gummi Chandelier ii in detail

gummi Chandelier ii in detail
Inside the gummi bear Chandelier Jr.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009






Monday, December 28, 2009

a gift for a gift

Watched Janis Ian sing on PBS the other night.
Something about seeing a grandma singing and playing a guitar moved me so much...
this is way sexier than anything I've ever seen.

Aged talents brew creative forces like a dark bottle of wine, rich yet subtle.
Although I don't dip alcohol, I would therefore describe them as the amber glowing from a barrel of apple cider, pungent yet soothing straight into the heart.
It is a beautiful dream to envision oneself arting for another 5 decades. It is romantic when you toss aside the material rewards, suddenly the world does not make sense any more, but self survives in dignity.

Janis Ian put it this way, (forgive me for not remembering the exact words)
"Aside from egos and all that, all artists are here to serve.
I am fortunate enough to have the talent to write these songs
and was alive in a time when people would listen.
I am extremely previlieged to be able to serve these songs."

I have learned about artists serving but often wonder who are we serving?
the peopl who never touch or see our art?
the artists surrounding us?
the world with dark buildings erected?
the universe with too much negative emotions?
or me me me?
I assume I could understand it in this way now,
"I am here to deliver the vision I was given, with the gifted fingers I was offered.
I am here to serve the sculptures, the paintings and the space among installation objects."
Suddenly serving people makes no sense, yet serving art expands the possibility to no end.

The gifted one, zonkey with 1/4 zebra and 3/4 donkey, who sings like a trumpet and loves so very gently. She is here to serve, serves the pretty stripes that no other donkeys have.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

in the crevice of void

22 months worth of questions,
twist the torso to become doubts.
I resurface to find the wave drown me once more.
was it the quality of work?
was it the frequency of conversations?
was it the location of growth?
or was it the intelligence of my neurons?

Tree with limbs so low, one can climb.
Darkness with road well paved, one can traverse.
Me, myself and I
fight the battles of volume.
I realized today, the best are not usually the loudest.
But whom is heard? The best or the loudest?
Art is a game of vanity,
didn't I know that already from the very beginning.

If I should not identify myself with what I do,
then why do I do?
What is in the do for me?
What is in me for the do?

limb is hanging by a thread,
yet time must continue.