001-05:00

Katy Perry on the cover of ARTnews? Cancel my subscription. Except the article on the return of life drawing heartens. Especially on the evolution of the nude male. Finally. I’ve always felt that lovely figure was underrepresented. In my own house. I haven’t acquired a female nude in years. Love them, have plenty, am one. My male collection began with one of Mary Fortuna’s sculptural pieces I fell in love with years before it made it to my living room wall. Funny with all the traffic in my house, including the book club girls and a couple guys from the Detroit 187 crew returning paintings, no one has ever commented on it. Had an altercation with a woman at a MAPP auction over a photograph now in my upstairs hallway. She was cheating to get her man. Clearly we’re not neutral on this topic, yet still very uncomfortable. The Romans and Greeks weren’t. Ok, there might have been some fetishes there that are considered illicit to illegal today. Must have been the Church. Can’t remember which Pope it was who ordered the addition of strategically placed material on the Last Judgment’s phalluses which has only recently been removed during its restoration. The celebrated female nude is ubiquitous. The male was sentenced to the closet. Well, he’s out. Awesome.

The issue also reviewed “Abstract Expressionist New York” at MoMA. Now I’m offended. The reviewer assumes that ARTnews readers know nothing past Pollock, Kline and de Kooning? Rude. She sanctimoniously goes on to name everyone. Whatev. I’d like to see that show and do some looking before I head into the studio to mark those 4 newly stretched pristine canvases. I’m sure I’d find some color or stroke that would sound the alarm. I recently watched Woody Allen’s Vicky Cristina Barcelona which included scenes where characters are painting, for real, not “movie painting”- we can tell. Hit the crave button. I prefer painting barefooted too. Days spent wandering the city just looking. You’re killing me. I’m more than tired of Detroit’s ravaged images. Won’t be looking there. Might be looking at you. You’ve been notified. Had a meeting with an artist last week in his studio. Spectacular energy generated a rapid exchange of ideas that were economically sound as much as soulful and passionate. I’m just about done with the prep. Color is bubbling to the surface ready to reveal itself via my brush.

Freedom. Anarchy looks supremely attractive to this adrenaline junkie. Freedom isn’t the absence of discipline. It’s the absence of criteria imposed by someone else. In order for freedom to be successful it must employ the discipline of scholarship and the pursuit of improvement. Society’s heavy hand has been, as always, trying to muscle me into submission. I concede without permission or knowledge until I’m so far astray I can’t remember when they got to me. Crooked finger beckons promising security. That kind of security is an all access pass to the cage. No one is any more secure than another. It is difficult to trust what is unseen. Yet, that is my source. I haven’t been living my truth. The result is a click as the door slides shut. Found the key. Sweet release from the bondage of compliance and my willingness to be deceived. Breathe. I can breathe. Art will communicate social trends before the public is aware it’s happening. Maybe the Tea Party’s bellowing is an attempt to drown out the steady surfacing of love and tolerance. Mapplethorpe certainly caused more than a ripple. Our own Jef Bourgeau likes a visual challenge. The Pontiac police do not. Couple years later, without any fanfare, it’s just there. In photography and paintings by women. In movies. We’re a little shocked. Not enough to shut it down. Art obeys the laws of composition, color and space relationships, etc. It’s important to study and practice within these confines before I have any ability to successfully manipulate them. For an in your face girl, I’m more than surprised at the ambiguity of my work. Love, pain, frustration, lust, joy, laughter, all camouflaged in my brush strokes. Why the subterfuge? I’m inclined to stun with honesty from my lips so why sugarcoat the paint? I’m declaring an artistic first amendment. This could be fabulously brutal. Likey.

Happy Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T10:28:00.001-05:00

Have yourself a merry little . . . too soon? I’ve watched the Grinch twice already. Should just get Charlie Brown out of the way and move right on to January sales. Except I like Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite. No crazy expectations. Christians haven’t worked themselves into a Norman Rockwell froth yet. Maybe its purpose wasn’t about thanks but a ploy to lull us all into a food coma rendering us completely agreeable to the mob push for a six week love-in with graft. It’s undertow is so strong it’s swept Jews, Muslims and anyone living in the West right along. Come on, it’s fun, you’ll LOVE it! Right? The humble Thanksgiving. It doesn’t boast or make promises it can’t keep. It’s just a warm plate of comfort food shared, hopefully, with some folks you actually like.

It’s been an unpredictable year, to say the least. It went from freezing and bored to hair flattening hot insanity. I’ve decided to use this holiday reality siesta to get back on my square. An added incentive is the Kresge Grant. Studio time. I’ll be at Utrecht on Black Friday buying stretchers. I am going to paint in my own voice. I’m going to spend December on a sensual expansive quest. Don’t anticipate going full on Roman. I’ll skip the vomitorium thank you. Otherwise, bring it. If music be the food of love, play on. Give me excess of it.

Gratitude is the antidote to angst. An old friend used to say it’s the aristocrat of emotions. My unrest and general dissatisfaction comes from focusing on everything I did wrong. And I have to say, this year was loaded with wrongness. New business, learning curve, plenty of room for mistakes and I made them all baby! That’s where I get the necessary information to improve. If the state government would stop teasing and commit I could too. Spend the money and build and inventory or start knocking on old client’s doors begging to paint a wall or something. I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can. I will acknowledge what I did right. Linus remembers the point if I don’t. I’ll buy that little tree and dress it up. It’s the love of friends that made it beautiful.

I Made This Up

2010-11-14T16:51:00.001-05:00

It's imagination that has robbed me of contentment. Humans are blessed with capabilities beyond pre-programmed patterns, like say a wasp who knows nothing beyond food stash and procreation. Evolved, maybe. The result is inescapable divine discontentment occasionally surprised by joy in that moment of falling in love or making a new discovery. These experiences are painfully transient. It is this discontentment, however, that encourages imagination. Extraordinary success springs from this condition. It is always the dissatisfied that triumph. No body of humans illustrate this point better than Westerners. But if the external world is merely something to which I must adapt, individuality disappears along with any meaning. It is in play that life is worth living.

A vital component of play is fantasy. Fantasy isn't always about escapist wish fulfillment. A culture that lacks the capacity for fantasy can no better imagine a different material life, but also one containing religion or the arts. Artists continually bridge the gap between the inner and outer worlds. A good writer can create characters and stories that also resonate in reality. Fabio isn't on that cover. He's the advisory warning for pure escapist dreck. It is considered that this type of fantasy is less and less necessary as we mature and adapt to the external world. My grandmother didn't get that memo apparently as cottage shelves attest. Scientists enjoy the benefits of imagination as well. In construction of hypotheses, while wrestling with what appears to be an unsolvable problem, it is in the moment the scientist lets go of reality the solution appears. Not unlike strenuously trying to remember someone's name and it comes an hour later after you've forgotten all about it. An inner world of fantasy is our inheritance. GOYA: Fantasy abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters; united with her, she is the mother of the arts and the origin of their marvels. Bravo.

The meaning of life is either defined by personal relationships or work. I tend to more carefully nurture my talent than I do relationships. Some creatives fail to make genuine partnerships and others are extremely isolated. Doesn't make them pathological. Art isn't really a group sport anyway until we gather to examine the fruit of imposed solitude. Since currently humans, generally, aren't preoccupied with things like pestilence and famine, we have turned our attention to independent exploratory investigation of self-development. If I was ever in need of a good fantasy, now is the time! Sheesh. I'm not Narcissus. I do suffer from restlessness however and it's in the self research I find peace through a broadening comprehension of myself and subsequently you. It is in this understanding I find the avenue to improve. Improve nothing other than to a new plateau from which to be dissatisfied that invariably compels me to reach still further. Rather be reaching than unconscious. Or is ignorance really bliss? Crap.

Going Once. Going Twice. Sold?

2010-11-08T15:52:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the wintry shot. Hope the unusually spring-like weather all week tempers the foreshadowing. Have had several discussions lately regarding a person's ability to accurately evaluate their craft. Be it art, screen or just a job. In this economy can I afford to reject any work offered? Let alone make demands? I've never been able to gouge anyone. Even when I could have. I've seen bids from house painters equivalent to a faux treatment or even a mural. Despite desperate financial circumstances, I've watched artists insist on pricing their work where it will never sell or rent. What an artist can command for a work determines her position in the art world hierarchy. If my house is on the brink of foreclosure, what good is status? Now that I'm living in a box on Cass mid-Michigan winter, how fancy am I? Like any commodity, it's only worth what someone is willing to pay for it. What about the diva actress keeping talented people waiting who could easily be earning on another show while she spends 4 hours in makeup. Are you really that fabulous? Is anyone?

These days I'll sell damn near anything for grocery money. Where does that put me? In the art world, near the bottom. I've been skulking around in the shallow end most of my career anyway. I'm also warm, lights on, full fridge (the single girl's version of full, meaning more than one salad dressing to choose from, maybe some mustard), gas in the tank. Pride. This economic (dis)course has revealed all kinds of characters and what they are willing to do to keep up appearances. Listen, I'd live in a house that size in a New York minute if the money was there. Cash is King. I'm also aware of folks in full out denial the whole thing is even happening while systematically dismantling their assets to support the fantasy. Someone related a story Saturday night about family members out of work for some time. She had an opportunity to put them to work in the film industry. Oh boy, I don't know. 14 hours? Think I'd rather stay on the couch and whine. I'm watching someone I thought had strong morals walk away from a mortgage he's perfectly capable of making because he's getting "screwed". Is taking advantage of banking loopholes smart or unscrupulous? In the end I have to decide for myself.

