PF 747

Webs weaving into memories of paint and crows. All the times in my life seem to know mixing of the paints in muscle memory like when I would make cookies with my mom as a kid. It lives in my mind in a third person ways. I see this little big-haired curly kid sitting on a tiny chair in a sky blue kitchen mixing chocolate chips into a red plastic bowl. I burned my fingers on an old stove and learned that Winter that I could paint with watercolors at age 4. Much of me found the peace of my mind in the soft paper soaked in water.

 

Painter Files Podcast ep 21

His name was/is Glenn Arthur.

Busy making

I try to practice my craft everyday.

Painter Files podcast ep 20

I always find my words in these podcasts. I’m so quiet in a lot of life. I love to paint in my head rather than slow down and be a part of everything. I must look crazy to most people but it makes me happy. I figure the idea is to find what makes you so happy.

I hope this finds you well and the photos are from this week in my studio. I loved this week’s end.

Painter Files Podcast ep 19 (The day in the woods)

Paint, medicate …sleep…E dificil pra caramba

Making underwater

My coffee cup feels empty. Like nothing, I take in fills and warms. This splif is a doorway to the empty. I am a foul on its songs. I dance slowly and then vibrates my eyes to sleep when it makes my mind dance to fast. The days are on rollerskates. The moon runs from me and the sun hides in the wind chill. The painter is a game of death. I make with the ashes of things that once had formed to make things that get to be formed. A recycler of existence. Ash to Ash and ink to paint.

 

Liquid fire in a coffee cup to burn questioning butterflies out of my belly. Standing as music booms into my ears into my bones and so the fear is danced out all over the canvas for another night. That cold creamy moon wars with me.