Black vinyl flooring greets my boots, all specked with city dust
Containing flecks of concrete, stone, dirt, grime, and gritty rust:
But only a little bit of grit sticks upon my shoe,
And I track it through the gridded streets, off to somewhere new.
The soles of my feet carry a record of time and place
That keeps me grounded, so to speak, in this liminal space.
I’ve been learning German lately, and something that I found fun was writing a poem, then immediately translating it to a German version that captures the same form and feeling.
Sometimes, I feel I can do little else,
But I can give my hair to the birds.
I brush out my undyed brown strands
And waft them aloft, above.
I hope they'll be part of
Some hidden, warm nest
Of the birds I
Hear at night,
When I
Rest.
Manchmal, ich denke nichts kann ich machen,
Aber, mein Haar ist für die Vögel.
Ich bürste meine Haare und
Hebe es in den Himmel.
Ich hoffe sie werden
Eine kleine Nest
Für die Vögel
Ich höre
In der
Nacht.
(In my draft, I switched to red ink when I had to look up translating help.)
I’ll definitely be doing this again. It gave me the chance to sort of re-compose and re-examine the poem, giving it more context to be understood, albeit only for those who have access to both languages.
I think more of these will be forthcoming!
I got new headshots from Ricky Gee Photo recently, and I’m just sharing them here because I’m totally delighted with them!
What do these “say” to you, when you look at them? What are your first impressions of each and/or all? I am always seeking outsider input as to how I’m perceived; it’s vital research to do in the entertainment business!
Recently, I’ve been trying to be less “precious” about using my hoard of art supplies. I don’t really have much squirreled away, but what I do have includes some interesting fossils from previous eras: stained watercolor paper from college, a stockpile of fractured drawing utensils of all kinds, even a few sparsely filled sketchbooks dating back to high school.
There was a moment in July—after spending painstaking hours on the details of a meticulous, perfectly-composed painting—when I was looking through my stash, wondering what to create next… and the thought struck me: all these supplies do me no good on a shelf. I don’t need to plan something perfect; creating anything will be better than letting these tools (and myself) languish, unused.
I know why I’ve let them accumulate. Like many kids who grew up with money anxieties, art supplies were like rare jewels. I’ve long held an obsession with the inherent potential in blank pages, new notebooks, and empty canvas; for almost as long, I’ve feared this potential, holding an iron grip on my self-control, knowing that $10 here and there really does add up, and thinking that I needed a “good enough reason” to use what I had. I was afraid of “waste,” and so I unconsciously wasted time and the opportunity to gain experience instead. (Why yes, I am a recovering perfectionist.)
But, these days, art is part of my living. It isn’t a luxury; it’s a life. Not only does it allow me to express myself, but it also allows me to eat. Everything I put into art has an official name now: investment. Moreover, the one who determines the return on my investment is… me! Through using the tools I have given myself!
Doing nothing is the worst thing I could do. So, why hesitate?
This thought process led to a burst of creation. I painted abstracts. I painted figures. I painted terrible works, mediocre works, commercial works, avant-garde works, and maybe even a good work or two. I often had three or four in simultaneous rotation, so I would never be stuck waiting for paint to dry, because I could pick up something else. It felt wonderful.
This post’s image is perhaps my favorite of these creations, and certainly the most personal. It is watercolor and colored pencil, only about 6” by 7”, and is based on a photo I took of myself in summer of 2017; this was when I had just started taking commissions, a year after being gifted my first oil painting supplies. Now, four years later, I look almost the same, but nearly every other aspect of my life has changed.
I had no aspirations for this as I was creating it. It was free to be another bit of bad art, but I kept liking where my hand led the brush. What began as a modest sketch kept growing until, hours later, I glowed with pride and recognition. With this painting, I reach back through the years between my current self and who I was, and give her a glimpse of what’s to come. Painting is an apt metaphor for the passage of time; layer after layer, we build ourselves up—highlighting this and obscuring that, refining details and smoothing edges—until we decide that, for the moment, this is who I think I am.
The Franifesto 