What really vexes me is where does this inflation of self-worth come from? I certainly have never suffered from it. I lean the other way. You want a painting? $39.95. Kidding. Not really. What kind of mental gymnastics does one have to engage in to price your work out yet still live at home with Mommy? How do you walk away from financial responsibilities and sleep at night? It took me a while to come down from the Bull market. I enjoy shopping. Trips to Europe. I had to choke it down and face the repugnant truth. I'm broke again. The bills are in my name. Take a deep breath and get after it. I really could use a little of that megalomaniac inclination. Just for a day or two. A little reprieve from my otherwise brick pit existence. One of my favorite comments was Jon Stewart's self appraisal, "what am I worth without a TV show?" Exactly. I consistently make a good picture. Not great. Good. I work hard. I'm honest (almost too sometimes). I don't subscribe to any type of reward after death. I'd rather have a good time here. With you. Eye to eye. In this sinking ship together. Nothing like finishing a day lived well wrapped up in my Princess bed ready for a peaceful night's sleep.

I, Hen-ery the Eighth I Am

2010-10-15T12:52:00.001-04:00

Rip Van Winkle must have mixed ambien and quaaludes. I love Showtimes's the Tudors. It's way off historically but it's pleasantly debauched. It also reminds me how slow communication once was. Must have been nice running your kingdom with all that excess time for various depravities. I'm utterly envious. I remember selling radio time back in a day with no cell phones. I loved getting in the car to go see a client because no one could get me there. It was cherished alone time with Mozart or the Clash. I barely noticed the transition to relentless BlackBerry intrusions. Until I haven't slept in a week and the thing seems bent on alerting me to any and all requests from the actually important to the inane. I took several calls last week while working on scaffolding from folks I've never met who wanted something from me. Didn't even bother to open the conversation with "got a minute?" I think we are desperate for some rules of engagement. Where is Emily Post when you need her?

I've been seriously frustrated with my energy levels since I broke into film/TV. I love being on the set, but the 12-14 hour days kill me. I certainly factored in my age. I can't do what I did in my 20's for sure. But I'm in shape and healthy so what the hell? The duh moment came from a friend who observed that when he works, he runs hot. He doesn't have a steady output of activity. Just gets after it with passion. My god. It's such a simple realization. Why didn't I see it? Can't maintain the hot valve. Once the water heater is out, it's out. Needs a minute to reload. My neighbors are the few who know how much down time I need. I've always felt guilty about it, or accused myself of laziness. Nope. I'm just out of hot water.

With the launch of RAD there isn't a good balance of fun either. My brain is a damn BB. It never shuts off. Always thinking, improving, observing, adjusting. This is great for business. Not for my soul. I need to move physically to manifest a brain change. I'm going out to Homecoming at the Big House tomorrow. Lots of family and tailgating. The pomp and tradition that is Michigan Football will draw my attention firing different synapses. It's what happens when I go to the cottage in the summer. I chose not to go this year to get the business off the ground. I don't regret the decision because I'm thrilled with my new endeavor, but I'm despairing for diversion. I don't think we're going to get the color this fall we did last year. Still due to be a crisp sunny perfect fall afternoon tomorrow. Cousins who are also friends bound together cheering on our beloved maize and blue. (who picked Iowa for homecoming? shouldn't we have a cupcake team and a gimme win?) With a gluttonous tailgate, music and spectacle, it's a day Henry VIII would love. I share the same birthday with him. Explains a lot. More please.

15 in 15: Artists

2010-09-23T17:35:00.002-04:00

I saw this for music but when it was posted for artists, the glove was thrown. I had at least 20 in 10. The list is likely split between American Ab-Ex'ers and 16th/17th century Italians based purely on a love response. But where does that leave Sally Mann, Cecily Brown or Louise Bourgeois? Or the haunting magical figures of Remedios Varo? Not to mention ground breakers like Mary Cassatt. I want to list Alice Neel mainly because I can't decide if I like or am repelled by her paintings. I like Louise Nevelson and wish Lee Krasner and Elaine de Kooning had as much notoriety as their husbands.

How can you resist a painting that is a seamier version of a Michelangelo or Raphael subject yet presents with such depth and richness it can only be executed by a painter who regularly finds himself the center of after hours barroom brawls. Meet the esteemed Caravaggio. Ms. Gentileschi. First woman to be admitted into the Academy of Florence. First woman to be commissioned for her work. Girl's got skills equal to any other Italian. Bernini. I think the Ecstasy of St. Teresa knocks me out almost as much as it does Simon Schama. Frederic Church's use of color to convey an explosive opinion trumps any newspaper description of current events. No one paints a wave like Bierstadt. I'm not a fan of Jasper Johns' Targets and Flags. I stumbled into a show of new work in Chelsea a couple years ago and was thrilled to see he'd evolved beyond what made him famous. He'd gone abstract and I loved the work. I love a theatrical Toulouse-Lautrec. Gotta put Jeff Koons on the list just because I hate him so much. Ditto for Damien Hirst. Master marketeers. Should take a page out of their book. I might actually get somewhere.

The loves of my life are Jack and Willem. Dig a Clifford Still. Dream with Helen Frankenthaler. The Iracibles. All of them. Painters and Poets. Helluva time to be in New York. The creative energy must have been palpable. Last time I was there I walked the street Pollock's and de Kooning's studios used to be. Could almost imagine either one of them passed out in the street. Can't say I'm not grateful the drunkard painter has gone out of style. Really not as sexy on a girl. I can sit in front of a large emotional abstract and lose all sense of myself. Expressive strokes, texture and color are Cupid's arrow straight to my heart. Maybe St. Teresa's angel was onto something. Artists' work is a commentary from the heavens. Even if the image is repugnant. Galleries are my church. If my world is falling apart I go to art. It never lets me down. Never. Best relationship I ever had.

Those Who Stay Will Be Champions

2010-09-12T13:09:00.000-04:00

Why is one person successful and another is not? Better yet, what constitutes success? I'll go easy and say success is doing what you love and getting paid to do it. There was a point in the game yesterday (sorry to some of you for the football reference, but hey, it's that time of year- deal) when Mich fell behind and I said out loud "are you champions?". Everyone suffers setbacks, but a champion will look at that as a challenge, choke it down and figure out a way to get back on top. I just enjoyed one of the best business months I've had in years. I am also inundated with comments from several sources that others are in the art rental game. Hey- you know so and so is doing that, too? Yeah, I know. Then I wrestle with quitting and fighting. What ultimately wins out is my confidence that I am so perfectly built for this job there is no choice but to continue forward. That, and I'm in too deep.

I'm smitten with the Film/TV biz. It's completely insane which is part of the appeal. It's also tenuous. This lovely new job I've created is incentive contingent and that incentive is threatened. As fabulous as last month was, it's not any indication that I have something I can build on. It's some relief from financial oppression. I can let my breath out. With names like Taubman investing in building a studio it appears the industry may stick around. I don't think he'd put millions into a business that is gone a year later. I'm aware I need to expand in order to service any size production. It's a foolish investment until this issue is resolved. Along with other support services, I wait. Live in the day and hope for tomorrow.

Everything is tenuous. Americans love the idea of permanence. It's a futile pursuit. I'm much more comfortable knowing it's all temporary. Makes every moment, every relationship sweeter. We will never be here again. Life is a hard ride. If you're living it. Everyone has range from light to dark. Due to my choices though, I get the extremes. Brilliant beauty to deep black. The deep black is worth the brilliant beauty. You can't have one without the other. I could use a run of brilliant since the black patch has been so long and ugly. I'm ready for the sun to shine out clear and strong. Play like a champion. Leave it all out on the field. Dig in and fight. Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose.

I Have A Dream Too

2010-08-29T13:17:00.001-04:00

I don't know about you but this economy has worn me out. It's hard work being poor. In my frustration and determination to improve things I created a business that is tax incentive dependent. With the election coming up, the dispute over whether the incentives are actually bringing enough jobs to Michigan to justify it is heating up. GOP gubernatorial candidate plans on cutting it and eventually eliminating it. Dem candidate loves it and plans on maintaining it. No way either one of these guys will hold true. The truth is always somewhere in the middle. The state budget is fucked. Ok. How is crippling a growing industry in Michigan which is creating businesses and jobs going to balance the budget? Won't businesses and jobs produce a bigger tax base? People who are on the dole will be able to pay into the system. The frustration I experience is persuaded by what looks like shortsightedness or just plain old partisanship. It's all about the job. Exactly. Looks like you have one. How about helping us get one? Political posts are no longer about service. Once elected, it's all about getting re-elected. If only someone would think past their own bank account.

I'm a registered Dem- duh. I also love capitalism. Small government. I started a business with the idea I might actually be successful. And I have this crazy notion I might bring a couple artists with me. Dreams. I had a pretty good week this week and allowed myself to dream a little. Investigated companies that do what I do in LA. I can see where this can go. Film Art LA is a monster. They serve everybody. They sent framed prints to a show just down the street from me this month. I wish them the best, but get out of my town! I'll service the shows in my city, thank you. Until this incentive thing is settled, however, I am not prepared to fully invest and make Reel Art Detroit everything it can be. I'm not the only newly generated Film/TV support service that is waiting. Tell me Rick and Virg's eyes aren't completely shut. Or they're not so old school it's still about cars.

