Dental crowns

I’ve been writing a lot lately. None of it has ended up here. People seem to like my writing. When I share my business card with some person or another, so that they can look at my art, they often comment first on how they enjoyed this section, of rambling thoughts. It makes me think I should be a writer. I’ve had a lot of interesting experiences and one night, while sitting tucked away on the corner stool of a diner some time back, I resolved to write a book about them. Perhaps as a function of caffeine, of which I had been partaking heavily, I felt distractable and uninspired while staring blindly at my little over-priced composition pad. I recently heard Janet Mock speak at the Director’s Guild. She’s a fairly remarkable person. I would recommend learning more about her life. Anyway, she shared a piece of advise which, in a moment of rare clarity, I was able to operationalize, right there in the diner, in front of my watery coffee. She wrote her first book in large part by, in her words, gifting herself an hour each day to write. I also thought about some other advice that I had once received from a co-worker a long time ago. “It doesn’t have to be done well; it just has to be done,” he said, referring to our nightly cleaning chores. I had apparently been taking too long to complete them, in the interest of being thorough.

So it occurred to me that I could combine these two bit of advise and gift myself with an hour of crappy writing daily. The main parts seemed to be the hour and the getting done. Free from any requirement of quality, and with newfound permission to spend an hour so casually, I wrote. Anything went so long as I followed the simple rules: Stuff should be written down in an hour dedicated to the task (and usually stolen from some other duty). So clean clothes gave way to phrases such as, “shut the fuck up, you coin-operated pony.” I stole the coin operated pony line from a friend of mine, the extremely talented artist Walter Schrank. Plagiarism wasn’t against the rules, so it passed muster (sorry Walter! If you, gentle reader, would care to read more of Walter’s beautiful verse, do visit SoHo Artist Materials on Crosby or visit www.walterschrank.com and buy a copy of his collection called “small barbarisms”). Eating breakfast was replaced with margin notes like, “finger poo,” and “tinkle troll.” Pretty soon, I had accumulated enough work that I began to feel the need to share. I transcribed the verse “45% sane” on note cards attached to tissue packets and laid them silently around on the seats of subway cars during the evening comunte. Perhaps I should have done so with “tinkle troll” instead? I do so like the sound of that one. Did you know that dental crowns these days are made of Zirconium, which is white powdered metal? I wrote that line. It happens to be true. Eventually these scriblings began to coalesce into a series of vignettes which I’ve started calling “Sullivan Street,” after the first one. Most of them are loosely, but more or less, based in reality. Since they’ve all been extracted from a single thread, I wonder if it wouldn’t be too difficult to stitch them back together again, once they have been embellished and tumbled smooth. That would be nice.

I promised lots of things and failed to deliver on most

Last night I found myself at Smoke, a jazz club in Manhattan Valley, until something like 4 AM. I caught the late show which on Saturdays is an interesting mix dubbed “The Harlem Sessions” run by phenomenal pianist Marc Cary. The gig starts out with Cary and friends performing a set followed by an open jam… musicians, poets, singers are all welcome on stage. If you want to see the best the NYC jazz scene has to offer, look no further. Cary, bassist Barry Stephenson and drummer Cory Cox pretty much blew my mind last night with an emotive, rhythmic and at times almost ethereal set. Cox’s snappy and precise style was like a rifle bolt engaging each beat and provided a perfect juxtaposition to the more pensive melodies. If you are, or happen to be in NYC and are into Jazz, I would highly recommend a visit. Anyway, I digress. You must be wondering about the title to this week’s post. I am wondering myself.

Last night on the walk home I was thinking a lot about how the city has changed in the last decade or so and I became mournful, although I couldn’t lay an exact place to the emotion. Perhaps mournful for when I was younger or just for the familiarity of memory. Anyway, this eventually led around to a sense that we, as humans, seem to trample on the most precious things without even noticing. For some time now I have been noticing birds that are killed flying into glass buildings. If you keep your eyes open, they are everywhere. Almost everyday I see a new one, laying at the foot of some bland, enormous, often recently build, high rise. No one seems to notice the bird. No body seems to notice the building really, either.

