New Paintings - the Nudes and Cheeseburger Series

Beer and a Burger (oil on wood)




Studio in the City (oil and charcoal pencil on wood)

New Painting: Invitation to a Muse

New Painting: Unfinished

First Friday, November 6, 2009

Standing with "The Canvas" and "The Writer," at the Upstate Artists Guild show "Fresh Produce."

Last night, I had the honoor of seeing two of my favorite paintings from this summer/autumn season hang at the UAG Show. Both are special in their own right. Both taken from photos shared with me and expanded upon to articulate a vision.

It has been a good season for painting, but now it is time to take a short break. To rest up, make some notes, think of future projects but not paint anything new. I still have a few pieces to complete, and they will be done. I still need to implement the armchair series.

New Painting: Armchair in Cloister

Armchair in Cloister, 2009, oil on wood.

New Painting and Poem: The Writer

The Writer (2009, oil on wood)

The Writer

In the provocative black and white photo
You express mystery and passion and vulnerability
In the painting with shades of blue
You face the canvas and smile for me.

Surrounded by novels and histories and poetry
Moleskines and legal notebooks all over the bed
Black-rimmed reading glasses in your hand
Visions and nightmares gestating in your head.

And my god your body what a figure, gorgeous and free
To go with such an expansive mind and beautiful heart
I cannot touch you in the here and now, so I paint.
For our new and intense friendship, a fitting start.


© fprm, 2009

New Poem: The Bookstore

The Bookstore

The bell on the opened door announces my presence,
and the smells of old paper and freshly brewed French Roast
confirm that I am home.

Quietly but excitedly, I begin to explore the stacks,
seeking prose poems by Baudelaire, biographies of Gauguin, and
Gibbon's epic history of Rome.

And you sit silently behind your desk,
black-rimmed glasses on your head, intense and alone,
pondering your next tome.

You peacefully acknowledge my silent passion,
with slight smile and raised eyebrow, and
confirm: I am home.


© fprm, 2009

10-9-2009

Alone in a Bar

Alone at the Bar

alone at the bar
left my conscience at home
eyes scanning vampire-like in the darkness
on the streets where i roam

this is what happens
when you are not around
this is what happens
when there is no you to love
no you to undress
no you to drink my wine
no you to embrace
no you to throw off the pearls

when the odds of you sliding into my bed
are borderline slim to nil
i seek worthy proxies
i seek meaningful thrills

but let’s be honest
they are not what i seek
without you in my bed
it’s just time to kill.

Fifteen Years Had Passed

Fifteen Years Had Passed

A short story.

Ford McLain

From: Fyodor MacClesh
To: Suzanne Beauchamp
Sent: July 25, 2024 11:18 pm
Subject: RE: Fifteen Years

Dear Painter’s Lover,

Just a few days ago, I stood in the large empty room that had been my studio for the past five years. It was sterile, free of any sign that I had taken photographs, sketched, and painted there. The walls had been painted over and were now white. The floor, once marked with oils and acrylics, boot marks and cigar ash had been sanded and stained. My table that once held books and small canvases, chess board, wine bottles, rocks glasses and cheese plates, had been shipped off to Spain with a few other pieces of furniture and of course my paintings and books. My napping couch was thrown out. I have already ordered a new one for the cottage and it is on its way. It was strange, dear. The room was no longer a studio, and for all the memories I had there…that we had there over the past five years…during the last moments I stood there, I felt no attachment to the empty space.

I’m glad that you wrote me before I left, because for the first time in our 15-year relationship I was actually concerned – hell! I was scared – that you were not talking to me. Perhaps you needed time to adjust to the change. Perhaps you were angry that I followed through with my promise to move to Spain. Or were you hurt? The last e-mail didn’t say. Actually, it didn’t say much.

Your light touch and warm kiss the last time you were here were wonderful. The silence with which you handed me the bourbon and walked out was gut-wrenching. The lack of contact for the weeks after made me a nervous wreck.

And of course, when I become a nervous wreck, I indulge in my hedonism. Gallery Seven – the very gallery in SoHo where we finally physically met 13 years ago – wanted me to do a reprise of the “cheeseburger” series. Once I learned about it, I tried to reach you, to give you first dibs on the feast I would consume, but you weren’t responding. So, a few friends came over for the next two weeks. We ordered burgers from various places and with various toppings, photographed them, devoured them, played conga drums and Velvet Underground songs, drank lots of Anchor Steam, and then I kicked them out around midnight and painted for four hours. I’d nap, wake up around noon and start the cheeseburger orgy all over again. The paintings will be shown starting next week and will include the following:
1. blue cheese with bacon,
2. provolone with guac,
3. tomato and ketchup,
4. buffalo wing sauce and blue cheese,
5. onion ring and American cheese,
6. egg foo yung (with the sauce), and
7. tomatoes and cukes.

It was fun…but very lonely without you. You sitting on my couch, enjoying the guac and provolone burger, licking the guac off your fingers and lips while I took your picture would have been a great last hurrah for my last weeks in New York.

But there was little sleep. Four hours a day, at most. Lots of drinking, a little pot, and a few young art protégés who didn’t mind cleaning my paintbrushes or running down to grab the burger deliveries. But there was no you. And if you were there, I would not have had such a party, nor would I have put on ten pounds (which I hope to work off with half hour walks down to and from the local cervezeria).