I just want a chance. Opportunity. Dreams. I haven't had much in the way of dreams the past few years. It's been survival mode. Do what I gotta do to keep food on the table and try and manage my debt load so it's not completely insurmountable. It's exhausting. And not much fun. I've had some fun this past week. Detroit 187 has had me running and I've loved it. I'm meeting some really cool people (I mean rad- it's LA baby) on this show. The best part of this whole thing is making a call to an artist to tell them they are getting paid. Detroit is a tough city if you're an artist. Even in boom times. I don't want to watch this avenue dissolve in the state legislature. I don't mind working in a ditch if there's hope I might get out one day. America is based on that hope. It's possibility that gets me out of bed in the morning. It's what keeps me trying. If I thought life amounted to nothing but trudging and paying a bill, I'd quit right where I stand. Success doesn't always mean the tangibles. They are the easy benchmarks. How do you measure the spirit? How many spirits that spend their days trying will leave this existence anonymously? I might be one of them. That's fine as long as I know I had a fighting chance and I didn't squander it. I'm grateful I live in a country that lets me dream. So let me.

Talk to me, Goose

2010-08-15T11:57:00.001-04:00

Is original thought so offensive? Or is it more difficult than realized? I refer more to the herd/ bandwagon mentality because clearly humans have been ripping each other off since we emerged from the primordial ooze. The Secret isn't one. Artists have been stealing from each other for centuries. Of course we refer to such pilfering as influence. I may be stoned on cheesecake, but it's the stampede to the new, great, coolest thing, from iPhone to an 8 year old art prodigy, that disturbs me. A person is smart, people are stupid and easily swayed. I'm guessing ad agencies are counting on this. Being self-employed I rely on word of mouth and wouldn't mind having to address a mad dash in my direction.

If an object or person is revered due to mob attention, how valuable is it then? If most people follow it without thinking, is it worth attention at all? We, Americans in particular, say we love a maverick (sorry Palin, you're not, blah blah hurl) yet don't make room for them at the same table. There's something unnerving about an upstart, I'm sorry, maverick. Sure, after they've made millions/billions we, again, gang support them. Because we value money, not the spirit who breaks the ground. That's another blog day. It's trickier than I ever thought to stay true to myself. Opinions abound, most bouncing off, but some penetrating. What was I thinking? Get in line! No, no, get out of the line. I hate the line. Maybe it's just impatience. I can't stand a queue.

There are very few people in my life who give a genuine shit and pay attention long enough to get me. Obviously I'm more than a little attracted to them and my wish is to reflect that attention right back. I'm not regular. My life doesn't revolve around finding a man. I don't care about your kids unless I care about you. I have no need to rail against society. I'm an explorer, that's all. I think the world is more interesting than the state of my front porch. I have to live with myself. Lying about who I am makes that rather uncomfortable. I spent too much of my life attempting compliance and was miserable because I inevitably fall short of social prescriptions. I can't maintain it. Because I don't want to. I'm fortunate to have a couple good friends ("good" and "friend" should be redundant). I have a crazy, but loving family. I have occasional company, support and assistance but I am on this path by myself. Even after I commit to a life partner. It's not scary. I'm lonely sometimes. I'm sometimes elevated. Most days it just is. I'm not after highs and lows anymore. Just contentment. I'm after those days when it all feels right, the air smells sweet and the sun is shining on my face.

Time to Make the Donuts

2010-07-27T14:22:00.002-04:00

Careful what you pray for. I asked for this. I worked for this. I haven't been this busy in at least two years. Unexpectedly my residential business is showing signs of life just as the art rental business is getting off the ground. After months of cobbling an income together on a multitude of desired and undesirable jobs plus my parents' generosity, there is movement. I do not have any illusions this means the squalor days are over. It's an uptick in what seems to be an economy that has stagnated in the basement. I'll take it. Someone commented to me last night about being solvent again. I wish one check produced said result. I'm afraid I've taken such a financial beating it'll take months of checks to start to see some daylight. There's a pinhole of daylight.

Most people miss opportunity because it comes dressed in overalls and looks like work. One of my book club gals observed how lucky I've been. No luck involved. The harder I work, the luckier I get. I put a desire out into the Universe, back it up with convicted action and the Universe will open the doors. I just have to pay attention to the doors that are open and have the courage to walk through. Films still make me nervous. It's not brain surgery, but you do have to have some skills. The pace is frenetic. I seem to be living in a perpetual state of either standby to move or move your livin' ass. For someone who appears to have an inexhaustible energy reserve, I am suffering bouts of fatigue. Part of it is the pace itself, but a lot of it is the anxiety of uncertainty. Uncertain what will happen when, but even more, my ability to deliver the goods. I remember being terrified on my first job with an interior designer 18 years ago. The job completed and I got another job. I hung in there, paid attention, learned. I can't know it all on the first, second or even 10th go.

Balance. I'm a little afraid of hard work. Bit of a wimp in that area. Like the path of least resistance. Prefer to do the least amount for the most gain. Is that efficient or lazy? Do my chores, then I can play. I adhere to that. I'm worried if there's too much work there won't be any play time. Jack knows. I covet my play time. I suppose in the earliest stages of a new business there isn't much balance. Gotta make the donuts. I don't do well only making donuts particularly as I watch the summer whizz by with nary a day on the lake and minimal trips to Clark's. Just hot and sweaty. It's paramount I find summer in the every day moments. Yesterday the air was incredible. Everything is so green this year. My garden is seriously happy. While mowing I accidentally buzzed off a bit of the lavender. Gorgeous. The idea is take the hit now for a better day tomorrow, just don't miss out on today in the process. Donuts smell pretty damn yummy coming out of the fryer. Don't taste too bad either.

Dirty Girls

2010-07-07T13:06:00.001-04:00

I'm the kind of girl who doesn't mind getting a little dirty. There is no sense in getting my nails done since they can wind up in anything from paint thinner to roof tar. Upon a conversation with a client who is my age and began her career in the '80's as I did, I got to thinking how things have changed in just those few years. We both had office jobs in advertising and rocked out the giant shoulder pads. Miniature linebackers in heels. We were also on the receiving end of lecherous male colleagues who would rub on you a little in the break room or during an orchestrated tight fit around a desk. Sexual harassment was barely on the radar at that point. It wasn't necessarily approved behavior, but no one made any attempts to stop it. Rape was still a stranger related incident. If sex occurred under any other circumstances, especially if I knew the guy, it was probably my fault. I had asked for it with that skirt and all despite the horrifying over sized red glasses. The purpose of the burqa, theoretically, is to assist the poor man who can't resist a woman's wiles. Men have no self-restraint in the Middle East apparently. I knew a woman who had an executive job at Chrysler and was only promoted so far. Bumped her head on the glass ceiling. So when the micro business loan to struggling nations was developed, why was it deployed to women? Because they stick around, support their families and communities. And most shockingly, they get to business, pay the loans back- quickly. The Girl Effect.

I watched a piece on mountain biking in Moab. Of all the interviews with world champion riders and members of Team USA, there was one girl. She holds all kinds of records and rides it hard with the scars to prove it. She's got sponsorships like Cannondale. She's a long way from the office (she's hot too). I love the Colorado Plateau. I've been all over it on a raft, in Tevas, driving switchbacks, building prayer totems, having my spirit overhauled. Rafted the San Juan for 3 days. It's a silty river. You get in and wash dirt on. Walked away from the take out kind of a flaky grey color. I loved it. Haven't been out there in a while and it's calling.

I love being a girl. Not sure what those shoulder pads were all about. Protective gear. Eventually corporate America acclimated to women. Younger generations of women don't even think about it. A girl really can be anything she wants to be. And still be all girl. I'll be on the set Friday working a 12 sweating it up with the rest of the crew. Brunch in a skirt with a lovely man on Sunday. Because I can.

Love Tank on Fumes

2010-06-24T15:22:00.001-04:00

Perfection. Worth shooting for if I'm well aware that I'll never achieve it. It takes an inordinate amount of reminding that I can make all kinds of mistakes, even big ones, and still be successful. Now that film season is in full swing and I'm out there hustling to grow my vendor business, I've put a tremendous amount of pressure on myself to be perfect. When my body betrayed me Tuesday night from overheating combined with breathing in vaporized paint thinner, alcohol and other toxic painting materials and had to call in sick Wednesday, I added an anxiety attack to the polluted fume cocktail. I never call in sick. Maybe 4 times in the last 20 years. I'd made a promise. She needed me. I bailed. I wasn't perfect. Spent the morning beating myself up about it. Once I'd slept a little more, started to come out of it and reason found its way back into my head, I remembered what really matters. This is a job and it matters, but not really.

