As Hackett puts it, "Art is hard". Nobody wants caricatures these days and i am running out of money. i have this idea. I will let you know how it goes. Sometimes in life, you have to begin sentences with "Sometimes in life". Here's a pic of me at my stand. I look happy, but believe me--I am miserable.

New Illos

I just am currently working on an illustration for Barringer's Dead Bug Funeral Kit(see top left). I am glad to be working on this because it gives me a chance to tackling something important--how to draw ghosts. I started off covering the page in powdered graphite, the same stuff you would use for locks. Pure carbon. Then I erased sections and started drawing. I also experimented a lot with my wacom tablet on this one.
Below is a drawing created for my good friend Ramy Ramjet's Hair Salon, "Hair on Broadway". While i was drawing it, she kept saying "Make me prettier! Make me prettier!" I have a strong inclination to draw people ugly. Not sure why. Eventually, i did get the drawing to look just like her--prettiness and all.

Gig at Senior Center

Yesterday, I had a gig at Classic Hyatt Residence, a fairly upscale assisted living facility in Yonkers. Doing caricatures of elderly people can go one way or another, as they tend to not be all that excited about their looks. This group, however, was extremely enthusiastic about participating, and they all lined up with their canes and walkers. I was smitten by them, and at the end of the gig, several of them came up to me and said thank you. It is a fortunate thing to gain insight into the variety of ways that one can age. Some people get a vacant look and their eyes glaze over. Others take a renewed interest in color and friends, and find every excuse to laugh at themselves. The attached is a caricature that i reworked from the senior gig. I am trying to learn how to color using photoshop.

Inaugural Comic

Hi Readers. Today, I finished my first two ever comic book pages. These are a long time coming. Thanks to Matt Madden, my fine teacher at School of Visual Arts, I now know how to lay out a page, ink it, and letter it. The road to successful lettering, as it turns out, will be arduous. I never guessed. That is always the detail i paid the least amount of attention to, when in fact, it among the most important facets. Then there is the narrative. Comics are formal to a point, this extended by the content of the story. This little comic, which you may not be able to read so well, is about a neighbor of mine.  According to Stanley, some people "hook you up"  and others....

Back in NYC

I have been back in NYC for four days. This is my life? This is my apartment? These are my people? Whattayaknow!

I went out for the first time since being back two nights ago with Raya. Disorient/Kostume Kult party. I dressed in *the* silver dress from Oakland, and *the* silver shoes that i bought in south beach, miami.  I hugged the speakers the way someone had showed me,
and listenned to the dj's spin bumpin grooves, and thought hard about Oakland, which i miss. It was different. It was free. It was full of metal workers doing amazing things, unhampered by lack of space.

The above is a pic of the finished product from Coachella.

See pics from project here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/97881715@N00/

More later.

Aforementioned Retroactive Post

More about the cruise (even though everything is different now). (More on "now" tomorrow)

My term of employment on the Century began on the 10th of March, and lasted for 15 days. At the end of the fifteen days, I planned to get in my Volvo, and drive 3000 miles to Oakland, California, where an art project for Coachella awaited, as well as a certain special someone that I looked foward to visiting with.

Raya was to be with me for 10 of the fifteen days (see pic from previous post). I picked up Raya from the airport where we greeted each other with squeals of delight. We left Miami on the 10th of March at which point we undertook to voyage to many islands. So for ten days me and miss Raya roamed around the open seas. We broke hearts, consumed the fare of the natives, spoke in tongues, and enjoyed a great deal of easy listenning which emanated from speakers all over the ship. We smuggled doobage from Jamiaica. We bought art. We played basketball in the moonlight. We partied with fabulous people and enjoyed the best water pressure that I, personally, have ever known.

We shared dinner with a table of six others, with whom we shared stories. Two of them were a couple from Peurto Rico, and the other four were a group of ladies from Chicago. One of them, a weatherman's wife, sported big bobbly rhinestones, a smooth shiny blond ponytail, and thousands of dollars of plastic surgery. She greeted us with pursed red lips and a cool flutter of her lashes.

