SPAM

"P.O. Boxes"

oil on canvas

11" x 14"

I know, I know...I've been blabbing an awful lot about the upcoming opening of my Bloomington exhibit, titled "Nocturne", at the I Fell Building on Friday, May 5th 6-9pm.  Let's stop talking about the show, the opening reception, all of that...

Forget about the promo, let's focus on the "artwork".  The painting above was painted in Bloomfield, Indiana. It is a picture of USPS mail trucks.  As you can probably tell, the painting was created at night.  It's a new work of mine, and in fact, the paint is still wet.  It's made of oil paint, canvas, masonite, and a few stray cat hairs.  It has a frame on it.  It's sitting in my kitchen right now, but this Friday, May 5th, you can see it for yourself at...

The opening reception of "Nocturne", my latest solo exhibit at the I Fell Building in Bloomington, Indiana.  I think it starts at 6...

Follow the Lights

"Ablaze"

oil on canvas

12" x 24"

Did I mention I'm showing new paintings of night light in Bloomington?  The opening reception is Friday, May 5th, 6-9pm at the I Fell Gallery on the corner of 4th & Rogers.  As you all know, the latest paintings are always the best, and this exhibit will be no exception...I can't think of a single show I've done that measures even halfway in comparison.  That said, I haven't finished the paintings yet. 

It's going to be a party.  Come enjoy the night lights.  Share, tweet, snap, pow.

Farting Around

"I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different."

-Kurt Vonnegut

I stayed up all night painting pictures.  Hope to see you at the opening on Friday...it'll be a gas.

          May 5.  6-9pm. I Fell Building.  Bloomington, Indiana.  

If this isn't nice I don't know what is...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_RUgnC1lm8

In Progress

If you're going to have a show titled "Nocturne", you best be ready to stay up all night.  I've got plans to finish 50 new paintings of night in the coming days.  They're the best things I've done in the past week.  Are you coming to the opening?  

May 5.  6-9pm. I Fell Building.  Bloomington, Indiana.  

Nocturne

I'm going to leave this right here...

This show was kind of a last minute thing, but I'm pretty darn excited about it.  As of right now, I've picked out a few paintings that could use another shake on a gallery wall....everything else, well...it hasn't been painted yet.  I'm a big fan of purposeful procrastination. 

The I Fell Building is a funky space with artist studios and makeshift walls.  It's the perfect venue for dark paintings of ugly subjects.  The opening is going to be a party...hope to see you there.  If you're into it, feel free to share the flier on your social media of choice...snap it, twit it, stick it in your myspace....whatever.  Better yet, tell your friends in person with real words...the flier prints just as well as it posts.  

Thanks Jesse for the fine promo.

Another First Brush

"Night Moves"

oil on canvas

24" x 30"

For the seventh April in a row, I made a trip down to little New Harmony, Indiana to paint a few pictures over a long weekend.  I ended up with 16 finished paintings, including the one above, which was about five shy of where I wanted to be.  I had a great time on my annual retreat, regardless of the "work" created.  A plein air painting event takes place in New Harmony this time every year, allowing painting folk from across the Midwest to gather in one place and enjoy one another's company.  I caught up with some old friends and met some folks I hope to paint with in the future.  A lot of great people make sure painters like myself have a good time while we're in town...I'm thankful they haven't run me off yet.  

I might post some other works from the weekend with a better synopsis of my annual New Harmony experience, but for now, I'll just sum up what happened this year with a top 10, in no specific order...

1.  I spent a long time creating some special panels to paint on during the trip...I didn't use a single one of them.  

2.  I wiped off the same painting twice...I rarely wipe anything off.

3.  I visited a cypress swamp outside of Mt. Vernon, Indiana, supposedly the only one north of the Ohio River.  It was a cool experience, but I didn't paint anything while there. 