I've always had an over-developed sense of responsibility. If I say I'll be there, I'll be there. You can count on it. Done. I get it from my parents. They impressed upon me that unless I'm on the verge of hospitalization, I show up. The so-called bravery of someone coming to work sick demonstrating their commitment to the job. I'm over it. My life is not this job. My life is not any one job. All my jobs, whether residential, film or a gallery show, are temporary. I need work to provide food, shelter, etc. And enough for occasional retail therapy and a geographic cure is more than welcomed. If money was what I truly valued, I'd have a whole lot more. I'd abandon everything else for it. I clearly haven't done that. I picked art for Chrissakes. And my friendship with you. The love of my parents. My friends' kids. My neighbor's dog. Nothing makes me smile more than the way an animal that loves you greets you. Especially when it's only been 15 minutes since they last saw you but act like it's been an eternity. That is perfect. My garden is perfect. Love is perfect. When I'm in the studio, even if I'm fighting with an uncooperative piece, it's perfect. Earning someone's trust is an honor. To be loved by anyone who knows my flaws still surprises me. Love, in it's perfection, embraces my imperfection.

Impermanence. Everything changes. In 100 years everyone on this earth today will be dead. (save a couple phenoms) What to do with the time I have? In a celebrity, material obsessed Western society, it's hard to stay in my yard. My yard is beautiful exactly the way it is. Quit checking out other people's yards comparing, coveting. Film sets do what they are supposed to do. I get transported there and forget where I am. I forgot that the Universe was, and is, always at work for me. I forgot you. I got out in the garden today. Damn the lavender smells good.

Saving Grace

2010-06-06T13:55:00.000-04:00

Who are you under fire? Tough situations aren't necessarily character builders as much as character revealers. I bid an insurance job over a month ago that included some house painting as well as faux. Got a call last week from a contractor I've never met (what is it about these anonymous assholes that are populating my life lately? Lucy explain yourself) informing me he's doing the house painting now but has generously left me the faux work which amounts to about 30% of the job. With an arrogant flourish he went on to elaborate how I'd botched the bid and clearly wasn't qualified to spread paint on a wall but that he'd done right by me when submitting the bid for my work without ever contacting me making his stealing $2500 off my plate justifiable. Really? I'm probably off my nut but I believe in united we stand. That if we work together as a community everybody benefits. I'm as selfish as the next guy. Those damn envelopes with the windows are relentless. I also like sleeping at night. What's the line? People who steal eat better, people who are honest sleep better. I could lose a couple pounds anyway.

Grace. The obvious example of grace is Armando Galarraga. Holy hell this guy is a class act. The bit that bothers me is this sort of behavior is such an anomaly the event is on every news network. Are we so afraid that we've lost all sense of propriety? I'm more likely to suffer on the end of someone else's frustration vent than an act of generosity. Yet it is precisely generosity that is the antidote to everyone's angst. The opposite of fear isn't faith, it's love.

Wanted to wait to comment on the new Sex in the City movie so I wouldn't dampen anyone's experience. It sucked. Flat out blew. The writing was forced and predictable. I was saying the lines before the characters were. Ridiculous fashion that didn't fit the scene. Absolutely no attempt to weave the gratuitous shoe shots into any story. Just: Here's Manolo Blahnik, do we likey? The worst and most embarrassing component was Samantha's character. I love a sassy saucy gal. A woman who is comfortable with who she is and boldly declares it. As we age, however, what is hot at 20, even 30, reads very differently at 50. I think these actresses have been gone from the series long enough they no longer inhabit the characters and the provocative Samantha has been reduced to a truck drivin' crypt keeper. I think it's possible to retain the essence of who we are in a softer package. Grace. Nothing is sexier than confidence. Quiet wisdom is irresistible. At any age. I still know who I am. I'm just not as loud. I will launch a business. I will observe, find the opportunity and seize it. I am tireless, persistent, tenacious. My lipstick may have faded, I have not. If you choose to underestimate me, don't bitch when I run you over. Even if you do get flattened by a tiny little woman in Chanel.

Asshole Genius

2010-05-20T13:37:00.000-04:00

Part of the motivation for creating Reel Art Detroit was, in addition to financially supporting local art, it promotes local art. Detroit has an extensive art scene, it mostly exists underground however and the local money doesn't support it. We, meaning the artists, know this. Make art anyway.

I was given the name of a sculptor via someone I just met a couple weeks ago. Went to the guy's website and liked the classic figurative casts. Lovely. I called to see if he might want to get on board with Reel Art. I've never met this person and based on no response to my FB inquiry as to if anyone else knows him, I was taken a little aback when he opened our phone conversation on a tirade about how difficult it is to get any recognition here. "I just wanted you to know where I'm coming from," he explained. Huh. In case I didn't know this? Or in case I might give a shit? Or that this point of view is so cliche I blocked it out a few comments into a 10 minute rant. Do I really want to help this guy? Do business with him? I'm meeting him tomorrow. His work better blow me away. Otherwise he's just a dick with a paintbrush.

What is it about the "he's a total asshole, but a he's a genius" that people are willing to put up with intolerable behavior to get a so-called coveted product? Brian Killian enjoyed this moniker. He died alone in his bed in a house fire a couple years back. Bummer. The unruly artist went out with the ab ex drunks. God love 'em. I do. Make no mistake, art is a business. I didn't make the rules but if I want to succeed without some magical twist of monumental luck (which I probably also need) I have to play as written. And as a woman I certainly can't get away with the asshole genius tactic. I'll get labeled a bitch and difficult to deal with. I just can't imagine behaving that way regardless. Women generally have a harder time asking for what they're worth. I always balk when I have to deliver a quote that seems exorbitant to me even if I think it's what the market will bear. I'm learning to get over it and take my heart out of my wallet without crossing over to caustic, abrasive, what have you. Economics are tough for everyone these days. I'd rather be nice and work with nice. I don't think it impedes my skill or creativity. Or yours.

Ride of the Valkyrie

2010-04-25T14:09:00.000-04:00

The only surefire way to fail is to try and please everybody. Fitting in is paramount to a fulfilled human experience. I'm so damn opinionated and reluctant to comply with a herd mentality I don't last too long in groups. I was informed recently that I was no longer welcome at a gathering because I'm a girl. Members of this group have been part of my life for over 25 years. I understand the need for a men only configuration, but the delivery of the ousting message was so cavalier it really stung. There are moments when it becomes crystal clear who your allies are. Who's all in 'til the end. There are very few. They showed up within 24 hours. Hell, even my brother came through in the clutch.

The sting inspired an emotional purge as well. I've been holding on too tightly. Scared. Flailing. Panicky. Afraid if I let go I'll sink to the bottom of the lake. The minute I stop struggling is when I float to the top and catch some air. STOP. Surrender. Breathe. Relax. There it is. After months of no work, a client emailed yesterday with news that a pipe burst and the work I did in their home was ruined and will need to be reinstalled. Interesting metaphor. Not to mention timing.

Just when every day seemed to greet me with a smile. Fell on dark days. Black hole sun and what have you. The squalor years. Leo Castelli didn't open his New York gallery until he was nearly 50. I had no idea he started so late. Christ, there's still hope I can make something out of my life. I'm very passionate about Detroit art. There is such an unexcavated cache of talent here. I recently adjusted my role in the community to create myself a champion in addition to painter. I have to be willing to let it all go before the Universe can go to work. I know this and yet still hold on like there's no tomorrow. If there's no tomorrow, then who gives a shit and really hang it out there! Sometimes you just have to say what the fuck, make your move. Take a chance on Robert Rauschenberg, Jasper Johns or Frank Stella. Follow my own compass. I didn't choose an ordinary life, why do I keep expecting ordinary results? It's very nice when a group opens their welcoming arms. Until they squeeze the individuality right out of me. The few who back me know me. All of me. Even the unpleasantness. And I know theirs. It's no small thing. Where I'll end up is anybody's guess. Scary and cool all at once. The fat lady isn't even in the building yet.

Go Ahead and Vogue

2010-04-18T17:28:00.004-04:00

Sure it's Sarah Jessica Parker from a spread in Vogue. It's also gorgeous. Where would we be without the visuals? No question The Journal, The Times and The Post are informative and necessary journalism. I need to feed my head. But what is my mind without its soul? Fashion photography often gets pushed back behind high art. I certainly appreciate, nay beg for, visual provocation. I get as much a thrill from stunning beauty. There is no contest in that Grace Coddington is a damn genius. She's more the set dresser than the shooter, but it's her vision. You can't tell me that Richard Avedon wasn't a master of shape and space. And did it old school with shutter speeds and light meters. Wow.

The other side of this is the editor in chief, Anna Wintour. I watched The September Issue the other night and a couple things struck home. Anna is fierce as described. She's all business and if she were a man we wouldn't even be having this conversation. What surprised me was her eyes give away her passion. She loves what she does. She's brilliant. She's a warrior poet in Carolina Herrera. I also saw women who look like what I want to become. Women who are seasoned, successful, confident, stylish and beautiful. Older women whose age actually shows. Skin marked with experience and wisdom. Even Anna herself. Wrinkles and a little softness in the neck do not diminish her appeal, it adds. There is nothing more attractive than confidence; a person who knows who they are and is comfortable in their skin. Grace concedes that no one is perfect except the models. (She would know, that hair, my God.) She fights to keep the male image's little belly. It's real. He's not a model. Neither am I.