I am so glad you wrote. So glad that you touched base before I left. Your message was short and cryptic, and I’m not sure what it means. But you wrote. And I was happy.

Spain is going to be great, and I can’t wait for you to visit. I want you here with me. Hell, I need you here with me. Even if it’s for a few days once a month, I will find a way to get you here, if you want. Just as I offered the last time I physically saw you.

(OK, going to take a break from writing and walk down to my new bar. There’s a lovely young American sculptor, Sophie, who is fun to talk with. Not here a few days and I’ve already made a new friend. This letter will continue. And I want to go deep.)

It’s two hours later, and I’m back. Good and buzzed but still able to type and spell check.

Sophie bartended and we talked about sculpting and painting, women and beer. She’s a great gal and I think we’ll be good friends. Haven’t figured out what kind of friendship we’ll have, but I enjoy her company, so whatever works.

On the walk back up to 7 Calle Gaudi, I thought of the past 15 years. I thought about our friendship and how it took us two years to finally physically meet. I thought of the night that you surprised me at Gallery Seven, when I had expected you to be in Chicago. Remember what you were drinking? A red blend from California, called Menage-a-Trois. In hindsight, I kind of overused that joke that night. With you, my publicist, any other woman who came close enough to us at the gallery bar. But I was a bit looped and giddy from the event. After all, it was a great night and the first time to have pieces hung in a NYC gallery. And great that you surprised me. And later, at my hotel, when we finally got away from the party and upstairs, and for the first time we made love (I must have been a bit looped, because until that point, I didn’t realize you were auburn-haired).

From that night forward, it was all over for me. I was sunk. I had sworn to live the life of a confirmed bachelor, promised never to re-marry, never to fall in love again, never to commit to anything more than friendships with benefits with any woman who might be crazy to ask for more. But as we lied there in the darkness, as you slept and I ran my hand down your gorgeous, tanned back, I knew it was over. I was hooked.

And you knew it. You knew I was yours and you knew that you would have me from that point forward, until one of us died. Sometimes, you can just tell.

Yet, for fifteen years, you enabled my fantasy (or delusion?) of being the single guy, the painter, the philanderer (not that I was all that successful at it), the teacher/mentor to future young artists. You kept your distance, gave me my space, never hovered over me those times that we were together, and encouraged me to play, knowing full well to whom I truly belonged. I always wondered why.

And you facilitated my dream of going overseas. How you must have been sick of it! Every time we were together, at least once, I talked about this move. For fifteen years. In writing, over the phone, and in person. And except for that one time in the hotel about seven years ago, you never questioned it, and never tried to change my mind (maybe you realized it was hopeless). And you stayed with me even after you knew I would physically leave – not that I didn’t offer for you to come with me. Neither of us was attached to anyone significant.

So I planned, and you even helped me plan: researching real estate in the area, learning about ESL programs where I could teach, looking up fun restaurants and bars, and finding out where the best galleries and dealers were. Your enthusiasm was never muted. And as the time got closer, you got more involved, until I found places and made negotiations.

Then you started to back off, about six months ago, when things were starting to solidify. And at that point forward, the more excited I became and the more I talked about Spain the less you responded…

Oh (writes the painter, as the bat finally hits him over the head)!

Fuck!

My selfishness wins again. Dammit! Goddammit! You never wanted me to go. You had aging family and obligations in the United States; it wasn’t so easy for you to leave as it was for me. I could have stayed, at least for another ten years or until you were ready, if you were ever ready. I was doing well in NYC. I didn’t have to leave. I didn’t need to be so inflexible.

What was it like for the past 15 years to love such a narcissistic bastard?

And what was going through my head?

Why would I not bend?

Why would I not sacrifice or at least moderate my plans to accommodate you?

You wanted to stay and even if you tried to tell me, I would not have budged.

But I loved you. No, I do love you.

Even as you kept silent and supported my ambition, even though I knew that you were not ready to be so far away from the States, I always envisioned you coming with me. You always made me feel good about myself, and I hope that I did the same. You did what you wanted, in terms of work and art; you took photographs, made movies, designed costumes. I figured you were totally happy. I thought we were happy. Hell, we were happy with our arrangement, weren’t we? No marriage, no new kids, just us.

This happened before, at the end of my marriage. The hubris, the selfishness, the complacency. Thinking everything was great and then realizing otherwise when it was too late.

This one thing, this stubbornness of mine to go overseas, not considering whether you wanted to go or not…and my not caring.

Suzanne? My love? My soul mate? We’ve been through a lot together over fifteen years, made love, made art, and aged well. Why didn’t I have this revelation during that period that you didn’t respond to me, before I left New York? Where was my head, if not up my ass?

Did I lose you?

Write me, when you can. Write me and tell me what an ass I was to run off. You were supposed to be my long-term companion, the one for whom I pretty much forsook others. Write me and tell me what I can do to fix this. Write me and let me know that you are still the painter’s lover. Please. I need to get hit over the head with a club. I don’t do well with subtlety from others.

Your last message was so cryptic. What the hell!
Four words: “Be patient. Have faith.”

(There’s a knock on the door, guess I should answer it, get rid of them, send off this e-mail, and then figure out what to do…).

Short Story

After The Second Night

From: Fyodor MacClesh
To: Suzanne Beauchamp
Sent: Feb 6, 2011, 5:30 pm
Subject: New Haven


Dear PL,

Just got back to town. Snow has fallen in Albany and the Capitol grounds look absolutely beautiful. Certain parts of this city look great in the snow and tap into that romantic side, which lately only you have an opportunity to see.