We partied with the Peurto Rican couple in Cozumel where the Isabel, the girlfriend, pantomimed to us and used her broken English to exclaim her dismay at the cocky attitude of the weatherman's wife. She immitated her by sticking her chest out and pursing her lips. We did a bunch of shots with them, and at dinner it was fun to watch the two women stare daggers at each other. The thing about the weatherman's wife though, was that Raya and I fell in love with her when as she was leaving one night, after we had shared our smuggling story, she said, "Hey, have fun with the..." and then she held a pretend joint to her lips, hand on hip, and elegantly blew a pretend curl of smoke up to the ceiling. She looked radiant against the silhoutted crowd, the way you imagine Marilyn Monroe.


Raya left, and I was by my lonesome for the last five days. I drew my heart out, the audience was appreciative, and their dollar bills floated into my pockets. I roamed the ship and languished in its luxuriousness. I had sunk all to heavily into the understanding that i could throw my clothing on the floor and some mysterious stranger would fold it and repair it to its rightful place while i was away. I drank delicious dirty martinis and consorted with the ship staff.

One day while I drew caricatures in the cafe, the ship's captain came over the PA, and announced that the Century would be stopping for an hour to meet up with another vessel in need of help. The other vessel turned out to be a tiny wooden boat carrying 12 Cuban refugees. The 10 men and two women had covered half their boat with palm leaves as protection from the sun, but looked scorched and tired as they bobbed around on the tumultuous water. Two days later, the coast card met up with our ship, and the refugees, bedecked with life-preservers, emerged from the ship's underbelly and drifted off to their uncertain fate.

Its amazing to look back on this time spent aboard the Century, and to observe the abrupt difference between that experience, and the one I am having now. Just as those refugees set out on a voyage in search of new things, willing to except any consequences, I too am on a similar quest.

My drive from Florida to Oakland went off without a hitch. I now find myself in the fascinating position of having a mini temporary new life complete with all kinds of new friends, a bedroom, and a boyfriend. Its like, my life in a different dimension.

More about Oakland in next post. Oakland Oakland. City of Saturn Returns.

Precursor to Retoactivity

Memory of experience is fickle and fleeting. I can barely process in my fist-sized brain the content of my own adventures which are now water under the proverbial bridge, but which water recurs selectively in waves, informing the now.

Here is a picture of the delightful and wonderful Raya and me from the cruise, which i will blog about tomorrow, retroactively.

Now, I am in a library in West Oakland, where i have formed a contentious relationship with the desk clerk, a geeky black man who asserts himself with a cocky you-should-already-know-that air.

Working on Rosanna's project, which is okay. More on that later

Leaving Miami

I admit, i wasn't expecting to love it here so much.

. Miami is fun, sexy, and the people here are beautiful. The water is exquisite beyond description, crystalline sea green, making the sky look purple. Life on the street is full of little pockets of quirkiness. Walking along yesterday, i was passed by a little white dog carrying a bucket full of money. His owner dropped a bill on the ground, and the dog put down the bucket, picked up the bill, and repaired it to the bucket, and then resumed his march. There is a man on the street who has no arms and paints with his feet. Lincoln street, a pedestrian mall crammed with outdoor couches and the wonderous smell of food from around the world and cigars. I have had a chance to hang out and make art with my good buddy, Jonathan Blum, and tonight, Raya comes to town. We will paint the town red, and our cruise leaves tomorrow. Ciao.

Leaving West Florida...

...bound for Miami. I have been spending lots of time with my 93 year old grandmother, Marge. Yesterday, we went to a sing-a-long. I lasted 15 minutes before running out into the rain, flinging myself into the car, and then landing at a bar where i downed a beer while panting away my urge to kill myself. When i picked up Marge two hours later, she exclaimed, "you missed the yodeler!" Ah hell.

We have been spending much time in the yard, where Marge has proven herself to be, once again, bionic. While pulling weeds one morning, I was startled by the loud sounds of CHOP! CHOP! CHOP! I looked to the opposite corner of the yard, and there was Marge, chopping down a palm tree with an ax. Heaving herself into the motion, her humped back rose and fell with her swinging arms. When i ran over to help, she put her hand out, and said, "stand back, honey, you might get hurt". One morning later, while i raked, i heard a loud THUNK! Looking over, i saw nothing except a fallen ladder below an orange tree. I walked over to investigate. When i noticed the tree shaking, I looked up, and there stood Marge. She had been pruning the upper most limbs, and knocked over the ladder as she stepped up into the tree.