3.  In said swamp, I almost stepped on a Cottonmouth.  I'm no herpetologist, but I know enough about snakes to know I almost made a trip to the hospital.  The snake was large, and according to what I've read, about as large as they get here in their northernmost territory, the southernmost part of Indiana.  At around three and a half feet long, and almost entirely black, I've learned it must've been a mature adult snake.  My friend, Larry, confirmed the snake's identity while prodding it with a stick as it was sunning in our path (don't try this at home kids).  The snake immediately flattened out, coiled up, and opened up its white mouth.  Larry persuaded it to strike the stick a few times before scaring it off.  The rest of our hike in the swamp was precarious, as black tree roots, similar in color and size to the snake, offered us the best traction in the muddy parts of the trail.  

4.  I ruined my favorite straw hat.

5.  I channeled my inner Matt Foley while painting from my VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!

6.  I rekindled my love of Stroh's for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

7.  I painted a gravedigger and met the man who operates the morbid machinery, by chance, the next day.  

8.  I picked no less than 14 ticks off of my body over the three day trip.

9.  I saw a sasquatch for the second time (it's on old New Harmony Road, somewhere between New Harmony and Mt. Vernon...just look for the creature waiving its arms on the horizon)

10.  I got to trade stories and tall tales for the umpteenth time with my good friend, the snake charmer himself, Larry.  I went on a painting trip...but the painting was just something to keep the two of us busy and out of jail while we roamed around the southern tip of the state looking for trouble.  JESUS CRIMENETLY, what kind of bear spray do we need!

Red Rhino Red

"South Cleveland"

oil on canvas

12" x 16"

Here's a new one.  I painted this with Gamblin's Red Rhino Red, an oil color made specifically for Pygmalion's Art Supplies in Bloomington, Indiana.  Every year, Pygmalion's partners with Gamblin to produce a one-off color to be sold only by Pygmalion's, with all proceeds of sales going towards a local non-profit organization.  

This year's beneficiary is Rhino's Youth Center, an important hangout for teens in Bloomington and a big part of my high school years.  Rhino's hosts live music on a regular basis for the hippest hipsters around...I can still smell the nail polish and body odor when I think back to all of the shows I saw there.  I'd say most aspiring musicians and artists that grew up in the Bloomington area can recall an important life experience that Rhino's was a part of...mine was seeing Lucero open up for Motion City Soundtrack in 2004.  

On Wednesday, April 19th, Pygmalion's will host their Annual Custom Color Show and Party from 5- 9pm.  If you don't make it for the show, stop by sometime and buy a brush or two from them.  They've got pretty much anything you'd ever need, and if they don't, they'll order it and have it shipped to you.  Pygmalion's is to working artists as Toys "R" Us is to a 10-year-old with an allowance, but with cats, friendly people to help you, and in my case, tax-deductible toys.  Check it out. 

Stage(d) Presence

I enjoy playing music when I'm not teaching or trying to paint pictures.  I don't advertise it much anymore, because like my painting, it's developed into a much different endeavor over the years.  I've done all sorts of self-promotion in the past...websites, weekly trips to Kinkos, Myspace, T-shirts...the whole nine yards.  But I discovered several years ago that all of that work really just does one thing...it lets everyone know you're in a band.  It doesn't guarantee anyone will listen to the music and it certainly doesn't make any of that music any better.  With that in the back of my mind, I thought I'd write about something related to music, but per usual, tied to my typical inconsequential ramblings.  So here it goes...the music group I play with had a show a few weeks ago, on St. Patrick's Day, that was fairly ridiculous.  The experience I'll describe wasn't really tied to our actual musical performance, but I found it equally entertaining.  I'll elaborate with more detail in a bit, but to get the ball rolling, let me set things up.  After our set, I stepped outside, found an empty spot on the sidewalk to stand, and spoke with another musician who played prior to us.  He was upset about the typical stuff musicians at this particular venue get concerned about...small turnout, the number of dancers, the number of CD sales and the like.  I didn't really have much to say about it, but when he pushed for me to respond with my thoughts, I said something that pushed everyone's buttons in our vicinity...."I don't care."

