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Out of the blue(s) the word vanish appears to me. Although unnerving, I like the way it sounds – like it’s vaporizing in the split of a split-second. Poof – gone! I decide to delve into vanishings. But I keep losing my way, struggling to express with clarity or poetry (or a wishful blend of both) how to get a hold of what I have to say.  So I circle and swoop from above and angles down below searching for perspective. With limited geometry, I turn to creativity – take the intangible to grasp the ineffable. As truth and freedoms melt away, the endangered and vulnerable lose protection, and the planet faces peril – what remains? At what point does the vanishing point vanish? Read More »

Could crystals and metaphors save us from corruption and destruction? Preserve our earth and freedoms? Could they be conduits to reclaim our power? Just maybe –

To escape the record heat wave (radiating warming) immerse yourself in The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood’s dystopian novel – not the finale of the TV series. Originally titled Offred, the name of the central character suggests loss of identity, a chattel (of-Fred) and a religious sacrifice (offered). Set in the Republic of Gilead, a theocratic dictatorship where the Constitution and Congress no longer exist, with the population shrinking due to a toxic environment, the elite monopolize the valuables and conscript the remaining fertile females. Once brainwashed in the re-education facility to understand they have no real rights, the Handmaids will be protected if they conform. The controlling Aunts, true believers, are opportunists and sadists complicit in the regime. Are you iced yet?  Read More »

In the slow motion waters under the sea, I glide salt deep. Kelp blades undulate and beckon – reach their arms for me. For a while I slalom past their holdfasts in the lofty forest of my dream. In the prism of the distance, shafts of sunlight shift to choreograph their lure. And free me up to tangle.  Read More »

If only I’d been enlightened before everything cracked. How could something four times as tough as concrete just fall apart with the turn of a screw? In theory, one cubic inch of human bone can bear the weight of five pickup trucks or 19,000 lbs (8,626kg). Perhaps if I’d withstood the perils of a treacherous mountain at altitude (and made it back down) or scaled sheer rock face (without a misstep) I’d understand the odd fate of the odds. Which I do, but I don’t. Now forced into slow motion from swelling and trauma – I fall for the fix. Eight octopus arms lay without stretch to lift up my skin – crisscross and splay from ankle to toes. No, I’m not hallucinating. Acupuncturists and chiropractors in Japan discovered the decompressive effect of this kinesiology phenomenon in the 70s. So I rock the tape. And dream. Propelled by tailwinds of song, I’ll run wild and free. Waves will thunder my toes, my tendons will stretch and Vangelis’ “Chariots of Fire” will sync with the sea. But first – the maze-solving mollusk must pull out the goo. Read More »

Like a poisonous snake slithers, apathy seeps into your veins undetected. The venom induces a flesh eating disease of the mind, so flat line motivation, lack of emotion and dulled desire go viral. I’ve heard a thousand symptomatic spins from the apathetic (I know because I’ve spun a few) – stealthy phrases like I’m not quite there, as soon as I finish the…I’m on it, I’m thinking, processing, pretty busy, not feeling it. Who cares? In case you ever experience symptoms of apathy or succumb to the drip-drip of its deadly toxin, stop fiddling with your iPhone – and gaze up in the night sky as the constellations drift east to west, leap over black holes, or climb into the V of an acacia tree and watch the sun melt into the beyond.  Read More »

My first foray as a graffiti artist occurred as a young child when left alone to inhabit my day and invent a more thrilling night. While the English wallpaper in the upstairs hall of our house in the Canadian countryside exuded elegance, the repetitious strawberry pattern lacked any juice at all. The dull shade of red for the berries needed to glisten, the green leaves longed for texture, the cream spaces to open up. I couldn’t bear one more predictable diamond shape around each cluster. So with a minimal palette of crayons, I set to work.  Read More »

A breath away from 18, I eased into an encounter with a lion tamer. By then I already had plenty of experience on the road showing horses, so nomadic blood spiraled through my veins. When not setting up and tearing down for horse shows, from place to place, I found other creative paths to distract me from school. When the circus rolled into town one autumn day, the circus performer with a mane of bronze curls got wind of me. He called from the fairgrounds to inquire about whips. Long whips for his big cats. I told him I had a few about 6’ in length. Now it’s unlikely an untethered teenager peddling equestrian supplies as a sideline, would demure or defer. So when he asked if I could deliver, I agreed to make the drop behind the big top – that evening. Read More »

I didn’t know that evening under the stars would be the last time I would see him and it’s not the first time I’ve whispered the phrase. And it’s not the only October I’ve said a final goodbye, or when I least expected it, met a man again in a far off place. It’s not the sole happening in my birthday month that marked a new beginning or a final act, a reunion or an inexplicable loss. And it all crisscrosses time and space, spans oceans and continents, twines birth and death. And it’s about Tom Petty and his music and it’s about another man whose memory endures. It’s about the sorcery of creativity and love. It’s about giving life and taking it away. Like sailing a boat on a cobalt sea when a prism of visions blends into eternity. It’s about the blackness of night and the glint of the moon. It’s about the spirit of the tides. Read More »

You never know where you will find a catalyst or where it might lead. At least I don’t. A vision, an image, a phrase, wildflowers, the wind, a gospel song, a gesture of generosity, an act of defiance, a star beneath the stars or the magic of a solar moon – a conceptual exhibition or a distant constellation – a tangle, a loss, or equal night of the equinox – a hypnotic eye or the eye of a storm, justice torched by ignorance – love in all its incarnations, spirits with their incantations – an anniversary, a birthday, a retrospective for the future. But I do know inspiration will find me, lure me – just now sure how or when or where. Read More »

For someone who can’t handle crowds or congested urban settings, and questions the context of art, you (like me) might wonder why I choose to visit MOCA Grand in downtown LA on one of the hottest days this summer to see a painting exhibition – on the closing day. Do I feel an obligation as an artist to visit a space dedicated to art – to witness Kerry James Marshall’s 25-year retrospective that ran at MOCA in Chicago and New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art to stellar reviews? Or does my curiosity to witness the work of an artist with a mission to bring portraits of “black life into very white museums” tame my angst of dealing with cement that sizzles in July? Will my innate sense of social justice override my crowd claustrophobia? Read More »