"Mom Mom! What are you doing in the tree?" I asked.
"Just trimming it honey. Can you please pick up that ladder?"

After hanging out at the Polish American Club one afternoon, we made the rounds to a bunch of different VFW outposts. At each one we sat down at a bar and knocked down beers while sharing the company of other debaucherous seniors. While Marge went on at length about how none of the men here were her type, I elbowed her and nodded toward an appealing 70 something to her right. As quickly as i could point him out, she swung around on her seat and said coquettishly, "Hey! You look lonely!" 

We wound up talking to him for a while, and although i was prepared to sit there being bored while Marge chatted him up, I was delighted to discover that he (Ian) owns a construction company in Canada that is currently drilling a channel behind Niagra Falls, which will carry water that will be damned and pumped, providing water power for upper new york. He was very proud of the fact that NY has to buy its power from Canada. He said that the bore which was used to drill the British side of the Chunnel had been shipped over to create the tunnel, but had proven too small, and therefor was sitting unused near the Falls, and a new bore, 45 feet in diameter had been created in the states. Unlike my grandmother, that is one big bore. (sorry)

we talked quite a bit about asphalt as well. One of my favorite subjects. He said dandelions are the only thing that combat the viscosity of asphalt. Interesting.  He also mentioned, not unsmugly, that Canada uses 6 inches of asphalt, while in the states, 4 is customary.

My car is in the shop now getting new motor mounts, but with any luck, i will be on the road tomorrow bound for Miami. My good chum Raya will be joining me on my cruise, and I am looking foward to the adventure.

Bye Dear Reader. More Soon.

A picture

I had planned on including a picture with each posting, but as no picture is available at the moment, i shall instead, include a small video clip from my brain.

The video clip is of me, sitting on the beach in Clearwater, Florida. The water swishes calmly, and i am smiling relaxedly while masticating a turkey and cheese sandwich.

I look like i am thinking about something, and the truth is, i am. I am thinking about Robert Moses, New York City Parks commisioner from 1928 to 1945--the mastermind behind New York City's vast freeway and parkway infrastructure, the great builder of bridges and mover of men...

I have been reading his biography, and marvelling about how much he accomplished in his life. I am contemplating my own state of sitting in front of the beach doing nothing, when surely there must be something more pressing that i could be attending to, some way to advance society, and I am chewing chewing chewing my sandwich. I am thinking about bridges swishing water and turkey and cheese, and then out of nowhere, a seagull swoops down with a loud screech, clutches my ear, my hair, and a bunch of my sandwich and flaps his wings spastically trying to leave with his swag. The only thing he really got was my sandwhich and some hair, which hampered his quick get away.  If I wasn't busy protecting my eyes, I could have grabbed him...

The old man sitting next to me looked over at me and said, lacksadaisically, "he wanted your sandwich."

Leaving new orleans

Okay, i've done the new orleans thing. these may be lake-torn suburbs, but they are suburbs none the less, and frankly, i am a little bored and sick of getting heckled by the construction workers. If only they knew, i am one of them! I dig holes and lug cinderblocks too! Aww hell.

Another reason its time for me to get out of here is one of the people i am staying with is God-fearing, and i think she wants to save my soul. Such futility! i did have a dream the other day that judgement day arrived. i was lying in a feild, and suddenly the sky opens up, and this blaze of light shines down (all super cliche-like) and the people around me started having discussions about whether or not they thought ol God was going to take them in or not. I immediately knew i was screwed, and had that sinking feeling you get when your getting fired or get caught stealing a pack of gum.