I hope your train rides to NYC and Island Park were tranquil. You might want to get a car, as it would have been an easier trip. Or better yet, I should just go down to Island Park and get you next time I want you to go anywhere with me.

Let me just say this: while that night in my hotel room, was fantastic, the first time, after all that writing and talking, this was even better and I felt even more comfortable with where we are going with this…friendship. The hotel wasn’t great, but we didn’t really need much more than a bed and a shower anyway. But your company was outstanding. Thanks for coming all the way up to New Haven to meet me.

Thanks for indulging my desire to hang out at the bar for a few hours and listen to Saturday afternoon jazz. And thanks for hanging out at the Owl Cigar Shop. I enjoy a good cigar now and then, and even more, I enjoyed sharing a little bourbon with you.

Mostly, I enjoyed the walk to the hotel, the silent ride in the elevator, and I appreciated your patience and assistance as I tried to figure out the room key.

You are a wonderful woman, Suzanne. I am lucky to know you.

Waking up with you was just as special. Your dark auburn hair, your green eyes, your tanned back. The pearls you left on at my request. Your peaceful, close-mouthed smile. I wish I had brought a sketch book to capture the moment. I’ll keep it in my head. I might paint it later.

A while back, between our first night together and the time we agreed to reunite, you seemed fearful of our continued connection…or fearful of another physical meeting. What scared you? Was it the idea that we might be disillusioned with each other? Or was it the idea that this could end? Both of us are free and happy agents. Both of us are open in our love and in our expression of it. Both of us savored the intimacy that we shared last night and neither of us has any expectations of the other. What scared you?

It is ok though, because I am scared too. Frightened of the idea that you may lose interest in and tire of me. Frightened that you might learn what a fraud I am as an artist. Frightened that you might just find someone better, leaving me abandoned and alone…again. Frightened when you realize that my dark side…the drinking, the brooding, the thoughts…is darker than you once believed. Not sure I want to go down this path again, even though I warned you and you brushed it off.

Strange also is that I’ve not wanted any kind of domestic arrangement with any woman since my marriage ended, and I know I don’t want one now. But, I want you to know, after our time in New Haven and after last night, I am not afraid of one with you. We are both wild and passionate people, Suzanne, but I found in you last night a tranquility which I have desired. There are others whom I’ve invited to visit me in 13 years when I get to Spain – yes, that again! – but none whom I think I would be happy spending too much time there…other than you. There are others whose company I would enjoy up here, now, but probably not so long as I would enjoy you.

Do not admonish me for these thoughts. Perhaps I should not think out loud. We are different people. You travel, shoot photographs, write fiction, design costumes and supervise fittings. You are more social than me, and I am more the recluse. I know we can be lovers for a long time…at least until I move to Spain…but be assured that I do not want to make a housewife or domestic partner out of you. I need you free. I love you free. Your body, your mind, your soul. All free.

Tomorrow, I turn 43 years old, and yet I feel younger. For the first time. Perhaps it is merely the euphoria of the weekend, the vision of you lying naked in my bed, or perhaps the rush from the Boston Cream donut from the shop in West Springfield. But this weekend, in you, I found something that I felt I had lost:

Faith in my own future. And myself.

This is a cheesy e-mail, dear Suzanne, but it needed to be said…or written. While after all our writing and then the first night in New York, I knew I was hooked. After New Haven, it’s worse: I am devoted. Even if you can’t or won’t be with me…for travel, work, other lovers, etc., I am devoted. And am willing to forge a future that is unique and our own.

All my best.

Ted

p.s. – photos to follow.

New Poem

Mindset

Nothing is set in
Stone
That cannot be blasted
Free
The Future is
Yours!


(c) fprm 2009

Companion Poem and Painting

(I've always enjoyed the interaction between visual art and the written word. All this thinking about photography and women and armchairs...this could almost be a companion piece to 'Passionately Yours.')


Sitting

In my studio,
in my armchair,
you are as welcome
as if it were my bed.

Except now, we are in different roles,
and I play
the professional,
the painter,
the photographer,
peering through the lens,
focusing on your eyes,
your hands,
you lips,
the bit of leg and knee
revealed under the soft warm robe.

And you are the model
and you are the muse;
a role I offered and
that you could have refused.

My hand shakes as it tries to sketch;
fear of failing you,
of misrepresenting you
overwhelms.

Yet as I draw,
and as you sit,
your slight smile
seems to say,
work hard for now,
and then we’ll play.


fpr, 8-3-09

New Poem - Intimacy

intimacy

from across the table
you close your eyes and smile
as the others gab a while
and among that group
you say little and watch
as your companions nurse their scotch
at this dinner party
you seem shy and alone
eager for it all to be done
but from across this table
you reach out silently
and we revel in our intimacy.

fpr
8-5-09

Haikus

Motel Haiku #1

no canvas, no paints
simply mouth, hands and hope
and maybe some rope.

and

Motel Haiku #2

no paints, no canvas
simply mouth, hands and rope
and maybe some hope

Poem Out of the Desert

Motel in the Desert

As we age, will passion fade
will it simply be a victim of complacency
like ice in a glass of whiskey

Whiskey!
Bourbon, neat.

