Work in Progress

Unfinished Painting

Tin Cup

In the moments of rage she thought if she was an ounce crazier, the outcome of the argument might be significantly worse with police and an ambulance visit. Thankfully Jen had a thin veil of sanity to prevent her from tragic decisions. The tears were burning her face. Silently enjoying the feeling of the salty water running down and collecting under her chin, she watched as they fell on her dress shaping dark spots into polka dot pattern. At the exact moment Jen reached for a tissue to wipe her nose careful not to dry her puffy face, memory of her parent's friends birthday present on her 9th birthday appeared in her mind. The present was a cup for collecting tears. It might of just been a regular tin cup, white with a small flower drawing, but attaching purpose beyond consuming liquid gave it greater importance. It refurbished its original meaning, making the cup unique no matter the boring design. Jen had lots of cups but none for tears. Many of her young innocent and not so innocent tears were collected into cylindrical container only to be washed away by chemical infused sink water. How amusing would it be if the cup was designed to categorize all of her tears throughout the years; the amount collected, reasons and outcomes. Reviewing the data might prove highly comical, she thought. Silly arguments, pointless disputes, and creative defenses hinting at her possible future as a lawyer? Presently, she wondered how much of that cup she could fill up. The tin cup was long thrown out when her parents moved, recycled she hoped for another less personal use.

He commented on her selfishness, she mounted an attack supported by evidence from the last three years he would have forgotten by now. No cup to sit with, slight ounces of rage in each drop making a splash at impact with metal, slowly collecting an Alice in Wonderland river, excreting anger from her body.

Soviet Country Bus Stops

I found it highly inspirational, because I vaguely remember when I was young (7/8 years) seeing bus stops similar to the ones above in Crimea while on vacation on Black Sea, and in other rural areas of USSR. There was one in particular close to the resort that we were staying at, it was almost a sculpture because its design did not shelter from the weather conditions as a bus stop should. The beams were not wide enough to protect from the rain and I always wondered while standing underneath it why it did not have an adequate roof. Also the seating area was awkward, I remember there was something strange about the seating as there was never any seating available but it was there... It was colorful and might of had patterned mosaic decoration. I wish I remembered more of that bus stop beside it being on a cliff of a narrow road and every time I waited at the stop with my parents, it rained.

xmas party 018

HD Nat Geo Comp Frames from last summer

View from my window #2

Joseph K. Garrahan

My very talented friend Joseph Garrahan made this for an exhibit. You can find more about him and his work here.

Yasenevo - NYC

I had a dream I was in a severe mental breakdown and my parents had to drive me wrapped in a thick heavy blanket to a psychiatrist. He was old and very fat.

Emancipation

Hand drawn...



Inspired by Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini, Ecstasy of St Theresa, 1652

Summer Showers

It was a warm humid summer day, he was sitting at a plastic white table brought outside on the patio overlooking a narrow winding road, a strange place to have a patio especially with the neighbors houses so close by. If one of the inauspicious souls occupying those depressing homes were to look through their stained windows, they would see a party of several adults and two young teenage girls drinking Merlot out of big jugs perhaps even boxed wine and grilling on a red portable grill. It was a casual affair, a birthday celebration for a teenage girl who was turning 16. Sweet sixteenth, but this event was used more for parents to get together with their friends rather than provide the girl with a memorable party among her friends.

He was obligated to go, his parents were the girl's parents' friends. Also he felt slightly regretful of his original approach, he mistreated her, not realizing he would be working for her father. Chris decided the best strategy was to be cordial, polite and not let himself be enticed by her youth and innocent flirtation.

It was the usual festival of mindless chatter, sharing stories and anecdotes. Once the conversation turned to work, the girls were seemingly bored. They drank a bit more wine perhaps hoping their situation would improve but ultimately they left the table and went in to the house. Chris suddenly felt restless and lethargic. He could go on talking about his latest HP instruments not running properly or discuss his ongoing analysis but feeling bored he excused himself and proceed to go in to the house.

It was a dark interior and his eyes had to adjust for a second to the surroundings. Fake wood paneling, with low brown ceiling beams added to the feeling of melancholy. Small windows let in strands of light lost in the thick threads of beige carpet. Chris felt all the pieces of the interior imposing on his perception. He wanted to escape the stale smells and 60's decor, back in to the sunlight and warmth. Looking around for any sight of the girls, he sensed a strong urge for a cigarette. He quickly made his way through the house and on to the backyard where the white plastic chairs and tables should of been.