I will be off tomorrow to visit my mom mom in New Port Richey Florida. She's deaf as hell, and fixates on my presence, which I find infuriating. but she is a very remarkable woman. Mom Mom Marge is 93 years old, and still goes out and parties every night. And she doesn't just go out, she is the bell of the ball at the Knights of Columbus, the Irish American and Polish American Club. She dances with every man that will give her a spin, and she gets marriage proposas constantly to which she replies, "I don't want to be held down". She gets up every morning and does a battery of excersizes that would put a marine to shame. she gets bored of me fast because i can't keep up with all her. I admire her because she enjoys the hell out of every little thing she does.

I will also be visiting the amazing Ramy Ramjet Superhero, my very debaucherous friend from college. We wil sit in her swampy yard and drink mint juleps and sing karaoke.

good night.

February 15, 2007 Mud and boobies

My inaugural blog! What an exciting experiment this will be...and how bombastic of me to think anyone wants to read about my life! Welcome, i will try not to bore you.

getting you up to speed in a nutshell, i arrived in new orleans two weeks ago in a wicked storm that made the Mississippi look black. i moved into my accommodations in Lakeview, new Orleans, which is two blocks away from where the levee broke on the 17th street canal. the visage of tragedy was in the beginning, and continues to be gut-wrenching.

since my arrival, i have partied with pimps and thieves, danced to Cajun punk, and ridden my bike in a parade, and drawn caricatures on Bourbon Street, and most recently obtained a job jacking up houses with "Jim" (above driving).

   One of my contacts here is linked to a gang of theives. Most of them are about my age but look like they are fifty with their teeth like old corn. They hang out at the coffee shop where he works that is run by the workers for the workers. sitting on the dimly lit edge of town, it is open round the clock, and the line between who works there and who is reading, playing chess or sitting outside puffing a joint is blurred. They are a tatooed, peirced, dreadlocked, leather-wearing group making even me feel like a soccer mom.

Above is a bar that houses the local Klezmer Cajun rock scene, and I had a most fabulous time with the Zydopunks. there i met some fellow New Yorkers, who are hitchhiking, couch surfing and dumpster-diving cross-country. they believe that money should be removed from society and that our economy should run on social currency. hmmm.

After the show, around 2AM, stopped by someone's house where the floor was strewn with costumes, and we rode our bikes in a parade called the Krewe du Jieux, which is comprised of Jews dressed up as non-Jews impersonating Jews, adorned with big prosthetic noses, devil horns, and fur coats with gaudy jewelry, they parade through the streets in the wee wee hours of the morning, banging on drums made from kegs and strutting to the harmony of the Hava Nagila. Being in a parade one learns that when you wave to people, they wave back, and they will dive to catch just about anything you throw to them-even if it is just a prosthetic nose..


   I drew caricatures on Bourbon street where i made good cash, and acquired many beads and feathers, even without showing my boobies to anyone. but there was much boobie showing going on and the Mardi Gras scene is every much a caricature of itself as you can imagine (see picture of drunk man at top). its a sea of drunks, barely able to stand looking for excuses to disrobe. i found a great spot in front of a jazz club where no one bothers me about setting up. One night a woman doubled over in front of my easel as if she was going to puke on it, and i swiftly moved my set up out of the impending projectiles. it pays to have cat-like reflexes in this line of work.

I think if i ever go to Mardi Gras again, i will have a prosthetic monoboob made. that should earn me some good beads.

In less sexy news, i am now back in Lakeview where i have obtained a job helping "jim" jack up houses. It is grueling unskilled labor involving hours of digging holes and dragging cinderblocks and steel jacks under houses. wearing waders, we wallowed in mud up to our knees and spent hours removing sand, mud and clay from around footings of houses that were up to seven inches higher on one side than the other.

when i first met jim who is about 60, i thought, has this dude ever had a shower? He is covered in dried mud all the time and and his long greasy hair and beard are tangled and beaded with more dried mud. after working with him, i see why he always looks like this. he is the strongest man i have ever met. he is not that tall, but his torso is like a lead pillar and his fingers are cement blocks. his favorite phrase, which he recites at the most indignant muddy moments, is "ain't life grand?".

he worked in the corps of engineers for seven years, and so i was excited when he offered to give me a tour of all the levees, pump stations, and canals. this city is an engineering marvel. and now, i know what a levee looks like after hearing about them with such frequence on the news.

more soon to come....

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