Guest Eggs.

Roll call:

George Washington.

Arto and Glenn.

Lindsay.

Branca.

Raymond Pettibon.

Yves Klein.

Snow White.

Barry Bonds.

I can’t say that we’ve all done our best,

but at least we didn’t fall behind.

1846

 

 

 

 

 

 

Goodnight!

Fine.

Recently I was in a meeting of sorts.  And as meetings tend  to go for me, I was given the business.  ”Screaming, teenaged boy”, was the charming description I received about what I do here, repeated about eight times throughout the discussion.  I took immediate offense of course, I didn’t ask for any opinion, no grade requests were dropped on his desk, not even close.  But before I was able to muscle through the tears to plead my case, I was also told that I am too sensitive and emotionally attached to my work.  That once you offer it to the commercial, physical world you have to accept whatever insights (outright smears) anyone might offer, and if you can’t handle it, then it is time to move on to other endeavors.  Well…  Fine, and I am in honest when I say I accept this.  But understand this, those who cavalierly comment on others’ hard work without any real thought to the effort and courage it takes to turn art out.  It may just be penguin dreams and boner jokes to you, but there is a reason for all of it. There are some committed to the possibilities art has to make people happy, bring god fearing/god less people together  to celebrate irrational, romantic, dangerous ideas in the face of irrational, romantic, dangerous times.  And when times are tough as they are, it is always the art world which is first to have to fight against elimination, because of supposed frivolity.  If that’s not personal, I don’t know what is.  But I can take it.  Mister.

Zing!

It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I am regressing.  I saw a large man in carhaart gear walking with a six-pack of Hamm’s, two of which were missing, past my window.  There goes someone on his way out of the harsh judgement of the unfun, sports hating, Portland atmosphere, I thought, and into a wonderful world of carefree football viewing.  Where bowls of chips arrive, seemingly from the heavens. And hotdogs shower upon you from the exposed light bulb sky.  He was so beautiful to me I nearly fainted.

Flush the Wax.

The universes can’t have you.  

Yap yap yap

This was good.

I had the lord to keep me warm.

But it’s over now, and the melt water molasses and silt spittle is all we have left.

Chains on your tires won’t keep you sane.  Nibs in the rubber wale won’t curb your slip.

Oh no, oh no.

It’s bananas. 

I loves my tree, and I loves me critters.

But sometimes love just ain’t enough.

Sometimes it’s too much.

Right?

This guy.

What a ham.

Hams all around me.

Sketches are sketches and should remain sketches.

Lips like cucumber jello

bones bulge like pocket change.

bloat and progress

deflate and regress.

I kneeled in the dirt berm to thumb down the earth burgles.

And was pantsed.

By a neighbor. 

I’ll sing em all.

And we’ll stay all night.

It’s New Year’s Eve!  Kiss a stranger and tell the world.

The Killdeer Jar.

Poor traits.

or

Who is more relevant?  Or just relevant?  Ant?

levitating dogs of the 60’s

tree shredding cats of the modern.

Capgun holdup.

Tough times in Touch town.

Observing neighbors is a small part of my day.

These are my parents.  

Jams.

These are my parents celebrating our new president on Mars.  What?

She had a hot pink shirt before, but it was too exciting and it melted the computer.

There’s no face in your face.  Face!

Logo-tron

This is Matthew and he plays some pianos in Portland.  Don’t ask him to find your waitress, or else he will ignore you in a way you won’t soon forget.  

This is his new logo, and it’s fabulous.  Hire him to play your wedding, or bloodletting ceremony.

Portland, portland!

Pumpkin express.

And having writ moves on.

“Red wine 4 president.”

I’m collecting an army of important weirdos.

In training.

Warm light.

Lookie!  Do you want one?  Do you really?

If you can’t nib me, jib me.

Oblivious skipper.

I’m not so sure what the invisible money loss means now, I’m not buying gold and I think I heard that’s the problem.  I will carry on avoiding phone calls and being outstanding, which I understand is not a compliment, but I really think there is a solution in Jamaica somewhere.  It’s been there the whole time, but it was forgotten.  Respect.

My bedclothes show gingham loss.

“I know duck-fu.”

Looking up when things are looking down.

Hitting  the sauce.  I painted over this flask Kelly got me for my birthday.  Now all I need is an occasion to drink in public.  

Blood moat. 

This is a painting I did for an ear man in Switzerland.  A gift of love made unknowingly.

Last chance for Golden Slice.  Those carrots are a jib house.

Conventional convention.

Used.

Abandoned.

Re-awesomed.

But how did we get here?

Tie that shit back.

Protect the peepers.

Measure.  MEASURE!  Sometimes you are really excited, yes, yes.  But, do it.

Boring.

All the bolts on my table came loose.  Boring.

Sometimes there are assistants.

But I like to work alone.  Outta here!

Peel off old skins.

Yes!

Theoretical physicists get paid.

To consider the data, but not as an abstraction. Literally, absolute.

If I were a physicist, and I might be, I would be annoyed that this job exists.  Absolutely.

If you see me.

Ask me for a card.

Lookie!

You want some of this?  Yarrg!

If you can’t nib me, jib me.

I’ll see you sometime, maybe.

 

Some paintings for ProPhoto strangers.

 

 

My first Zombie/Ghoul/Beastie.

 

Cougar in a sidecar. Makes sense. It

 

Bicycles and icicles.

 I hope they like them.  I’m thinking of assembling my own show of work I have given to other people for only a small outpouring of gratitude in return.  ”Buying sandwiches with thanks”.  Not that I’m bitter, I bring it on myself one hundred percent.  More!

 

Body measurements in an unknown language.

 

Bog anonymous.

 

The most beautiful man in the Ukraine. Slow or not.

If you can’t nib me, jib me.