But before I tell the story, let me say, I love rock 'n roll...the sounds, the attitude, the look....everything.  So, for entertainment's sake, and all of you hipsters out there that have decided to buy vinyl instead of mp3 (myself included), I'll backtrack to a major part of my seventh year.  When I was in elementary school, I was gifted a "boombox" for my birthday.  I listened to the local pop radio station for a few weeks before I realized I could "borrow" cassette tapes from a big box I found in the closet.  I grew very fond of Bob Seger, Tina Turner, and Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors" album.  I then learned a trick on accident while examining the design of those cassette tapes.  If you put tape over the punch-outs on the top edge, you can utilize the previously unpushable "record" button (I'm sure this is common knowledge with folks who had more time growing up with cassettes, but I remember being really impressed with my discovery).  I ended up erasing an entire "Best of The Eagles" with pop radio recordings...probably a lot of Boyz II Men, Mariah Carey, and Ace of Base.  Now, I know it sounds ridiculous, but up until this time, I hadn't put much thought into the round disk-shaped opening on top of my portable stereo.  I am guessing I had chalked it up to a technology far beyond what I had available in my home.  I didn't know what a CD was.  But one day, while exploring the brand new Wal-Mart Supercenter down the road, I walked past a collection of red square packages decorating the end of an aisle in the electronics department.  On each package, staring back at me, were three attractive female faces with unrealistically piercing eyes.  I examined the back side of the plastic package and found a symbol that I recognized from the top of my boombox...a circle that said "compact disc digital audio" next to it.  So, in hopes that what was in the package was compatible with my music machine back home, and I'm guessing as the result of some prepubescent sex appeal, I bought my first CD with a bunch of quarters I'd been saving up...."Crazy, Sexy, Cool" by TLC.

I listened to that album on repeat, which I think is hilarious now.  I eventually acquired quite a collection of 90's pop/dance music....mostly sports-related compilation albums like "Jock Jams".  It wasn't until I was eleven or twelve that I discovered the album that really did "change everything".  My parents and I were at a bookstore for reasons I can't remember as buying books was not a part of my childhood.  There was a music area in the store with racks and racks of CD's...all with those large plastic things attached that I'm guessing were used to prevent five-fingered discounts.  I ended up spending twelve dollars on some music I wasn't sure about.  The cover had a picture of an old man carrying a bundle of sticks.  It wasn't anything like the neon colored covers of every other CD's I'd purchased.  I don't think I realized the songs encoded on that disk were 30 years old.  I didn't know the difference between what I was listening to at that time and what has become known as "classic rock".  I don't know why I chose "The ZoSo Album" instead of Jay-Z's "Hard Knock Life" or Backstreet Boys' "Everybody", but I'm so happy I did.  I unwrapped the cellophane as soon as I got in the backseat of my parent's car, popped the CD into my new "Discman", clasped that foam-covered headset around my ears, and pushed play...

Hey mama, said the way you move

Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove...

I was listening to Led Zeppelin IV, The Fourth Album, Four Symbols, ZoSo, Runes, The Hermit...whatever you want to call it.  I think my brain exploded every 30 seconds for the entire 45 minute drive home.

I ended up buying most of the other Zeppelin albums shortly thereafter, along with Pink Floyd, The Who, and Cream.  I've since been exploring the rock 'n roll genre thoroughly, as well as the blues, r&b, country, soul, and countless other genres that overlap.  I bought a guitar when I turned 15 years old, learned how to imitate a lot of those noises I loved, started a crappy punk band, and now here I am, 15 years later with no hit singles, no record deals, and only a hand full of people that realize I still play on a regular basis.  I've played with 26 different groups, last I counted...some for a few years, some for just a few shows.  It's been a lot of fun.  And that brings us back to my last gig, St. Patty's Day.

"What do you mean you don't care?"

It wasn't the musician that snapped back with the response, but a lady that had just got in a fight with a waitress a few minutes earlier.  She had simultaneously been commenting on my lack of "investment" with the group I was playing with while I was indulging the musician his own complaints.  I was a little shocked, but I asked her to explain her reasoning.  What it boiled down to, evidently, was that I didn't smile enough while on stage...which meant to her that I was unhappy and not really interested in performing.  "I just wish you were more invested in your music," she said to me.  I laughed out loud and she gave me an ugly glare.  "I don't care," I said another time.  A 30 minute argument ensued.

