Us in ink


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Forest of muchness

Much of me loves the night sky and the wonder of everything but the other half feels most alone as the world sleeps. It to me is the role a painter in the world. It’s magical ,and shit all at once. The fall is the hardest I feel. Something about it is just sad in the darkness. Nothing is awake and the last bits that are are packing up to leave for Winter. Gloomy but honest like a shotgun gun in the silence of the open ocean pointed at the moon.

Learning and making

Finding my self at a crossroads, where I need to sell more art and yet I feel madly¬†self-conscious about asking for sales. I know It’s a part of being existing but still, I feel awkward.

The young crow sits and yells for meals. They have no shame of anger. They have nothing but drive. I need to become the crow again. Make and do nonstop for the November show.

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A fish a glass

I’m fine and making deeply again.


So much muchness is on the way.

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The hell with not being real. Art has this heart to it and if you can’t hear the heartbeat then I will see you on the other side. Paint requires me and inks but not those who can’t feel the strokes. Too long ago I stopped hearing the sound. I was deaf to my hands and canvas. It calls for all these colors and forms and now I hear the ringing and I’m going into the studio to bathe in it. Freedom is blinding and scary but if the shark gets me then I died doing what I love. To the anger … I can swim forever, can you?