I know who I am. I always identify with the Gladiator not the wife. I'm terribly grateful I live in an age where I have many more choices than my Mother did. Yes, I want a life partner. Gloria Steinem got married for the first time at 66? I have several years before I can indulge in any real complaining. She married Christian Bale's dad. He died 3 years later. I'd rather have 3 years of big love than 30 years of a mediocre archetypal marriage. I know this too: I'm always going to need purposeful work. It's what gets me up in the morning and keeps me going when everything else falls down around me. I think that is the worst part of my interior business dissolving. Of course it's the money. The more profound loss is the sense of purpose, accomplishment and success. A woman who cares for herself and is engaged in passionate work is a force. This woman with a sense of style and uncompromising vision is invincible. This photo hits me in the same place as a good Willem de Kooning. Was this shoot in Detroit? Vogue has nothing on us.

Rise

2010-04-04T11:49:00.000-04:00

The day to celebrate rebirth. Rise from the ashes of death. What appears ended in one form reassembles itself with its soul in tact just in a shiny new container. It resembles the old, but this new form is evolved and adapted to new circumstances ready to be of service. Young and inexperienced today will know more tomorrow. Miles to go before the next performance of the Phoenix.

I've made this journey twice before. It's not as scary this time in some ways- I know I can do it because I've done it before. I miss the 20's sense of immortality. Hadn't built much, not much to lose when I started my interior business. This adaption is about survival. Selfish motivation inspired the change. Service maintains it.

I am grateful for quite a bit but my two faves are my ability/willingness to adapt and the courage to pull the trigger. Many have heard me disclose my worst fear is I'm that all talk and no action girl. I'd rather fall flat on my face trying than sit on my ass whining about what could have been. Shut up and do it.

The real buoy here is the Universe's obvious support. The last time I felt the Universe unlocking doors this easily was when I started my interior business. Ran into all the right people at exactly the right time. Three months in scored a spot in a show @ The Michigan Design Center where I met several interior designers. Shortly after that wound up in a DSO Showhouse and then the Grosse Pointe Junior League Showhouse. This all set me up for a 17 year run. The same phenomenon is occurring now. Not to be outdone is the ingredient of encouraging voices around me from my friends, family and the artists that are trusting me with their work. I'm humbled by that and feel responsible to deliver on my promise. It isn't just about me this time. With this much cheerleading I can't lose. Bumps, setbacks, tough days. You bet. Failure? No way. Bring it. Bring it the fuck on. I'm back baby! And I'm bringing you with me.

Didn't Know How Dark It Was 'Til The Lights Came Back On

2010-03-26T13:29:00.007-04:00

This is the first morning in weeks I didn't start the day with a handful of advil and several cups of strong coffee just to get out of bed. Yesterday was the pinnacle of my ennui which was cemented by several technical difficulties including operational issues with my beloved BlackBerry and my necessary furnace. The cold, grey and rainy weather was no help. Felt so crappy I bailed on book club and I never miss book club.Winter's overnight grand standing left my lenten rose pretty pissed and the crocus folded up and shivering. But the sun is out. Bloody hallelujah. I'm off some required antibiotics and I'm sure those were a major contributor. Regardless, I felt lighter this morning. Everything looks brighter despite the lingering chill. I've been in the trenches developing a company I believed was an unaddressed gap in the burgeoning Detroit film industry. I hate it when I'm this right. I sent out one alert which within an hour generated 18 new emails. This sucker's got legs. I've been trying everything in the last year and a half to improve my personal economy it's about time I hit a vein. As the malaise lifts, I feel excitement taking its place. Good God, to be successful again! I've done it twice in my life already, shouldn't be a surprise I stage yet another comeback. Never give up. I don't know what force keeps pushing on me. I bless it as much as curse it. I'm well enough acquainted with myself to know how much I'd hate me if I quit. Or worse, sat around blaming everyone else, banks, clients, W, whomever, for my misfortune. This mysterious force that drives me likes to send me way out of the box. Haven't concluded if it's creating adventure or just making my time here more difficult. Or just knows I like a challenge (bastard). All in the perspective. I'm happier independent. I haven't worked for someone else in 18 years. Can't go back. So I have to adapt myself to the new circumstances. Acknowledge the old is gone and forge ahead into the unknown of the new. I'll figure it out. I do like to plan ahead in an attempt to fend off major blunders. I'm also aware the good stuff, the brilliance, comes in somewhere between a mistake and what I intuitively know to be right. Let it develop organically and meet the folds and bends as they come. I've faced enough adversity to know it all works out in the end anyway. I've also enjoyed some periods in life that are so damn good, they completely exceeded any expectations. I have quite a partnership with the Universe. It kicks my ass and advances it simultaneously. All I have to do is get out of bed in the morning and do the best with what I have. Really need to load Combat Rock into the BlackBerry. Portable punk in the car running errands on a shiny day like today flips my light switch on.

Boom!

2010-03-06T11:27:00.012-05:00

Watched Brokaw's report on CNBC on the Boomer Generation. I got in at the tail end, but I'm a Boomer and honored to be. I certainly fit the criteria of chronic consumerism cohabiting with compassion and a sense of community. Not to mention an entrepreneurial spirit and a thirst for social change. The grandest effect this group of free thinkers granted me was how I feel about being a woman and my place in the world. Xerox made history when it decided to leave its fate in the hands of two women residing in its top two company positions. As recent as 10 years ago this probably wouldn't be possible. I am the product of the courage of women like Gloria Steinem, Erica Jong and Helen Gurley Brown. For the first time in history women have their own money. We have power, not a lot, but gaining. We own property instead of being owned. And Erica, my hero, gave us permission to enjoy sex. For the first time in history we count. Our opinions count. Our vote counts. Our orgasms count. I can live in my home, that I own by myself, and no one bats an eye lash or assumes I must be a lesbian. I can marry or not and it has no effect on my social status. I create my own. Advance myself. Because I can.

The better I get to know myself it is clear that the sexual revolution came just in time. The idea that I would have to rely on a man for everything is repugnant to me. If I had subscribed to old ideas in my 20's, like the still prolific women attending college for their "MRS" degree, I'd be living a life of quiet desperation now. I did get married in my 20's for all the prescribed reasons and thankfully never got pregnant so I was able to escape my inevitable demise unscathed. I do not begrudge those who got married, procreated and love it. More power to you if it makes you happy. I am not built for it and live in an era when I have the freedom to choose any life I want to make for myself. Which is a life as a painter. A struggle in itself and not much room for kids. I can pursue the film industry which enjoys 14 hour work days because I have no dinner to get on the table. It also includes men. And sex. I may be emancipated, but I need companionship and the power of touch as much as any human with warm blood in their veins. The light bulb moment for me was the moment I realized how full my life already was and the abundance of love. All kinds of love. I had been rejecting all that love for a fairy tale. Frankly, for me, the romantic liaison is the least important of all my relationships. I have some incredible friendships that I know are for the rest of my life. I already have life partners. Which frees me up to really enjoy men without the crazies. I'm not promiscuous and even if I was I'm not that mean to myself any more. Due to the perilous landscape I'm very protective of my health and my safety and choose wisely. Many are called . . . I was never able to do the hook up thing. I have discovered that even in a tryst or a lover, I need trust and respect. And since I am a product of what Erica Jong started, I get to ask for what I want and my pleasure not only counts but is required. Otherwise, what's the point for me?

I cannot express my thanks strongly enough for what the Boomers have allowed me to do with my life. I am fully realized and have the power to expand on it. Holy crap that's awesome! I wish this freedom comes to the women of this world who have not gotten even a taste of it (when they do it's all over bitches) but especially to those who exist in a living nightmare. I have it so good I'm living a pinch me life. The conscious contact with the Universe and all the love in it brings the sun up. It's an equal opportunity provider. It never distinguishes between gender, race, religion. It doesn't impose judgement. Gravity is distributed for criminal and priest alike. I am the limit. The only limit. I am constantly pushing those limits. It seems that takes a lot of time and energy but not to do it is a monumental waste of the abundance available. There is plenty of everything for everybody. I don't need to live in mine. I can live in ours.

Thaw

2010-02-28T11:55:00.004-05:00

Just made it under the wire for a February blurg. It has not been an inspiring month. Until today. The melting. The loosening. The thaw. I'm not sure my exile has been self-imposed or a conditional result of the frozen span of unimaginative murky gloom. I'm fully aware a whole lot of winter is still waiting to thwart an involuntary outburst of joy with the first ride outdoors; the first crocus bravely blooming in the still chilly air. But it's close. I got the first garden mailer last week. Had a meeting with the committee organizing the high school reunion where we interviewed a venue that included a covered lanai/loggia/patio inciting visions of warm summer days. Hope. I can live on nothing but hope if I can just get my finger on it. Making myself get out and about with people who are also looking for that thread to grab onto. I do need mediation and time to assess my thoughts and actions, but there are days to stop thinking about living and live. Live out loud. Hold nothing back. Leave it all out on the field. Play like a champion. Don't need reserves. The Universe always sends more. I think I'm thawing along with the icicles on my roof. Ideas are percolating. Motivation is sending up tender green shoots. There are blooms in there. Color is coming. I can . . . just . . . get my . . . finger on it.