The argument didn't actually involve me that much, but it was definitely spurred by the few things I did say.  Everyone else who had gathered around by this time had a lot comment on...mostly about how musicians are underappreciated, how it's hard making a living as an "artist", how people "don't really understand", and a whole bunch more sappy, ego-boosting self-deprecation that didn't make any sense to me.  I'm as guilty of making a big deal about my personal endeavors as any other egomaniac, but this conversation was just stupid, so I added fuel with the same remark..."I don't care."  The St. Patty's Day crew of band members and drunkards became more livid, especially the ones trying to offer support to a "fellow artist" in an argument I was evidently having with a drunk lady that I hadn't said more than a dozen words to.  I was now the target of a, "Wha do ya think yer better than us?" assault.  

The musician that I first spoke of tried to resolve the situation.  He said something that sounded rehearsed, as if he'd been practicing for a Rolling Stone feature, about how playing music was about that feeling you get on stage when you hit just the right note and it feels like you're floating.  I understood this.  But then he elaborated, "I'm just trying to share my music with the world (or something like that) and make a living.  I'm a broke musician trying doing the only thing I know how to do...write songs and perform them for the world (or something like that)."  The lady stormed off.  The smell of macho musician cliche was thick on the sidewalk.

The musician then told me he had spoken with the lady earlier.  Evidently, she didn't want to pay the cover charge to "listen to that crap" (referring to my group's music...I won't entirely disagree).  He continued the interview talk with some sort of "haters gonna hate" speech and reiterated to the entire group how broke he was, just living on the little amount he made from tips and iTunes sales.  He spoke with a man next to me about his new album.  He critiqued my guitar playing.  He heckled a couple college kids walking on the other side of the street.  He bummed a cigarette off of a fanatical middle-aged woman.  He was wearing one of those plaid flat caps, a corduroy sport coat, and pointy boots.  The set he played earlier that night was mostly composed of blues covers like "The Thrill is Gone", "Going Down the Road Feelin' Bad", "Crossroads", and several other 12-bar standards.  And then, a homeless man walked up to us.

"God bless you, do y'all have a dollar you could spare?"  Our circle was broken for a moment, as a man in dirty clothes engaged us all with a sad smile.  I recognized the man, as he often walks by the clubs several times each night looking for a few bucks.  Before anyone could say sorry to the man, "the musician" turned to him, reached into his wallet and pulled out some bills.  "Sorry man, all I've got is twenties."  He pulled the man further into our group, put a twenty in his hand, and embraced him in a long hug with lots of back pats.  "God bless you brother.  You go get a good meal.  I love you man.  Have a good one.  God bless."  He turned back to his audience.  Everyone swooned and got out their wallets.

The homeless man walked off into the night, probably with more money in his pocket than the club made on cover charge.  The musician sold a CD or t-shirt to everyone standing in our circle (except me, if you hadn't already guessed).  The drunk lady came back out and said the exact same things she told me a few minutes earlier.  And me...well, I just sat there dumbfounded.  I spent a while trying to figure out just how mad I wanted to be about the interactions I'd just had with complete strangers.  I decided I didn't care.

I'm very passionate about a lot of things...painting, music, Scrabble, etc.  But I'm sorry to say, I don't think there's any room leftover for a stranger's critique of my stage presence or the authenticity of a "fellow struggling artist".  I've tried hard for years to convince myself that I cared a lot about everything.  Turns out, I really don't care about much.  And while it hurts a little to admit that I lack the compassion I've always hoped I had, I feel confident that I care a lot about a few things, and hopefully that's enough.

Don't get me wrong...

Or do, I guess...I don't care.  But it's not that I'm trying to avoid compassion, I'm just trying to be more honest, even if it hurts, and concentrate on what actually matters to me.   It's probably selfish, but at least I know it's not manufactured.  Turns out, it's a real balancing act trying to totally invest in what's important to you as a person while avoiding inadvertent self-importance.  So, not that it really needs to be said, but I'll say it...I'm not here to convince anyone of anything...other than myself, maybe.  And if you don't care, that's fine, because I don't care that you don't care.  I just gotta ramble on...