The sunlight quickly disappeared into thick grey clouds, and the nature smells became more pronounced. It was very calm and his desire for a cigarette might have subsided if he felt at ease. But the feeling of anxiousness was still with him, it did not stay in the house when he left, it followed him outside and now he was standing on the moist grass feeling the thunder and lightning warning him of an oncoming storm. He lit his cigarette.

After taking a drag, he finally saw them. Standing in front of him, she was wearing what he thought to be almost a nightgown, it barely covered her. The dress was short, synthetic and brown. Her glowing tan skin acquired from lazy summer days on New River beaches in ancient mountains of Virginia made her seem less childlike. She had model legs, tall and slender and surprisingly small feet for someone so tall. Probably her best feature he thought. He noticed the girls were barefoot, something he avoided himself as he hated the prickly pinching sensation of the sand, grass, rocks against the bottom of his feet.

Chris suddenly noticed music coming from an ancient tape boom-box. He was preoccupied with his examination of the scene in front of him, failing to notice the thumbing electronic noise emitting from cheap speakers. He was not the biggest fan of music, one would not call upon him to recall an old Beatles song or the latest Radiohead song on the radio. He endured it but preferred the quiet.

As he stood there, leaning against concrete wall under an overhang he thought would protect him in the likely chance of rain, the girls ran after each other with intermittent hug exchange borderline wrestling. He began to feel relaxed, his cigarette almost burnt out he flick it in to the wet grass watching the orange glow slowly growing dim in the jungle of greenery. The final blow to orange a huge drop of water precisely hitting it followed by immediate explosion. Chris felt slight amazement at the precision of the drop, it was as if something bad, contaminated was targeted for ultimate termination, its life taken away for being a danger to society. Decease...

The moment the first drop hit that cigarette, millions more followed, each one hitting the ground with the force of a shower jet. The girls were in the middle of green patch when the rain started. It did not phase them, with greater enthusiasm they carried on their dance. Their clothes quickly drenched changing color of the fabric. The synthetic brown now glued to her skin, outline her undergarments. Through the wall of rain they became shapes, visible only when the light peering through the clouds illuminated their path. Everything slowed down like the slow motion effect used so often in the movies. He felt lighter and a wave of calm took over his being. He felt the glow of youth and carelessness fill the scene, so powerful, it was permeating everything around. Not that he was old, he was 27 and at a stage in his life where PhD program and full time job occupied his mind over relationships and mindless entertainment. Yet this moment felt unique for reason he did not care to understand because it required him toanalyze his intention and sentiment.

She was spinning faster as if trying to dry herself off and it might of worked if not for the heavy rain. She started to slow down, trying desperately to find her balance. The ground gave way and she tumbled down toward neighbors backyard, a pile of lumber caught her half way. Craving another cigarette, he did not move from the spot where he threw out his last one. Chris felt if he moved, he will no longer be an observer but an active participant. He saw the red starting to crawl down her bare leg, it split in to two streams in parts mixing with water where the red became dull. The rain was not strong enough to wash it away as it has done to the orange. The heavy liquid grabbed tightly to the surface proclaiming its control over silky complexion. He watched closely as the lines turned and twisted becoming intricate webs of red, painting a post modern picture. The golden glow turned to pale white, perhaps by contrast to bright reds and greens the skin became lighter. He took out another cigarette.

Review THe Armory Show 2008

It was a maze of white walls with attention grabbing art tucked away or sometimes staring you down blatantly. The event was well organized, not realizing you could buy tickets on-line we waited about 20 minutes to get in. My original plan was to buy a book and run through the exhibit, I don't like to ponder over a black square for half an hour trying to decipher its meaning, I've taken enough art classes to figure out what it means and if its incorrect I will blame some art critic for steering me the wrong way.


Almost all of the art was resented through an art gallery with the main purpose to sell. In each station/room there were tables with the representatives sitting behind their mac books checking email, of course dressed in black and the managers running around trying to find out how many pieces were sold that day. I did not get to run through due to a compelling array of artwork, each time I thought I am in a curiosity free area, more fascinating art appeared. It was really an attack on my senses and a constant exercise for my brain.