Little Burgundy Chair

2010-01-18T16:23:00.002-05:00

Empty head. I think that's the point. Had a 'blank' day ahead of me. MLK day. No banks. No mail. No work today that I can't do out of my house. Studio? Why not. I've been thinking about this one since I made the big one. This one is really interesting due to its size. The circles are about the same proportion as the large painting, but it reads completely differently. WRCJ is playing beautiful music today and I got lost in this. I'm a little alarmed at how comfortable I'm getting with tight. And now tiny. All kinds of shifting going on. In the work. In the art community. In life and in love. I'm fascinated. I'm tentatively stepping out into a year that is already better than last and is poised to deliver on some long overdue promises. Got no objection to that.

Trudging the Road of Happy ? Destiny

2010-01-05T17:03:00.007-05:00

Happiness. The topic has come up several times in the past few days. My Book Club is reading the Geography of Bliss and PBS is doing a 3-part series on This Emotional Life. Both explore happiness in terms of what is it? how do you get there? I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about my happiness quotient, mostly because I'm generally an unhappy person and my inability to reconcile that compounds the whole thing. Being an American doesn't help either. We're all supposed to be living the dream right? I'm either blessed or cursed, haven't decided, with a resilient spirit. No matter what evils fall upon me, I soldier on believing a brighter day is just around the corner. The Creator's little joke I suppose. I took great comfort that the writer of Geography is a self-professed Grump, Crank, Curmudgeon: a kindred spirit. There is the inside job philosophy. I've been working the crap out of that one for years. It has afforded some relief from self-imposed exile, criticism and the always handy ass-kicking machine. It appears, however, that one of the most profound ingredients of happiness is successful relationships. Family, Friends, Lovers. I haven't gotten the Lover combination quite right yet, but can declare I'm blessed with some brilliant friends and several family members that are more than just a game face experience on Christmas. What about geography? If home is so great, why go on vacation? I certainly need to change the scenery regularly but I've always resisted living somewhere else (since moving here from Connecticut over 30 years ago). I have a feeling I'd be 'happier' in another, say less oppressive than Detroit, location, but because those all important successful relationships are here, so am I. Does depression accompany a conscience? I offer I'm slightly happier now that I'm cursed with self-awareness versus when I just blasted through my day not recording any mental notes other than taking my emotional temperature. Maybe it's about just being exactly who I am and quit railing against it. Embrace it. Grumpy may not be the American way, but my ancestry is Irish! Can't fight DNA. Happiness is a relatively new pursuit. Previous generations were about obedience and duty. Good God. Blek. Thank you Flower Children! We are now instructed to find fulfillment in our lives. Great. I'm in. Despite all kinds of advice on how to accomplish this nirvana, it eludes me. I don't really want advice. Love, compassion, empathy. These turn out to be what nurtures and strengthens my soul. Well, and of course, art. Duh. I do admire the human ability to look adversity in the eye and beat it. Let me tell you what love can do for the spirit. I don't want to simply exist. I want to expand. Explore. And love you right back.

the How Do You Like Me Now Award

2009-12-13T12:41:00.002-05:00

Awards. Prizes. Grants. Trophies. Oscar. I'd love to suffer some acknowledgement for my efforts. I don't know anyone who wouldn't. Whatever your passion, football, art, science, film, if you strive for excellence it's nice to enjoy some recognition for your talent. Part of this journey includes rejection and disappointment. Frankly a whole lot more of that than getting the nod. I'm at the mercy of a committee I've never met and likely never will. Their decisions often appear utterly random and frequently skewed. So how much do they really matter? I'm sure Colt McCoy is disappointed today. Is he any less talented? I'm sure he'll go on to set all kinds of records in the NFL. It's one thing to go after a dream, a passion. It's another to keep it up. To soldier on for the love of what you do. Because there is no alternative. This is who I am. Follow your Bliss is presented as a romantic notion easily undertaken if you would only choose it. Make no mistake about the amount of courage it takes to 'just do it' but perpetuate. I admire anyone who can sustain this journey. Particularly if public acclaim is elusive. It's virtually necessary to an artist's success. I'd rather be maligned than ignored. I'd rather accept a Pollock-Krasner grant and have my moment of how do you like me now? Then back to work. Shit. Now I really have to keep it up. I'll suffer.

Peace

2009-11-22T13:56:00.005-05:00

Peace. I'm not altruistic enough, or foolish enough, to wish for world peace. Just some peace in my world. It's been a difficult year. I have brandished my sword and boldly charged the battlefield. I'm bloodied and weary, but alive. The war years sort priorities. I love this piece. I forgot its name. Doesn't matter. It's in Texas last I heard. Texture and warmth. Art. And the friendships I have with women. It took living a whole lot of life before I realized the potency in these friendships. Spent my younger years focused on mating and relied heavily on men to determine my personal value. Seemed paramount that I mate. So I did. Way too young. I'm interested in a life partner, but I rely on my soul mates. The kindred spirits that nurture and strengthen me. The ones that infused me with enough courage to soften and open up to love. It is the women who convinced me to remove the chain mail and drain the moat. To use caution when lowering the drawbridge, but lower it. They give my life its texture and warmth. The season hasn't registered with me at all. Usually I notice it early and by the time Christmas rolls around I just want it over it's gotten so nuts. Enough already. I think I'm too tired to get cranked up about anything let alone this overly hyped season. I am conscious enough, however, to feel grateful. Grateful I made it through the year (few challenges left to conquer before we close it out). Grateful for my girls. And my boys. Art. Love. Peace. I'd like to simply breathe this coming year. I'd like to learn the word pace. If this year shows nothing else it's demonstrated I can weather just about anything. There really is nothing to worry about. Just breathe.

Burgundy Chair

2009-11-02T14:47:00.004-05:00

Hey~ I like this series! It's taking a turn for the interesting. I'm not usually a fan of the precise and can't readily explain what possessed me to put the grid of circles on this thing. I took comfort in my painterly inclinations and am happy with the mere suggestion of precision. As long as the circles have a rhythm, it works. I had initially planned on filling in the grid entirely, but instinct threw up a stop sign right where it ends. I left the pencil marks of intended circles. Not sure if I have to paint them out yet or not. How do you know when a painting is done? When the check clears? Always the wrestling match between academia, capitalism and instinct. As introduced in a panel discussion I attended at MoNA yesterday, is it the trained pedigree artist that makes important art or the soul who just goes out and does it? I hope for the latter 'cuz Lord knows I lack the proper cred to be awarded knighthood. When I have moments of objectivity, I find my painted journey pretty interesting. I think things got significantly better when I stopped painting for you and just painted whatever images popped in my head and trusted the education and study I have to just naturally show up in the work. Don't think, just paint. In the end I have to like it. This one makes me giggle a little I like it that much. I waited too long to pursue these images. I thought they were trite. Not to mention the cliche that I dreamed the first one. Sheesh. I've hearkened back to the very beginning of my serious commitment to making art where I incorporated geometry in all my work as well as choosing a palette that eliminates one primary color which has evolved into using complimentary colors. Then, the geometry represented my life in an office cube. I needed the abstract to loosen the art hidden in a dark closet covered in cobwebs. As much as I romanticize living by the seat of my pants, I have to concede a need for some structure. So here it is loosely structured. Perfect in its imperfection. Fresh and whimsical. Probably the closest thing to representing who I am than anything I've made so far. Not bad for trite.

Fall, Film, Fear

2009-10-29T17:54:00.003-04:00

Fall. An obvious change of season. In Michigan anyway. This year the colors are particularly vibrant. The trees are sporting the expected red, orange and yellow. But this year, we also get peach, fuchsia, deep maroon. The reds look like they are plugged in. I see little old ladies driving down Woodward and I always think I'll only be content at that age, assuming I last that long, if I've lived life full out. Even though I'm scared most of the time, I go for it anyway. I know I'd regret wimping out more than any fear I experience in trying something new. Each moment passes immediately into nothingness supplanted by a new moment. Opportunities come and then pass and never come again. If I don't grab it the moment that door opens, that's it, I can't go back. Not much repetition in life. I'd like to recreate the pleasant experiences and forget the ugly ones, but neither ever repeats itself exactly. Similar situations can arise and I will cling to its familiarity. I know this, I've seen this. But really I haven't. It's disconcerting. Or I can learn to embrace the newness of every moment. Maybe I don't know how to proceed. I'll proceed anyway. I asked for this change. Begged for it in fact. I was completely thrown off my square and had no sense of myself for a few days. What the hell have I done? I've done what is in my nature to do. My story won't be I worked at the same job, married to the same man, same kids, saved my money and retired to Florida. I might experience the illusion of safety, but it turns out no one is any safer than anyone else. Maybe the safety is in embracing that newness, the challenge of learning something new, even late in the game. Yeah, I get scared. Crazy scared sometimes. I have to learn to live with that too. I hope I get better at it 'cuz I don't plan on slowing down any time soon. Cameras up. Rolling. and Action!

Let's Have a Ball and a Biscuit

2009-10-06T19:30:00.002-04:00

Art is the point. Everything else is just a vehicle to get to the point. As I wait for the final hire call on Vanishing I'm rewatching the series Art:21. A PBS series on contemporary art where they feature a variety of artists. I get so bloody distracted looking for money to perpetuate food, shelter, clothing I forget the point. Frighteningly easily. I want this film cuz at least I won't have to spend any time looking for money for 4-6 weeks and maybe a bit after that. I retrieved 2 paintings from TRA today for the stretchers. I'm interested in the chair series and if anyone decides they like them too I have an idea for a show. Regardless, I'm on to Burgundy Chair. And finding my groove via the White Stripes. The dream isn't making movies, it's making art and if I'm lucky, earning a living on it. I like a slow groove with a little edge. Let's have a ball and biscuit and take our sweet time about it.