Sitting alone in this motel
dry air, hot night
sketches
and paintings
and photographs
to my left and to my right.

A self-imposed exile
from my usual creative space
a need to re-charge
a need to get away
to find my center
and to overthink
and, of course, refill my drink.

[Age combined with ice
will not water it down
we are on the brink]

If it is miles or years or universes
in my heart and my head, my soul and my bed
you will have me in our way.
but now out here in the motel,
alone but not lonely
I wish that moment were here today.


fpr 8-7-09

New Poem in August - Meditations

meditations

at night,
at rest, i can only hear
the rhythmic purring of the cat
and the shuffle of drunken feet
on the sidewalk.

in bed,
quietly taking measured breaths
eyes closed, body at rest, no tenseness,
and in place of the om as a mantra,
i repeat your sacred name.

dear,
i wish you were here beside me
first lightly touching me
progressively intense, silently
altering my consciousness.

dear,
as i meditate, i also speculate:
your hands, your lips, your mouth, your hips,
a string of black pearls lying on your back
in that dark holy hour.

dear,
we are impatient, but we can wait.
no! we must wait, no matter how I am overwhelmed
by images of your touch and kiss
and your voraciousness.

at night,
at rest, i can only hear
the manic conga drum in my heart
as i meditate upon the idea of your most recent shower;
in body, mind and soul, i’m yours to devour.

fprm
8-12-09

sitting on a bench in savannah

a cigar and a bench on a steamy,
sweltering savannah summer day,
memorials and markers to
eighteenth-century heroes long gone,
two benches down,
a woman in a summer floral dress
enjoys her needlepoint,
a juice and a yogurt,
dark hair, looking very greek,
like the waitress at the olympia cafe.

if you were here with me,
you might encourage me to talk to her,
yet you would not give me away;
afar, you encourage my explorations
and you egg me on to play;
but i chose not to move,
paralyzed by a number of ridiculous fears,
also
lamenting the fact that you are not here.

fprm


August 2009

More Pieces in August 2009

INT - The Blue Movie Motel

the painter sat
on the bed
and watched sadie undress.

usually he liked to help:

he would stand behind and
unfasten buttons,
pull sweaters over heads,
gently pull down skirts and blue jeans
all the while
kissing and biting necks
wrapping his arms around waists and shoulders.

all this in front of the motel mirror,
so they could watch.

but this afternoon,
with sadie,
whom he had yet to see naked,
the painter felt like watching.

and as she slowly undressed,
he sipped his bourbon,
took a few pulls from his cigar,
and said:

"leave the pearls on, please."

fprm

8-26-09


Motel Mirror

Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror, wine glass in one hand and my cigar in the other. You wear nothing but the pearls I gave you just a few hours before. And you smile as you catch me noticing you from the bed.

It is a typical motel, with the standard double bed, a full-length mirror, an old TV without cable, and a heavy orange curtain across the large window shielding us from the outside world. We’ve been coming here for years though, and we are treated like regulars. The towels are warm and soft, and there is also a small fridge full of my second-favorite beer. Across the road in the middle of the desert is a diner which will deliver breakfast, if we desire.

Across the motel room, you stand naked in front of the mirror and before me. You take a sip of the pinot noir and a light puff from the Hemingway and then exhale. As a painter, I admire your body, your smile and your eyes and wonder why I’ve never painted you before. But then again, why would I need to paint you. I am happy with you here. Alone. With me. This is our world and our universe. Outside of it, we are prisoners, but within these walls, we are free.

fprm

8-21-09


At the Corner Café

As I wait for you at the corner café, I nurse my whiskey and examine my cigar. A similar one had been consumed by you the night before. Most of it anyway, because before it was done you put it into the ashtray, turned your back to the motel mirror and gracefully approached the bed, your smile more mischievous than serene, your eyes focused on your prize, your other hand cradling the glass of pinot noir.

And I looked up at you, glasses resting on my mussed up hair, cigar clenched in between my teeth, notebooks and sketchbooks surrounding me. You walked slowly along my side of the bed and handed me the wine glass, from which I took a long sip and then placed on the night stand. And you crawled on top of the bed, and pulled the sheet away from me and straddled me just above the waist. You laughed a bit as the hair on my stomach tickled the inside of your legs, and then you leaned forward, put your hands on either side of my face and kissed me on the forehead, just below my glasses.

Outside, the thunder began, first with a few sporadic claps and then more consistently, and soon the rain began. It was odd for the desert but appreciated by both of us. Sheets of rain pounded the large window hidden by the heavy orange curtain, and the concert of thunder, rain, an old creaky mattress, and our coordinated breathing began.

Earlier this day, I took a drive into town, knowing that you enjoyed sleeping in, waited for the one used-book store to open and did a bit of browsing, and then around 11 a.m. made my way to the café and ordered a whiskey. I lit the cigar and sipped the bourbon and waited for you, thinking of our symphony.

Then the barkeep comes out and hands me a message on a matchbook he hurriedly used to transcribe and convey it. A note from you: “come home, come play, it looks like more rain today.”

I look up at the sky, which was a light cloudless blue as far as the eye could see. And I enjoy the contrast with the earthy, sun-beaten hues of the American desert. There is no chance of rain, I think to myself. But what do I know? You are the magician. With you, anything can happen.

fprm 8-21-09

New Painting: The Canvas

This is my favorite new piece, called the Canvas. Completed yesterday.