Some time ago I made my living painting people’s bodies. It was an interesting thing. Often, I was hired to go to someone’s party and paint the guests. One year, I got a gig at an office Christmas party painting body art on the guests. It was a big party so I brought an art student, who worked with me part-time, along. We’ll call him James. James was a good-natured, if at times ill-tempered, art student. At the end of the party, the company owner asked if we could stay for an after party he was planning to have at his home in northern NJ for double the hourly rate. So, we went. It turned out to be an S&M orgy, but that’s a story for another time. The first thing painted was a bullseye zeroing in an the anus of the guy’s wife who, at the earlier party, had been quite proper and buttoned up. Later, the guy wanted Rolling Stone lips done on his genitalia, with his phallus as the protruding tongue. As a matter of coincidence, James had been the one to paint both of these requests.

After our pre-arranged two hours of body painting was complete, we were invited to stay and join in the party. We declined. Once safely back in the car James and I sat silently for a time, processing the evening. Eventually he fumbled for a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply. After a tremendous pause, James turned to me. “Dicks and assholes, Lauren,” he said rather angrily. “You made ME paint the dicks and assholes.”

Dicks and assholes indeed. Sorry about that James.

A ridiculous amount of time

Does someone recall who said, "life is what happens during the spaces in between?" I'm sure I don't, although I imagine I could find out quite easily, if I were so incline. Never-the-less, some time seems to have slipped through my fingers and the summer is now fading into the rear-view. Please don't think that I haven't been busy, if you are care, both in life and with my art. During this time I have managed to complete a doctorate degree that had been quite elusive, secure a day job (of which I am unfortunately in need), pack up all my things and move half way across the country.

I am now settled into my new surroundings, back in NYC which is the place of my birth. I have been working up many sketches for the Miliciana series of illustrations and for the next in the animals series of paintings. I have also been working on the sequel to Ché's book. While you are likely to begin seeing the former two in relatively short order the later, you will have to wait some time for the later, if history is any judge. Sorry about that! In the meantime, I hope you'll check in periodically. I plan to launch an Instagram page soon. In the meantime, check out the artwork of these two artists I've met recently:  Michael Larry Simpson, @darcysimpsonartworks and Patrickearl @patrickearltm.

Liberating the Ritz

Ernest Hemingway happens to be my favorite author which, I was informed by an elderly man wearing a woolen beret, is unusual for women. We were riding the L train to 8th Avenue. He went on to say that his favorite author was also Hemingway. I had been reading, "A Farewell To Arms," during that particular train ride. It was an unusually warm September and the train car had an air of humidity. I wasn't sure what to do with the information, about Hemingway and women readers, now that I had it. For a moment I felt self-conscious, taking a moment to glance around at other women to see what they were reading. Perhaps something by Danielle Steele would be a better choice? Most people wouldn't have the courage to read her in full public view. Or a relatively neutral work, like "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Plaid," by David Sedaris. Anyway, my deliberations were short-lived as the man proceeded to tell me that he admired women who think for themselves. "Alright!" I thought. "I am a woman and I think for myself. I am reading Hemingway today. See how little he chatters about feelings?"

I heard a story recently that, in 1944, while a war correspondent Hemingway resolved to be THE person to liberate the Ritz hotel in Paris. Allied forces had swept through the city and were still weeding out pockets of resistance. Unfortunately for Ernest, someone had beaten him to it and, when he arrived, the hotel (which incidentally had been operating as normal for some time) was already quite liberated. Troops had secured the whole area and could be seen at times in the lobby of the hotel. So, Hemingway being Hemingway, he resolved instead to liberate the hotel bar in which, so I have heard, he racked up a tab of 51 dry martinis. It is also worth noting that while at the hotel he learned that his wife had filed divorce. After an unsuccessful attempt to flush her picture down the toilet in his room, he proceeded to un-holstered his pistol and shoot the photo, along with the toilet, dead.