Art and Love

2009-09-20T14:30:00.002-04:00

Inspiration comes from just about anywhere at any time. It began in conflict with several personal relationships from the romantic variety to friendship. When this happens I try and sift through them to find both a solution and to uncover my participation in the conflict and attempt to make corrections. The platform on which I try and make these evaluations is "did I do it out of love?" As I became more focused on that instead of either experiencing injury or a desire to retaliate, the Universe opened up and the return was immeasurable. The more love I put out, the more I got back. One expression moved me to tears it was so lovely and generous. I was also inspired by an interview with Damien Hirst, Richard Prince and Takashi Murakami where one question was if you were given the choice, would you rather make love or make art? Hirst replies "Jeezus that's a hard one. You can't have one without the other can you?" Man, is that true. I felt suddenly validated in the direction I've been taking since last year. I have had several remarkable conversations this week. All of them with men of varying ages and relationship status. Two men stand out in particular. One represents art and the other love. They are both in their 20's and I miss the kind of idealism I had then. The sense of invincibility and immortality. Your life is ahead of you and anything is possible. I had gotten to a point, possibly age, where I felt trapped by my adultness. The economy has forced me to think outside the box. Thank you. I never liked it in the box. I am watching my life morph to an unknown point on the graph of my life, and instead of fearing it, I am embracing it, excited about it. I love the energy the two standouts have. They unwittingly have infused me and sent me back into the studio. I find I would need more space and words to get to the heart of what I experienced this week, but suffice it to say that I have a core of love this week. It's a calm warm core. It's a brave core. One that reminds me I am indeed invincible with the full support and faith of the Universe and its abundance. I'm ready for anything. Bring it. But bring it gently. And definitely, definitely, bring the love. Because I can't make art without it.

Renewal

2009-08-27T11:30:00.005-04:00

This mural was installed just before the financial meltdown last year. In fact, I watched it with her and her husband as it was happening. It was the last client with whom I had a lot of fun. Carol Palmer has a gift. She's not classically trained but can whip a room/house together like nobody's business. I love working with clients who have the sight and appreciate my talent. She, and the few others like her, are a treat to work for because she has great ideas and knows how to realize them. I really do like this work and am ready for it to come back to pre-October levels, if not 2003-2005 levels. I interviewed for a position as a scenic artist on Red Dawn. I'm still waiting to hear if I got it. The primary reason I decided to pursue features is it's a job. Sure it's a kick ass job, but a job none-the-less. And job that would actually require my skills. The winter was terribly frustrating and after being stiffed for the first time in 17 years, I lost most of my interest in interiors. After meeting with Carol this morning I'm renewed. Clients like her make my job feel like I'm goofing around instead of working. I get to work out my skills and make her home environment prettier than it already is. She's got some ideas for her granddaughters that involve bubbles. I'm in.

Beauty Grit

2009-07-05T09:28:00.009-04:00

I didn't know what to expect exactly. My first response was a gasp followed by the obligatory OMG. The grandeur of the chimneys stake their claim in a final swansong rising out of a mangled pile of dated cheap furniture, flannel shirts on plastic hangers, and a crack house mattress placed gently atop the debris. Evidence of daily life remains in what feels like a doll house with its backside blown off to access the living quarters so you can rearrange the furniture to your liking. The mansion was opened for tours once a year on Halloween. I had planned on going this year. I'm sorry to say I think I would have been sorely disappointed. As I pressed my nose to an available window, I saw a sad story of an unappreciated house artlessly wearing decor that was dated and inexpensive. There were a few interesting pieces placed without a sense of their beauty against waterlogged walls. These homes were built when craftsmen took pride in their work and the owner had the money to support their ideals. I'd love to document their painstaking efforts that resulted in the massive limestone fireplaces flanked by the original sconces that were clearly visible but inaccessible. Ultimately this scene breaks my heart. As much as we'd like to subscribe to a religion of permanence, everything passes into nothingness. There is no point in waiting to enjoy a thing of beauty, tell someone you love them, stop and help, go on an adventure, pursue a dream. These opportunities will pass and never come again. One of my biggest fears is to be a big talker and never go anywhere. Just shut the hell up and go do it. Then post the pics on Facebook.

http://www.kimfay.sitesofourown.com/ for all the pics from this shoot.

Waiting

2009-06-30T11:51:00.009-04:00

ramona received approval for police escort into the recently burned Louise Lathrup Mansion scheduled for Sunday. She's pretty excited. The historical mansion was struck by lightening last week and due to the state of disrepair the home was already in, firefighters were unable to readily access the home. They were relegated to park in neighboring driveways delaying their ability to save the building. Only a few artifacts were recovered; some paintings and documents. There have been a few treasure seekers skulking about looking for the score, but were all arrested. ramona is too old to feel romantic about a night in jail for art.

I seem to have abandoned the paintbrush. This entire process appears to be about finding my voice again. Now that I'm out of the tunnel and living in the light for a bit, I am using this opportunity to explore. Mostly to have some fun. I've been painting to satisfy others for so long I forgot what it feels like to just run it out there, see what happens. Even if it sucks, it's in the doing where I find my soul. I expect this to translate back to the paintings and I have some ideas percolating in there. Not ready to pick the brush back up just yet and since the images are still rather nebulous, I'll wait until they are in a more concrete form. We'll see what this shoot in the mansion produces. I'm very interested in its blackened former glory. Good scars tell great stories. Hope there's one here.

ramona Goes House Hunting

2009-05-17T13:19:00.004-04:00

I've always had a fascination with homes in Palmer Woods, Boston-Edison and Arden Park. In Detroit's heyday, these neighborhoods were where the money lived. I've had the pleasure of painting in several of these homes and admire the care and unparalleled craftsmanship that went into them. Marble, limestone, iron imported from Europe. Picture-frame panelling in stocked libraries. Artists who left their mark in decorative embellishments on the woodwork. Plaster work that no one can afford anymore. Detroit's signature Pewabic tile. I drove by Berry Gordy's old residence where he auditioned Michael Jackson. And the Vernor estate that boasted spigots delivering hot and cold ginger ale. Most of these homes are occupied and well cared for. The property taxes and our one state Depression has, however, made room for abandonment and decay to infect these exclusive neighborhoods. Under the collapsing porches and boarded windows is the whisper of its former grandeur. I do see beauty in the disintegration, but there is still plenty of polished beauty and ramona is interested in investigating those images as well.

Little Green Chair

2009-04-21T13:07:00.002-04:00

I have to concede to public opinion. I love making abstracts, but most viewers have a tough time grasping them. It seems it's the chairs that have the strongest appeal. I do enjoy making these and the fact that the first painting came from a dream is rather romantic. I need to get on larger canvas and really invest in this image. I like the small whimsical thoughts on board, but I'd like to see how they develop when I have a larger space to contend with. I want to continue to explore contrasting colors. I've always admired the way VanGogh and Gauguin used this palette without bludgeoning you over the head with it. Despite a very unsubtle personality, I'll see if I can't exercise some restraint while painting and produce something quietly provocative.

Cecily Brown Isn't Getting Laid

2009-03-21T13:02:00.006-04:00

Ramona. I decided on Ramona. Saucy chutzpah that doesn't need a last name. Female artists seem to require this attribute to even get noticed. Of course, upon recognition, it is also required to keep it up. A recent review of Cecily Brown's Gagosian exhibition illustrates the point. Where is the high-voltage sexiness? The pornographic pileups? Her paintings still contain the frenzied slashes of paint layered into tactile flesh. But it appears the reviewer was disappointed at the absence of splayed thighs, breasts, penises et cetera. Is it possible for an artist to evolve to a new place and still retain the attention previously bestowed? Maybe the work represents where she is now. I think it's just as valuable. I have my periods of overt sexuality, but I can't sustain it. The expectation that Cecily Brown, Tracey Emin and other artists like us can be bad all the time is impossible to accomplish. And in the end is it real? If the art doesn't contain her soul and it's all for spectacle it will eventually perish. Yet, without the spectacle, say, of a woman flagrantly expressing her sexuality which still surprises the resiliently puritanical audience, she doesn't get a show. Then I see a review of a show by Lee Jung-Woong, whose paintings look like spills I make when I'm house painting, but are described as technically adroit. Are you bloody kidding me? Ok, I may be experiencing a little sting from Agora's gracious rejection yesterday, but seriously? I've decided that no one knows what the hell they're talking about. I don't know who they're all trying to impress, but I'd like to see a critic really speak their mind. Who's got the balls to unmask Lee Jung-Woong for the house painter he is? As much as I resent still skulking about in obscurity, I am committed to making a good picture. I am compelled to live the life I was designed to live. After many years of capitulating to social parameters and hating it, finally rejecting all of it and finding peace within myself, I sure as hell am not going to concede now. I may not get my NY show, but maybe I can make it to the show as a collector. Or that mouthy critic. I'm not afraid of you. What can you possibly do to me that hasn't already been done? Do your worst, bitches. I'll still tell you what I really think.

Get Me Outta Here!