New Poem

Ruminations

Hearing thunder and pounding rain
I sit in the dark room
Bourbon in one hand
Cigar in the other
Alone

And I think of what my world
Finally opening up to me
Would be like if
Suddenly you were
Gone

It wouldn’t matter what type of absence
Just that you weren’t there
No more letters
No more calls
Done

The idea of not being able to embrace you
Or you not on my lap in the chair
Or never bringing you coffee
Or not smelling your
Hair

In that dark moment, it’s too much to bear
Because, while there may be others
They are not you, my dear
And while far away, you are always
Near

But the thought is fleeting
And I am never really afraid
In your friendship I am at peace
In your love, I have
Faith


fprm

8-29-09

Coming Soon - American Primitive: The Movie

This is the poster art for my first solo art show, to be held this coming Friday at the Lark Street BID.

New Painting...in Progress

Darkness Visible - 2nd Interpretation (almost complete)

A New Blog - Cheeseburgers in Purgatory

I have started a new blog. This blog is dedicated to the cheeseburger.

New Paintings

INT - At Rest at the Blue Movie Motel




EXT - Set Up for the Final Shot

Sold.

The Playwright's Study



Held now in private collection.

New Painting

"In my bed lie the souls of all redheads..."

Next Show - Save the Date

Ford McLain
American Primitive: The Movie

Paintings, Prose and Poems

Friday, September 4, 2009, 5 - 9 p.m.
Hosted by the Lark Street BID
@245 Lark Street, Albany NY

Fathers and Daughters

Yesterday, we had a fun walk in the park and fed some ducks. Below is one of the nicer pictures of the two of us, along with two of Lil solo.

Direction

Sometimes it feels as if I am drifting, moving from one moment to another without any sense of direction. This could be a function of personality...it could be a function of what I've jokingly referred to as my early midlife crisis...it could simply be a transitional period. I am sure of one thing: I don't like the uncertainty.

Sadly, I am one of those people who needs to think things through and be sure of a path before I take it...I need to be comfortable with my direction.

Based on the activities of the past few weeks: Troy Night Out, First Friday, development of the "American Primitive" group on Facebook, as well as other events, it seems as though one path may emerge through the painting. It will take some work, some shameless promoting on my part, and yes - perhaps a bit more devotion to the art form - but it seems to be presenting itself with possibilities.

Again, the brooding, plodding side of me halts and hesitates, like McClellan after Antietam.

I see something in the future...it's bit fuzzy still, but as I move closer, it becomes slightly more in focus.

Scenes from First Friday

Last night, I was honored to show three paintings at the Trinity United Methodist Church (corner of Lark and Lancaster in Albany). This was significant in a way, to the extent that this was the church where I was married and where Lilybet was baptized, and now it opened its doors to me again to share my paintings.

Some pictures of the exhibit and the church below:


Organ and pipes in the main sanctuary. I stood up there for two significant spiritual events.




Outside the Lark Street entrance. It was a mostly rainy night. Didn't deter the FF revelers.




Interior of the Kermani Chapel. There were four artists plus artwork of the children in the day care center.




The American Primitive and three paintings

Troy Night Out - Conclusion

Well, Troy Night Out is over. I did not sell a painting, but I did sell a copy of my poetry chapbook, "Antietam."

The spot that I got/selected was near a window off 3rd Street, so folk could see them as they walked by. The one that folk were most drawn to was The Playwright's Study.

There was music by a due playing Irish songs. There was wine and soft drinks. Beyond my role as painter/exhibitor, I played an even more important one as the guy with the corkscrew, opening up bottles of wine as needed.

Lots of beautiful women passing through as well.

A good time was had by all.

Tonight, for the first time in a relatively new exploration of painting, I will have pieces hanging in a place other than that Upstate Artist Guild gallery, although it will still be a part of the UAG. Five pieces will hang in Troy, for Troy Night Out, from 5 - 9 p.m. I have been promoting this almost ad nauseum since I learned that my pieces would hang.

The painting labels are made, the business cards are ready, picture-hanging materials purchased, painintings are all wired and ready to go.

Painting Options for Troy Night Out

So far, the three below will be hung in the space provided for me.

Darth



The Playwright's Study



Darkness Visible



They are wired and ready to go.

Today, I will look for a couple more to share and that should be good enough.

First Inquiry

Based on this painting, "On the Beach," which was made of/for a friend of mine, I received my first inquiry to paint someone.

I have made it clear that I am not a portrait artist and desire free rein in my execution, but the individual seemed quite open to whatever my interpretation might be...as well as intrigued.

Preliminary discussions have begun.

Troy Night Out

(Darkness Visible, 2009)

For one brief shining moment, I will have part of a wall to myself at an empty store used for Troy Night Out.

This will happen on Friday, March 27, 2009, between 5 and 9 p.m. I think the address of the building will be 260 Broadway, near 3rd Street.

Now, of course, I have to put something together. In addition to Darkness Visible, I will try and find a few other paintings that are not being given to anyone and that might be worthy of showing. I need to get there by 4 p.m., hang the pieces and put the labels on myself, and then I am recommended to have a bottle of wine to attract viewers.

Should be an interesting night.

The Story for the Screenplay

I've been struggling to appropriately frame the story for the movie that will become "The Painter." This afternoon, I decided to do the treatment first instead of going straight into the script, and this is the first part.

