My last three days have turned into a blur of wonderfulness.
started with a great critique. blowing people away with my honesty, freaking them out that I would repllicate my 8th grade yearbook picture thirty times and print every negative word i was ever called directly under my cute face. placing it in such a way that the viewer has to walk on it, so they can come to the little black box full of bloody razorblades (real blood), pills, and so on. the whole time, a two inch portrait of my current face is staring down at them while they attempt to place their feet awkwardly around my old self staring up at them from the floor. trying to tread lightly, they almost always fuck up and slip. i smile.
people don't like stepping on art... wierd???
follow that up with drunken darts and inflated pitchers, loosing a dart down a hole in the floor none of us saw... 2:00 am and i have to work in the morning...
ahhhhhhh painting. paint the porch, paint the railing, mow the lawn. get covered in oil product goodness. start stinking/build those muscles/clean up every drip cause it's for an artist's retirement studio/wash the brushes with soap everytime after the mineral spirits/don't forget ANYTHING!
Driving now, to a studio on the Hudson River. Just got off work about thirty minutes abo. An instructor/peer of mine. Has a good place, he swears. We get lost, find an awsome squaat spot, ripe for the picking, and old winery from the 50's chilling on the river, bright red paint, and a dock!
Find the place only to be blown away. Portabella mushroon pasta, single malt whisky, and a fucking hand pump well at the end of the two track dirt road we had to drive up to get here. No plumbing and an outhouse, all surrounded by rich fucks moving from the city with their luxury bullshit cause their fucking scared of the unknowable...
walk down to the studio space, gotta be careful it's fucking crazy dark out... the whole time freight trains are flying past just below us and you can hear the barges on the water. We walk up to a 18th century ship builders mansion, arches, stucko, and an arched doorway with iron hinges that stands fifteen feet tall. Two stories, built for industry, I'm about to walk into an artists dream. He has half the first floor, pays less then a hundred a month. Industrial windows line both sides of his space. Everything else is industrial clutter collected by a blue collar pack rat that thought he would buy every small industry going out of business in the Poughkeepsie area. The floors are littered with industrial treasures, anything anyone with a desire to sculpt/print/collage would ever want. An entire room full of old 1960's copper switch boards stacked hundreds deep, no coating, no green shit, or chips, just flat sheets of copper with precise holes drilled in a crazy repetitive pattern...
find out the rest of the space is opening up for more of us to move in. twenty minutes from my house, but i have a place to crash.... and that place has a hefty suply of single malt scotch. it's right up the two track, an old artist's house from the 30's. it's where we pump the water from, where the fire pit rests, and the old stone walls that zigzag down to the river.
arrive home at about three in the morning.
wake up at seven
hop a train to the city.
pull in through Harlem, and I watch Mogwa's eyes light up. An urban explorer's dream has just unfolded in front of her eyes. ACTION! BOOM!!! We're there...
no sites, no site seeing, just urban exploring.... all day, fifteen miles later, tired feet, and chaos. walk the last mile and a half back to the train.
(the city, that's another story in and of itself, but it was an awsome way to end these three days)
back home now after a hefty ride back up the valley.
bed time now, but what can I say, these last three days have been simply wonderfull!!!
elleseven
better tell Larry we found the coolest comic book stores ever...
started with a great critique. blowing people away with my honesty, freaking them out that I would repllicate my 8th grade yearbook picture thirty times and print every negative word i was ever called directly under my cute face. placing it in such a way that the viewer has to walk on it, so they can come to the little black box full of bloody razorblades (real blood), pills, and so on. the whole time, a two inch portrait of my current face is staring down at them while they attempt to place their feet awkwardly around my old self staring up at them from the floor. trying to tread lightly, they almost always fuck up and slip. i smile.
people don't like stepping on art... wierd???
follow that up with drunken darts and inflated pitchers, loosing a dart down a hole in the floor none of us saw... 2:00 am and i have to work in the morning...
ahhhhhhh painting. paint the porch, paint the railing, mow the lawn. get covered in oil product goodness. start stinking/build those muscles/clean up every drip cause it's for an artist's retirement studio/wash the brushes with soap everytime after the mineral spirits/don't forget ANYTHING!
Driving now, to a studio on the Hudson River. Just got off work about thirty minutes abo. An instructor/peer of mine. Has a good place, he swears. We get lost, find an awsome squaat spot, ripe for the picking, and old winery from the 50's chilling on the river, bright red paint, and a dock!
Find the place only to be blown away. Portabella mushroon pasta, single malt whisky, and a fucking hand pump well at the end of the two track dirt road we had to drive up to get here. No plumbing and an outhouse, all surrounded by rich fucks moving from the city with their luxury bullshit cause their fucking scared of the unknowable...
walk down to the studio space, gotta be careful it's fucking crazy dark out... the whole time freight trains are flying past just below us and you can hear the barges on the water. We walk up to a 18th century ship builders mansion, arches, stucko, and an arched doorway with iron hinges that stands fifteen feet tall. Two stories, built for industry, I'm about to walk into an artists dream. He has half the first floor, pays less then a hundred a month. Industrial windows line both sides of his space. Everything else is industrial clutter collected by a blue collar pack rat that thought he would buy every small industry going out of business in the Poughkeepsie area. The floors are littered with industrial treasures, anything anyone with a desire to sculpt/print/collage would ever want. An entire room full of old 1960's copper switch boards stacked hundreds deep, no coating, no green shit, or chips, just flat sheets of copper with precise holes drilled in a crazy repetitive pattern...
find out the rest of the space is opening up for more of us to move in. twenty minutes from my house, but i have a place to crash.... and that place has a hefty suply of single malt scotch. it's right up the two track, an old artist's house from the 30's. it's where we pump the water from, where the fire pit rests, and the old stone walls that zigzag down to the river.
arrive home at about three in the morning.
wake up at seven
hop a train to the city.
pull in through Harlem, and I watch Mogwa's eyes light up. An urban explorer's dream has just unfolded in front of her eyes. ACTION! BOOM!!! We're there...
no sites, no site seeing, just urban exploring.... all day, fifteen miles later, tired feet, and chaos. walk the last mile and a half back to the train.
(the city, that's another story in and of itself, but it was an awsome way to end these three days)
back home now after a hefty ride back up the valley.
bed time now, but what can I say, these last three days have been simply wonderfull!!!
elleseven
better tell Larry we found the coolest comic book stores ever...
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
hmmmmm... very tempting
i dont think i have been published yet. who knows. i should probably find out, huh?
perty rainbows...ahhhh
how goes your schoolin? how is mogwa? and how are you? hope all is well.
hugs and