I am not certain that anything about this little jaunt is particularly accurate as I certainly have done nothing to verify its authenticity. The bits about the hotel and the liberation of Paris are true but the parts about Hemingway may be another story in a life full of stories. And Hemingway deserves stories, if anyone does. For we DO know that he hung around with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, Gertrude Stein and James Joyce in 1920's Paris, challenged (and fought) Morley Callahan to a boxing match, reported from and fought in the Spanish civil war (during which he undoubtedly guarded a bar or two on Las Ramblas in Barcelona), and conducted submarine patrols off the coast of Havana (where he also fished with Fidel Castro).

Now, after writing this I am thinking of an exchange between Lieutenant Henry and Catherine Barkley, which is as good a place to leave you as any.

[Henry] "What should I think about?"

[Barkley] "Anything. Anything but us. Think about your people. Or even another girl."

"No"

"Say your prayers then. That ought to create a splendid impression."

"Maybe I won't talk."

"That's true. Often people don't talk."

"I won't talk."

"Don't brag, darling. Please don't brag. You're so sweet and you don't have to brag."

Poem #1

Early Riser

“Do you suppose,” Ben asked, staring into his coffee,

“that our minds have a limited capacity for data?”

“Like,” he continued, “at some point you’d have to erase some things

to make room for more?”

“Maybe,” I responded, stopping to think about it for a moment. 

Then my mind settled on the summer cabin my family rented each year,

when I was little.

My Grandfather only dreamt in Polish,

which was odd since he couldn’t speak the language at any other time.

I listened to him quietly from my top bunk..

And, after searching around my bed’s coarse wool blanket,

my hands settled upon the green surplus flashlight that I kept there for reading.

Once lighted, I trained its beam carefully upon the footpath which lead to the latrine.

In my nightgown, worried about bears, I made my way along.

The light cut a narrow tunnel, giving the trees an appearance of wallpaper.

I traveled down the hill and then back up again, after I had finished.

Although I knew the path by heart, I pretended to be an explorer blazing a new trail,

there in the Quebec woods of late summer.

Taking the measure of each rock, I skipped from one to the next,

to avoid the pooling muckety-muck of yesterday's rain.

My light, bouncing along with me, cast humid and chilly halos.

As I rounded the corner, my grandfather’s Polish became audible again.

He was asking Mr. Kowalski to split a dozen eggs;

his mother had only sent him with enough money for six.

His voice guiding me back to the warmth of my scratchy bed.

“On second thought,” I said, “I think the space is more-or-less infinite.”

“Huh,” Ben said, still focused on his coffee, blindly stirring.

“You’re probably right,” he continued. Finally, he looked up at me

before glancing down again to tap his spoon.

Early Riser

Sometime ago I found myself sitting in the noisy cafe around the corner from my house. It was still summer, but the light was waning. The changing seasons capped what had been a difficult few months for me. I had gone there mostly to get out of the house, with the intention of working on some sketches. Instead, I found myself hastily scribbling a poem which was unusual because, although I ready poetry from time to time, had never thought to write one. Anyway, in short order, one burst forth, like the all the times a poorly chosen thought had left my mouth, and hung heavy in the room, like an uninvited guest. Throughout the fall, poems arrived, appearing in the living room, on a walk, or wherever they chose. Sometimes, I'd find strings of words, hanging out on the corner. I'd pass by, perhaps crossing the street, only to find a phrase in my mailbox. Before long they were everywhere.

In occurred to me at some point that I may pass them on, out the door, maybe to the maintenance man or the girl that walks her dog at 7 AM. Clinging their pant legs like hitchhiker thorns. So resolved, I folded some up into neat packets before leaving them on random park benches or under someone's windshield wiper. Fortunately for me a good many disappeared this one, although one returned, coming to be stapled to a telephone pole near my house.

Since you happen to be here, and have read this far I wonder if I might peddle a few off to random viewers. And since I can't seem to make a "Works in Prose" button on my navigation pane, for the time being you'll find them here, perhaps tomorrow, or the next day.