And if you wear flat caps and corduroy coats, don't let me change your look, just don't assume that they make you more of a professional, struggling blues musician that covers the 2004 Eric Clapton versions of 1930's Robert Johnson tunes.  Take that for what it's worth...as you know, I paint pictures in a fashion that's not too different from what was done 500 years ago.  I'm afraid originality will be always out of my reach, but you won't catch me wearing a beret anytime soon.  Do what you love, love what you do, blah blah blah...but don't try to fool all of us into thinking you're who you are...if we can't figure it out without a getup or rehearsed monologue, shame on us.

And shame on me for posting this.  I might be a pretentious hypocrite for blogging about this sort of stuff, but I'm afraid of what it would mean if I wrote all of this down and kept it to myself.  The most honest people I've met are all assholes...I'll come to terms with one while I work on the other.

I love rock 'n roll...I guess that's what this all boils down to.  And I guess I like the "I don't care" attitude that comes with a lot of it.  If you watch a recording of an early Led Zeppelin performance, you'll see what I mean...they don't care about anything other than that exact moment.  Or maybe they didn't even care about that.  I'm pretty sure they didn't care about the jerks that criticized them for ripping off blues standards and calling them their own (go ahead and backtrack a couple paragraphs if you'd like).  And I'm pretty sure they weren't just acting like they didn't care.  Or maybe I'm assuming too much.  Probably so, but who cares?  I do, obviously, but you don't have to.  If nothing else, just listen to "Good Times Bad Times" again, or for the first time if you haven't had the fun.  That kick drum should be enough to beat all of this nonsense out of your head.

In the days of my youth

I was told what it was to be a man

Now I've reached the age

I've tried to do all those things the best I can

No matter how I try

I find my way to do the same old jam...

Gonzo

Another night, another bowl of cottage cheese.  

I sweat through another shirt and listened to three Hunter S. Thompson documentaries while cranking out six more fairly bad paintings.  Good times.  

"If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up."  -Raoul Duke

Rust Never Sleeps

It's one o'clock in the am on a school night.  I had made up my mind I was going to bed four hours ago, but I wanted to sneak in a painting before calling it quits for the day.  I haven't painted for a while, so I quickly got a second wind.  I made five fairly bad paintings, sweat through my shirt, and after running out of paper towel, decided to turn in.  But first...a snack.  It's a bad habit, but I felt like I deserved one of my favorites...a few bites of cottage cheese straight from the tub.  Yep.  My wife thinks I'm weird, but I like to put pepper on my cottage cheese.  So, I reach for the pepper mill, hold it directly above the open container, give a turn, and...I rip the plastic grinder into two pieces.  Have you ever tried to clean up approximately 4 billion peppercorns, scattered throughout the kitchen, without waking up the neighborhood?  I've sneezed as quietly as possible a couple dozen times and have lost my late night appetite.  Probably for the best...goodnight and...oh wait, an episode of Bob's Burgers I haven't seen?  What's another hour...

Egg Hunt

"Empty"

oil on canvas

16" x 20"

For my local friends...

If you know where this house is, and you want this painting, I'll hang it on the back side of the front door for you tonight.  First-come, first-served.  

It's All Over Now, Baby Blue

This is my grandmother.  She was a kindergarten teacher for most of her life.  She wore nice clothes, fed the birds, kept my grandfather out of trouble, and made menus for my friends when I had a sleepover.  She probably worried too much.  

In the spring, she would take photos of her daffodils and tulips as they popped up in the front yard.  She used an awkward film camera most of the time instead of the digital camera we gifted her.  I have all of the pictures she took.  

She would sit in the grass with me when I was younger.  She always stood up from an "Indian style" position without using her hands to push off the ground.  When I was in high school, she let my band rehearse Metallica covers in her garage.  

She talked to grown adults like they were still her students...they always called her Mrs. Heaton.  Her students wrote her letters and made her gifts...she kept all of them.

My grandmother was Nana to me.  My grandfather was Papu...he had Alzheimer's when my grandmother died.  When we broke the news to him, he said to me, "Take big steps...walk easy".  

My grandmother burnt most of the food she cooked because that's how my grandfather liked it.  We bought her a Cadillac once, and I wrecked it.

Her daffodils are my daffodils.