2009-02-09T14:46:00.002-05:00

I absolutely LOVE interior design. The cover of the March Arch Digest issue is a room I'd love to live in. I can be easily busted sneaking peeks in your home if I've never been there before. I don't know what has happened, but there is a definite shift in attitude these days and the clients are getting more and more difficult to deal with. In the beginning, 17 years ago for me, bringing an artist in to create work in your home was a big deal. Then the faux craze came along with HGTV. I became just a contractor along with your plumber, carpenter and the tile guy. Ok, that's cool, I can live with that. It's not fine art after all. But, it seems I've been demoted even further to a status where clients are telling me how to do my job and determining my value, even after an agreement, and paying me accordingly, or not at all. Huh. How about you paint a dragonfly on your wall and see how it looks. I seriously have no idea how my ability became so easily dismissed. The bummer is I love my job. I could hardly believe I could earn a living like this. I had the coolest gig on the planet. It wasn't a job, it was FUN. No more. I want out. I am thrilled that Hollywood has come to Detroit because I am making in roads to translate all this experience to feature films. Not that I wouldn't love to paint a dragonfly for one of my favorite clients any where, any time- always. But I really need a fresh start. I'm sorry to have to phase out the interiors, but I just can't take it anymore. Stencil? Bite your tongue. That medallion is all hand done and matches the rug under the dining room table. Gorgeous. Who doesn't want gorgeous?

Little Blue Chair and Anne

2009-01-26T12:32:00.004-05:00

This piece sold a while ago in a silent auction for the charity Michigan Aids Prevention Project. The person who bought it was smitten. I'm not always privy to a buyer's enthusiasm so I treasure it when I get to witness it. I had other images to post that have yet to be publicly presented, but I miss the chairs. I really should make more. I dig the leaves, but it's the chairs that get the attention. Even more than the abstracts that I work so hard on perfecting. I could be on to something.

It's been brought to my attention that "Anne" really should be a one name entity, like Cher. I'm thinking. I had every intention of taking her out on her first photo shoot, but my motivation has been thwarted by the worst client I've had in 17 years who has decided this dismal economy is her opportunity to bleed all her minions dry before payment, if she deems the work worthy of payment at all. Dance you mud turtles! This, coupled with the relentless fingers of winter hardening their icy grip resulting in the incubation of cabin fever, leaves me in hibernation, lethargic and uninspired. Brighter days are ahead and I expect my nameless muse to provoke me in her quiet way to new creative avenues. Meanwhile I am drawing on previous images that remind me how fulfilling painting can be. I'll build out from there.

Anne Boleyn Clark

2008-12-30T18:40:00.004-05:00

Introducing Anne Boleyn Clark. She is possibly the best Christmas gift EVER. Linda Clark is a member of the book club I belong to and was my secret Santa this year. She is a bloody genius. Ok, there was a scarf on her head when I opened her, which I also love, needed and wear with regularity, but it's Anne herself that captured my heart. Right now she is just hanging out in my studio getting a feel for the place. But I've got plans. She could turn up just about anywhere. I'm as curious as you are where she might find herself. I honestly haven't felt such a surge in imaginative energy and a return to childlike creativity in years. I've missed it. Desperately. Prior to the economic meltdown, I had enjoyed some modest success and I wound up back in the rat race without conscious authorization. I keep getting swayed despite my efforts to reject all social trappings that indicate I'm a grown-up. I hate capitulating. I did. And landed in the creative ditch. Maybe this financial fallout could be my creative, and spiritual, rebirth. The chance to reacquaint myself with myself. My true self. Life can get so crazy and drive me so far afield it can take years to find my way back. I really never cared about all the accoutrement, but am too pliable not to acquire enough evidence of said adulthood to move around the world incognito. I've always held I wasn't strange enough to really make it as an artist. Poppycock. And Anne's gonna help me prove it.

Red Gingko

2008-11-18T19:01:00.000-05:00

The recent economic meltdown has had a profound effect on me this past month. I haven't experienced that kind of fear and uncertainty in quite a while. I was forced to question my stance on money, financial aid, the value of fortitude and God. Having grown up in Bloomfield Hills Michigan with a father who had a swanky job with Sports Illustrated, country club membership included, my perception of money and its participation in the determination of success is warped. I've been fighting the feeling of inadequacy most of my life. Of course, I don't compare myself with my contemporaries, I compare myself with stock brokers, commercial real estate dealers, etc. No wonder I've come up short. The past month arrested my interior business not to mention decimated my small investments. I watched fat cats party on government bailouts, our money, while I struggle to pay my mortgage. I finally had it; I called in the cavalry: my tax attorney and my parents. I let go. I was willing to let it all go. Lose it all. Give it up to the Universe. I give. Uncle. The Universe loves it when you surrender. It opens possibilities. It's the moment I can move to a new and better place. I have been evolving this year to a new understanding of myself. Most of it has to do with sex and relationships, but I knew I needed an overhaul in financials. Now that a plan of action is in place and clients have stopped freaking out, too, and are calling, maybe I can finally put money where it belongs. Don't tax yourself more than your bills. Money is only something you need if you don't die tomorrow. It also represents some freedom, which I am currently missing, but with a new abundance of choices, I suspect that won't be far behind. This picture is in the Holiday show at Paint Creek Center for the Arts in Rochester Michigan, which opens this Saturday. I hope it sells. Or not.

Man in a Tux

2008-10-09T12:27:00.000-04:00

Any excuse to get on canvas . . . new series of abstracted figures. TRA Art group retrieved the first two of hopefully many in this series. I'm anxious to hear how these are received. The sister to this one is available for viewing on my homepage. I really enjoy making the leaves, but it's the big abstracts that get me up in the morning.

Little Yellow Chair 2

2008-09-28T12:52:00.000-04:00

The chair I like to paint sits in my breakfast nook. It didn't come from anywhere in particular except my uncle did the caning. I've always liked the shape of it. A single chair does smack of loneliness, but it's also a place of rest. I have recently experienced some difficulties and it feels good to sit for a moment, catch my breath, regroup. I'm a huge college football fan. I watched the UM vs Wisconsin game yesterday where after the first half of play, the Wolves were left for dead as the fans booed them into the locker room. I don't know what was said in there, but this seemingly inept team staged the greatest comeback in Big House history to win it. Never say die. Refuse to lose. I may need to sit one out occasionally, but I'll be back with a new strategy. Maybe they have a chair in the locker room? Little yellow chair or little MAIZE chair?

Gingko Leaves

2008-09-17T11:42:00.000-04:00

Finally I'm back on line! Earning a living these days takes most of my time leaving little for making art. This constant challenge plagues most of the painters/sculptors I know. I'm fortunate enough to earn a living installing residential and commercial murals which not only keeps food in the fridge, it allows me to continuously hone fundamental painting skills. As I have mentioned in previous entries, I have a small obsession with leaves. I admire Gingko trees for their survival from prehistoric existence to the variety of shapes and rubbery quality of the leaves. Unlike most trees whose leaves are virtually all the same shape just small to large, Gingkos are all unique from funny little dimples to just a simple fan. Gingko trees are difficult to find in the D which makes their appeal even more interesting. I have found a cache close to my studio which allows me to harvest a few for painting. I'd disclose the location, but then I'd have to kill you. And no, I'm not taking them for memory enhancement, frankly there are some days I'd prefer to forget. It's a shape thing.

This

2008-08-14T14:29:00.001-04:00

I never leave the abstracts for long. This is inspired by a lover. Sometimes I journal about my life, sometimes I paint it. If you want to know how I feel about a situation you can consult either. The journal is probably easier to interpret, however the artwork is infinitely more interesting. I like the works on paper that started with the maps & charts series, which is happily still in progress. I plan on putting this piece up for auction in a couple days. For those who have managed to find me this early in the going, this is kind of a patrons only private preview.

maps & charts #3

2008-08-06T12:03:00.000-04:00

After describing myself as mostly an abstract painter I thought I should be able to back up that comment. This series of paintings and works on paper evolved when another artist got me involved in an annual art garden party where I needed to have several pieces on hand to show. My assembly line was getting dull and in one of those kismet moments, a mark appeared. I loved it. It reminded me of topo maps that I love to look at. I've had the thrill of getting corralled into a rafting trip in Utah resulting in investigating further explorations of like adventures. Part of the anticipation of those variety of trips involves languishing over topography maps which hopefully provide enough info for us to plan accordingly so no one gets seriously injured. Just the chance that could happen adds a little something for me.

Little Yellow Chair

2008-08-04T11:21:00.000-04:00

I had a dream about a painting for years. It was so beautiful in my head but agreeing with Marcel Duchamp's commentary that the image loses something between the head and the hand, I was afraid to make it. One evening I had the fortuitous combination of impulse and courage and made the canvas version of my dream. It wasn't exactly what had appeared in my head, but beautiful, and lonely, none-the-less. This larger painting inspired these smaller versions that read much more whimsical and seem to charm the viewer.

It's All From Nature

2008-05-21T15:01:00.000-04:00

I'm a true believer in this philosophy inclusive of the original ab exer's stance that 'I am art', that nature can come from within. But I'm also knocked out by the nature on the outside as well and have a tiny obsession with a variety of leaves. Faves include Maple (duh), Gingko and Burr Oak (not to be confused with other species of Oak). And fall colors just send me.