Overall, for a commercial/capitalistic art event, I thought it was inspirational and fairly creative. I do feel that it did not live up to the name "Armory Show", it should of been called something else. The Armory show of 1913 brought modern art to America, it brought much needed inspiration and new thought. What I saw at this current exhibit was the same old repetitive work. A lot of it was pornographic. Really? Pornographic art is that popular? Its definitely not breakthrough. Its not innovative or inspiring. Might have been new at the beginning of last century at the old Armory show but this is 2008, try something else... Also you would think with all the technology available today... all the modern advances, it would be represented at the international art fair? There were a couple of LED pieces scattered about, but not enough to make me believe this is the representation of today. Art has always been at the frontier of innovation. Artist have embraced technology faster than any other group. It seemed at this event galleries chose pieces that will sell well and look good on the wall at oppose to taking a risk. There should be a venue for art that is no longer post-modern, I believe we are pass that. Let the armory show continue to represent post modern art after it changes it name. Because it should not carry a name that stands for change. If it continues to be "armory show" it should evolve and find artists of today who are breaking ground no with their use of oils and canvases but with led, digital interfaces, and laser. I'm sure there are ways to hang such art on the walls.

The "New" Armory Show

The "New" Armory Show

is being held on the west side, New York. March 27th - 30th.
The exhibition is named after the Armory Show of 1913 ("International Exhibition of Modern Art") Unlike its predecessor, current exhibition is more commercially oriented and certainly not as ground breaking or shocking. I will be attended this weekend and if I feel inspired, I will share my thoughts and impressions.

Brian Leetch

View from my Window

The Work of Jonathan Harris

http://www.number27.org/

Perceptive Pixel

www.perceptivepixel.com

Dreaming a Fingertip Conversation with You

http://www.tactualseries.info/main.html

Thomas Coke

(... Masked parties, Savage parties, Victorian parties, Greek parties, Wild West parties, Russian parties, Circus parties, parties where one had to dress as somebody else, almost naked parties in St John's Wood, parties in flats and studios and houses and ships and hotels and night clubs, in windmills and swimming-baths, tea parties at school where one ate muffins and meringues and tinned crab, parties at Oxford where one drank brown sherry and smoked Turkish cigarettes, dull dances in London and comic dances in Scotland and disgusting dances in Paris - all that succession and repetition of massed humanity . . . Those vile bodies...)

—Evelyn Waugh, Vile Bodies

South Boston shore

Voluntary solitariness is that which is familiar with melancholy, and gently brings on like a syren, a shoeing-horn, or some sphinx to this irrevocable gulf; a primary cause, Piso calls it. Most pleasant it is at first, to such as are melancholy given, to lie in bed whole days, and keep their chambers, to walk alone in some solitary grove, betwixt wood and water, by a brook side, to meditate upon some delightsome and pleasant subject, which shall affect them most; amabilis insania, et mentis gratissimus error: a most incomparable delight it is so to melancholize, and build castles in the air, to go smiling to themselves, acting an infinite variety of parts, which they suppose and strongly imagine they represent, or that they see acted or done: Blandum quidem ab initio, saith Lemnius, to conceive and meditate of such pleasant things, sometimes, "present, past, or to come," as Rhasis speaks. So delightsome these toys are at first, they could spend whole days and nights without sleep, even whole years alone in such contemplations, and fantastical meditations, which are like unto dreams, and they will hardly be drawn from them, or willingly interrupt, so pleasant their vain conceits are, that they hinder their ordinary tasks and necessary business, they cannot address themselves to them, or almost to any study or employment, these fantastical and bewitching thoughts so covertly, so feelingly; so urgently, so continually set upon, creep in, insinuate, possess, overcome, distract, and detain them, they cannot, I say, go about their more necessary business, stave off or extricate themselves, but are ever musing, melancholizing, and carried along, as he (they say) that is led round about a heath with a Puck in the night, they run earnestly on in this labyrinth of anxious and solicitous melancholy meditations, and cannot well or willingly refrain, or easily leave off; winding and unwinding themselves, as so many clocks, and still pleasing their humours, until at last the scene is turned upon a sudden, by some bad object, and they being now habituated to such vain meditations and solitary places, can endure no company, can ruminate of nothing but harsh and distasteful subjects. Fear, sorrow, suspicion, subrusticus pudor, discontent, cares, and weariness of life surprise them in a moment, and they can think of nothing else, continually suspecting no sooner are their eyes open, but this infernal plague of melancholy seizeth on them, and terrifies their souls, representing some dismal object to their minds, which now by no means, no labour, no persuasions they can avoid, hæret lateri lethalis arundo (the arrow of death still remains in the side), they may not be rid of it, they cannot resist.

—The Anatomy of Melancholy, Pt. I., Sec. 2., Mem. 2., Subs. 6.

Composition #1 Boston