THE PAINTER
by
Ford McLain

I. Framing the Story

In the darkness of his study, the man sits in his armchair with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He holds a whiskey in his right hand and a cigar between the index and middle fingers of his left, which rest on his mouth. There is no music and very little sound, except the purring of his cat, Mister B, who is lying between the man and the left arm of the chair.

This is the painter. Fifty-three years old, he is an American citizen expatriated in Spain. He has a full yet mostly gray head of hair, an even grayer and neatly-trimmed goatee. The cottage is warm, and at the moment, the painter wears a pair of khaki shorts, smeared with oil paints on the right side and an opened tropical shirt. His chest hair is as gray as his head.

It is about three o’clock in the morning, and all of the guests who had come for the first screening of his film, “Sexistential,” are gone. Despite its depressing ending, the movie was a hit with the audience – except for one person – and the party that followed was considered one of the best that the painter ever hosted. But most had left a few hours earlier, headed down to the American-owned Clam Shack, which was a five minute walk into town and just off the beach.

Only Sophie, a bartender at the Clam Shack, and Suzi, a writer friend, remain. Suzi went into the bedroom to sleep, and, Sophie fell asleep on the daybed that the painter kept in his study.

The painter is very much awake and very much alone.

“I wish I could apologize to you,” the painter almost says aloud, “but you left in such a hurry.”

Beside him, Mister B tries to rearrange himself but realizes that he is either stuck in his position or that he has to get up and move altogether, so he stays where he is. The painter acknowledges his cat with a scratch on the top of the head and a few strokes from head to tail.

Then he pulls on his cigar, which he had relit not too long before.

As he sits there, the painter ponders the woman that should be there with him, along with Sophie and Suzi. She was not the motivation for making the film, but her story provided the meat and the heart of it. Her original words from her old blog and her recently published novel gave what could have been a meandering plot some substance, and her own personal experiences informed the director and the actors of what this movie truly could have been.

“Well, she is not there,” the painter reminds himself, “and it is your fault. You had to play God and tinker with her story and her vision. The substance abuse and the sociopath lover were not dark enough for you. She wrote of redemption at the end, but you had to take that away from her.”

She had put herself out there for him, for the project, for her art, even though she was uncomfortable with trying to write this story as a movie. He promised that this would be collaboration from start to finish. She trusted that he would respect her words and her experiences, and the painter-turned-producer/director took her words and her feelings, and he twisted her story into something darker than it already was.

Hours after the party ended, the painter believes he could still feel the sting of her right hand against his left cheek, and he can see his freshly lit cigar flying from his mouth as her hand hit his face. Such a violent end to a short but beautiful friendship.

And then, furiously, the painter digs in.

It may have been her words, her experiences, her script, but it was his movie. And he commissioned her to write his movie. And she agreed and signed a contract. Sure, she had never worked with him before, but the painter had never been involved in such a collaborative project as a movie either. He was used to working alone – in writing and in painting, and was used to have things end on his terms.

It is selfish, but that’s how the creative process always worked for him.

And, thinking back on movie, from pre-production to final cut, from the writing to the editing, from getting together a nice mix of beautiful and young actors and crew, from the wonderful nights of drinking and painting and screwing, and from seeing his final vision on the screen, the painter smiles and realizes that he would not have it any other way.

I like this quote, from William Butler Yeats:

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

Lately, I've suffered a bit of melancholy. Nothing serious, but just a bit overwhelming...the past year and a half has been rough - emotionally, finanically, psychologically - and sometimes I worry about being paralyzed (not physically). So the quote above is relevant. Even if in pain, if there is growth, there may be happiness.

It's Lou Reed's 67th birthday today. Here are the lyrics to one of his songs, from the Magic and Loss album.

What's Good - The Thesis lyrics

Life's like a mayonnaise soda
And life's like space without room
And life's like bacon and icecream
That's what life's like without you
Life's like forever becoming
But life's forever dealing in hurt
Now life's like death without living
That's what life's like without you
Life's like Sanskrit read to a pony
I see you in my mind's eye strangling on your tongue
What good is knowing such devotion
I've been around--I know what makes things run
What good is seeing eye chocolate
What good's a computerized nose
And what good is cancer in April
Why no good--no good at all
What good's a war without killing
What good is rain that falls up
What good's a disease that won't hurt you
Why no good, I guess, no good at all
What good are these thoughts that I'm thinking
It must be better not to be thinking at all
A styrofoam lover with emotions of concrete
No not much, not much at all
What good is life without living
What good's this lion that barks
You loved a life others throw away nightly
It's not fair, not fair at all
What's good?
Life's good--
But not fair at all

- Lou Reed

(c) 1992

A DEATH-SONNET FOR CUSTER.


———

BY WALT WHITMAN.



I.


From far Montana's cañons,
Lands of the wild ravine, the dusky Sioux, the lone-
some stretch, the silence,
Haply, to-day, a mournful wail—haply, a trumpet
note for heroes.



II.


The battle-bulletin,
The Indian ambuscade—the slaughter and environ-
ment
The cavalry companies fighting to the last—in stern-
est, coolest, heroism.
The fall of Custer, and all his officers and men.



III.


Continues yet the old, old legend of our race!
The loftiest of life upheld by death!
The ancient banner perfectly maintained!
(O lesson opportune—O how I welcome thee!)