The Unicorn Art Show

Last night was the opening of the Unicorn Art Show. As a tribute to the organizers and to its gaining popularity each year, there were so many people in attendance that they couldn't all fit into the galleries at the once. The pace of circulation was sometimes halted to a standstill. It could definitely benefit from a bigger space next year! I had seen most of the work when we hung the show but was impressed by so many of the pieces the second time around. Nuanced, sophisticated, adroit, emotive and playful are descriptions that come to mind. I was also bemused by the unexpected (to me) appearance of the many incredible costumes word by attendees. How about a more or less full size, for legged (presumably with stilted arms) unicorn wandering around. Yup, that happened. As did untold numbers of unicorn horns and elfin ears sprouting through parted hair. It was all very memorable and I am very honored to have been asked to participate. I hope to do so again!

If you like to see my work, "flight of reason" as well as the other truly remarkable pieces, the show remains open until April 29th. Jackson Flats, main floor galleries. 901 18 1/2 Street NE, Minneapolis

Opening day

We in Minnesota are a hearty bunch. Although I am a transplant here, I believe I've earned my stripes. A few years ago I caught myself saying "you betcha." That was a sign. I also don't seem to be able to start a phone conversation without saying the word, "oh" as though surprised that someone was willing to talk at the other end of the line. I also own a crock pot, so there's that. But perhaps the true measure is ones fortitude to endure, and indeed thrive during, the long and dark winter months which, as I've discussed, extend well into April.

I am a baseball fan. My chief loyalty is to the New York Mets. I suppose there is something in my nature which seeks the challenge of bearing hardship. This extends to the Twins, who are my adopted favorite. I tend to follow the Twins these days more than the Mets. I don't see it as a conflict of interest, as they are in different leagues, although if they ever faced each other in interleague play, or impossibly in the World Series, it would be Mets all the way. But I digress. Liking both is to be perpetually disappointed. Perhaps the appeal is in baring hardship. Wearing this albatross, and a parka, I will head to the home opener at Target Field tomorrow. There are 10 inches of snow in the stands. The park officials assure us it will be cleared by tomorrow. Tonight we are expecting a low of 10 degrees F. Hardship; we are proud of our ability to endure it in this great city.

Sometimes it snows in April

And in Minnesota April snows are fairly common (I've seen a few May snows too). Today is one of those days. I woke up to a fresh blanket of soft, white snow which made the morning hushed, despite the normal city bustle. I enjoy the way snow muffles some sounds, traffic for instance, yet amplifies others, such as the wind and aircraft. I like the way light bends around corners, flaring here and there in odd ways. And I like the way people are when a fresh snow has fallen; calm and inquisitive. Throughout the day the most enormous snowflakes fell, clustering in lattices on the ground. Before my car windshield warmed up, the crystalline structure of each could be clearly seen from underneath, as I peered through the glass. By the end of the day, I found myself walking home in 9 inches, or so, of fluffy snow which was sufficiently wet to accumulate on my shoe tips in a quantity so that my boots took on an elfin quality. As Kurt Vonnegut was fond of saying, so it goes.

For about 10 or 12 years I have paid to have several domains parked in lurking corners of the internet. Having run a business in the past, I understood the importance of "brand protection" and so rushed in to register anything I could think would remotely tie back to me or my work. However, as a Pisces I am an old soul; as a matter of fact, I am actually old(er), having come up and through college in the pre-internet age. So, as it goes, it took me quite a while to getting around to actually producing a website to highlight my work. Up until now, I have done things much in the old-fashioned sort of way. I like to write on typewriters, for example.

None of this is to say that I am a technological neophyte. My earliest website dates back to 1996, when we used Adobe Pagemill or Flash to build sites. But then the pace of change became too quick for me to bother and so I just couldn't concern myself with staying up-to-date with various software. Maybe I'm lazy. Anyway, now it is so easy to put up a site that it's almost an embarrassment not to have one. So here is my tepid effort. I console myself over the lack of bespoke design by the thought that my work is finally available for wider consumption, beyond the odd gallery wall or telephone pole. So, I say, happy viewing.