As, sitting in dark days,
Lone, sulky, through the time's thick murk looking
in vain for light, for hope,
From unsuspected parts, a fierce and momentary
proof,
(The sun there at the center, though concealed,
Electric life forever at the center,)
Breaks forth, a lightning flash.



IV.


Thou of sunny, flowing hair, in battle,
I erewhile saw, with erect head, pressing ever in
front, bearing a bright sword in thy hand,
Now ending well the splendid fever of thy deeds,
(I bring no dirge for it or thee—I bring a glad, tri-
umphal sonnet;)
There in the far northwest, in struggle, charge, and
saber-smite,
Desperate and glorious—aye, in defeat most desper-
ate, most glorious,
After thy many battles, in which, never yielding up
a gun or a color,
Leaving behind thee a memory sweet to soldiers,
Thou yieldest up thyself.

Lyrics to Lou Reed's Song, "New Sensations." (link to YouTube, but there's no video, just audio).

I don't like guilt be it stoned or stupid
Drunk and disorderly I ain't no cupid
Two years ago today I was arrested on christmas eve

I don't want pain, I want to walk not be carried
I don't want to give it up, I want to stay married
I ain't no dog tied to a parked car

Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, new sensations

Talkin' 'bout some new sensations
Talkin' 'bout some new sensations

I want the principles of a timeless muse
I want to eradicate my negative views
And get rid of those people who are always on a down

It's easy enough to tell what is wrong
But that's not what I want to hear all night long
Some people are like human toulinols

Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, ooohhh, new sensations

Talkin' 'bout some new sensations
Talkin' a new sensations

I took my gpz out for a ride
The engine felt good between my thighs
The air felt cool, it's was forty degrees outside

I rode to pennsylvania near the delaware gap
Sometimes I got lost and had to check the map
I stopped at a roadside diner for a burger and a coke

There were some country folk and some hunters inside
Somebody got themselves married and somebody died
I went to the juke box and played a hillbilly song

They was arguing about football as I waved and went outside
And I headed for the mountains feeling warm inside
I love that gpz so much, you know that I could kiss her

Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, ooohhh, new sensations

Talkin' 'bout your new sensations
Talkin' new sensations

Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, new sensations
Ooohhh, new sensations

- Lou Reed

Perks of Bachelorhood

Sometimes, it is the little things in life that matter.




Yes, that is my nightstand, and yes, that is a bologna sandwich, and yes, that is a neat Woodford Reserve.

Life is good.

A Quiet Force

for a.

in the night, I can barely see you lying beside me
i sit on the side of the bed,
stare at my watch on the nightstand,
look over at you

deep piercing blue eyes
lightly shut
no corset
no collar
no chain
just a heavy comforter
embracing you

naked and alone i sit and stare
naked and at peace you lie there

in the emptiness of the night
after hours of poetry and play
wine and whiskey
i am alone
as you sleep

and all i have to comfort me
is that
quiet force
that draws me in
seductive without seducing
but even in sleep
a force nonetheless

i crawl back in beside you
move in as close as i can
wrap my arms around you

earlier you were submissive
but now,
to your being,
i submit


-fprm

c 2009

A Gentle Warning

Over the past few months, if not year, I've been frustrated in my attempts to get work on a full-time basis, for various reasons, and I have felt a bit demoralized. Sometimes I'm not good enough, sometimes I'm overqualified and they are afraid I would up and leave, sometimes it was not even worth sending in an application because I didn't have the right skills. Sometimes it seemed as though I am not trying hard enough.

In any case, it's been very depressing and demoralizing, and the lack of funds has also impacted on my family: my wife (though separated) and my daughter. And I selfishly wonder if the best thing to do is hope for an accident that would kill me, and allow them to collect on my decent life insurance policy (whatever else goes on, I make sure that gets paid). And of course, quite pettily, I think that they would be better off in that case, selfishly ignoring the reality that a beatnik, fiscally strapped daddy is better than a dead one.

Well, last night, for some reason, I was thinking of these things as I drove up Delaware Avenue to my apartment on Elm Street, past the Price Chopper, through the light at Elm, past the laundromat and right onto Jefferson. I was driving at a safe speed, past the dirt bar, past some houses, and then before me, almost too quickly, an Albany police car is backing into the street.

I did not realize that there was ice on the street until I tried to brake, and that failed - I skidded instead, and I tried to swerve, but ended up colliding with the cruiser, my front left corner of my car meeting his rear right corner. Plastic bumper, reflectors, other debris all over the place. I also hit a stationary van in the corner of its rear left bumper.

Dumb fucking luck to get into a car accident with a police cruiser!

This story is not about the logistics of it all, who was right (me), who was wrong (him), etc. It is about realizing that I need to be rethink my priorities. This was an accident, and I tried to avoid it, but it could have been worse. Or it could have happened elsewhere, and I could have been hit. And I still can...at any time...it happened to my dad's brother. It happened to my stepfather.

Sometimes I am not sure if there is a god...at least not the type of entity that takes an interest in our daily lives at such a micro level. I am sure, or at least I want to interpret it as such, that a message was sent to me, regarding all that talk of death and life insurance and being more valuable to my daughter dead.

I think I got it.

And I should be careful about what I wish for...I might get it next time.

New Painting: "On the Beach"

Completed 2-21-09, based on a photo of a friend of mine.

My life partner:



Beyond my daughter, Lilybet, this is probably the only living entity that I could live with over the course of time.

R.I.P., Socks.

I Am Waiting
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
Of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the second coming
And I am waiting
For a religious revival
To sweep thru the state of Arizona
And I am waiting
For the grapes of wrath to stored
And I am waiting
For them to prove
That God is really American
And I am waiting
To see God on television
Piped into church altars
If they can find
The right channel
To tune it in on
And I am waiting
for the last supper to be served again
and a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the great divide to be crossed
and I anxiously waiting
For the secret of eternal life to be discovered
By an obscure practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and TV rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am waiting for retribution
for what America did to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for the American Boy
to take off Beauty's clothes
and get on top of her
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeting lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

"Canvas on Beach"

Cigars!

Poem for the Day

Tommy


I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o'beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy how's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country," when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

- Rudyard Kipling

Promoting Paintings

I have recently joined a group called We Are Art Gallery.

Two pieces of mine - Darkness Visible and The Playwright's Study - are on sale through this site, as well as through my main art site.

Beyond the actual work of painting, I am learning the hard way that some element of marketing, public relations, and story telling are involved. The name, American Primitive (inspired by the title of a Gauguin book, "Writings of a Savage"), is a part of that.

One of the neatest thing about painting, however, is the creative process and sometimes just doing a piece for someone. It's almost as intimate as the literal act of lovemaking.(Obviously that sensation varies depending on whom the someone is...no one wants to paint for mom and say that it is similar to lovemaking).

To create a painting, thinking of your friendship/relationship with the individual for whom I am painting. You proffer the final piece to the intended. It is quite a feeling.

"A chief event of life is the day in which we have encountered a mind that startled us."

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I think that happened to me yesterday...I was a bit drunk, so I am not sure.

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

- William Butler Yeats

This painting is titled "Waiting for the Muse," which was done for a friend of mine, in recognition of the friendship and inspired by a sketch she gave me.

Valentine's Day

For those who are coupled...or in a triad, v, quad, group setting, or even just plain unattached, happy Valentine's Day.

Of course, every day should be Valentine's Day.

A friend of mine is getting married today. It is not a bad day to get married. I wish her all the best.

I Plan to Live to 100 Years....

...if not longer.



We all have to have goals for ourselves. I figure 100 is a good age to pass, barring any unforseen accidents or acts of god. Get my daughter through high school and college, move on to Spain, live in a small coastal town on either side of Barcelona, make new friends, have old ones visit, make love to a redhead or two, paint and write, drink wine and whiskey and be happy.

Abraham Lincoln was born 200 years ago on this day, February 12, 1809.

RFK is one of my favorite politicians of the latter 20th century...if for no other reason than he was able to evolve as a human being and a politician, overcome some of his demons, and fight for what he believed was truly right. His speech on April 4, 1968, in Indianapolis, was priceless. I believe that he probably would have won the nomination and most likely the presidency, had he not been killed in California. But he did get killed, we will never know, and we will always wonder how history would have been changed.


Bobby Kennedy also had a sense of humor, which is why I chose this quote for the day:


"People say I am ruthless. I am not ruthless. And if I find the man who is calling me ruthless, I shall destroy him."

The Road Not Taken


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- Robert Frost

"The fishermen know that the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible, but they have never found these dangers sufficient reason for remaining ashore."

Vincent van Gogh

[IF]

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!


--Rudyard Kipling

Frederick Douglass' birthday.

Also, Charles Dickens, Sir Thomas More, John Deere, Sinclair Lewis, Alfred Adler, Laur Ingals Wilder, Ruth Sager, Eubie Blake, Eddie Izzard, Gay Talese, James Spader and Tina Majorino.

And a quote, from Sir Thomas More:

"What though youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine."

Happy birthday, to William S. Burroughs, beat writer and poet, author of "The Naked Lunch."

This is a poem that speaks to that eternal wanderer within:
The Vagabond

Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river -
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field -
Warm the fireside haven -
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.

-- Robert Louis Stevenson

This is my daughter's favorite poem right now...and she actually asks for it to be read to her at night. I'm proud of the fact that she also knows it's about Abraham Lincoln. I'm proud of my little girl!

O, Captain, My Captain.

- Walt Whitman


O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart! 5
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

2

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills; 10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck, 15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

3

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; 20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

E.E. Cummings Painted

I did not know this. Wonderful site with the poet's works of art.

Today is the birthday of the Irish writer James Joyce,who gave us "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," "Exiles," "The Dead," "Finnegan's Wake," and of course, "Ulysses," from which the paragraph below is excerpted.





"and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and
all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

Today is American poet Langston Hughes's birthday. Below is a poem of his I've never read before.




Jazzonia


Oh, silver tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

In a Harlem cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.
A dancing girl whose eyes are bold
Lifts high a dress of silken gold.

Oh, singing tree!
Oh, shining rivers of the soul!

Were Eve's eyes
In the first garden
Just a bit too bold?
Was Cleopatra gorgeous
In a gown of gold?

Oh, shining tree!
Oh, silver rivers of the soul!

In a whirling cabaret
Six long-headed jazzers play.

Langston Hughes

Redhead...Progress

This one has been sitting in my "to do" pile since September. Finally, some movement on it. I had to readjust my proportions, flesh out the form, give the walls some color, etc. Still need to do some detail work (she needs a face...) and then, when I am happy with it...i will know, and she will be done.