AdPock

This museum-quality print   was created from a 60” x 40” acrylic on canvas commissioned by my dear friend Jay, to honor his gone-too-soon brother, Stevie, a lover of Chicago, City Hall, and Jay’s six faithful labs, specifically painted for the walls at the Ronald McDonald House in Los Angeles.  For those of you familiar with Chicago, you probably recognize most of the landmarks within, including the centerpiece of the painting, The Picasso sculpture prominently situated in the middle of Daley Plaza, where City Hall is located. As a kid born and reared in Chicago (we soon moved to Colorado when I was 6), one of my first memories is of playing on Picasso’s giant sculpture.  I dreamily recall being enamored with not just its seemingly familiar alieness, but also its massive slide, which made that spectacular form awesomely functional as well. As such, it was a welcoming early entry into the world of art that I now try to spend most of my time in. Hopefully that spirit of wh...

The piece above was made with love and healing vibes for the kids and families that stay at the Ronald McDonald House in Los Angeles, so they can have something joyful to look at, and hopefully be inspired to believe that if pigs can fly, then they can get better. As a middle aged man, I wouldn’t want to jinx my future self by saying the painting this print is based on is my masterpiece, but it’s certainly the best I’ve done yet. Granted, with all the time, energy, and love I put into it, I’d be pretty upset if it wasn’t. The funny thing is, the painting wasn’t even my idea in the first place. My dear friend Kerri was talking with her rad Uncle Jay about what to do for his amazing wife Melanie’s big birthday, and they came up with the idea to create some art for the newly remodeled Ronald McDonald House, which Jay and Melanie hugely support. And since there wasn’t enough art on the walls, that seemed like a good place to start. Not sure if I’m Kerri’s only artist friend, but I’m defin...

Would that he could, but Alan could not. The world just felt too heavy to move. An anchor. A man of the world, perhaps once, now sunken by it. Would that he could get up, but Alan had enough of rising. Enough fighting. Enough difficulty. And now the path of least resistance led nowhere. Was it just laziness? To believe nowhere and everywhere are the same place? If he couldn’t positively imagine himself rising from the couch, how could he put such an optimistic spin on his current, nowhere yet everywhere state? Who did he think he was? Buddha?  Even Buddha created his own happiness, his own rationalizations. Nirvana is but a state of mind after all. But how practical is nirvana, given his current state of blasé? He really just wants to have fun. Which can only be done if everyone around him is having fun. Can fun even be if no one's around to have it?  Not like that. Would that Alan could live in that moment… But it doesn’t last. It never has. A necessary law of nature? Alan su...

Since Mother's Day, I've been drawing and redrawing the above image. I was initially trying to think of a card to create for my most fierce and loving of mothers — as I've done mama-duck-and-duckling and mama-bear-and-cub cards in the past. In trying to dream up a new mother/baby animal image, I first and foremost recalled the incredible display of mothering I witnessed a few weeks back in the  Dolphin Reef  movie on Disney+ (which is about so much more than dolphins).  In particular, there's a scene where a mama humpback whale and her calf are attacked by a pod of orcas in the open ocean. To stave off the assailants from eating her calf, Mama throws her baby on her back as she battles multiple attackers, all while crying out across the depths of the ocean for help. Eventually help comes, as her new boyfriend/champion leads a pod of male humpbacks to her side, and the orcas are forcefully compelled to swim away. And both mama and calf live to tell the tale...

Mike actively convinced himself of his own happiness.

Passover is not nearly as much fun in isolation. I heard people are doing virtual seders, but honestly, I'm just barely hanging onto being a Jew when it's convenient, so that seems like a big ask. No, we'll just skip it this year I guess, and look forward to going over to our lovely, generous friends Kerri and John's place, like we always do, as was this year's initial plan; indeed, the matzoh ball soup above was meant to be the evite art for the affair. Yes, our friends put on quite the fiesta... for a seder. We say a few prayers, tell old stories, and celebrate life with a ton of delicious food and amazing wines — at least four glasses worth, as the good book commands. Really though, without friends and family, the story's kind of stale, and its lessons seem pretty damn harsh. And the prayers are all nebulously connected to this God character I don't have a great relationship with at the moment. Okay, it was fading long ago, but still, my gentil...

Look closely, and you can see the feint makings of a heartline on that there wolf above, howling away at the cycles of the moon.  I'd forgotten all about the decorative lines adorning the Zuni fetishes that populated every corner of my mom's Southwestern art gallery, and thus our home; until my nephew and buddy both told me that the wolf is their favorite animal, when I prodded for birthday drawing inspiration.  So I drew this guy, and as I started blowing him out in post, it just dawned on me: he may not be a fetish per se, but he definitely need's that arrow.  Though I could surprisingly remember what the inlaid line was called, the heartline, I couldn't even vaguely recall why it adorned the Native American stone-carved animal amulets that I loved so much. I just knew it was important, particularly to the Zuni tribe. So I googled... heartline fetish, and found this at  Antique American Indian Art, llc , a gallery that's apparently been aroun...

This is Oscar, he gets a lot of crap from octopuses for being part ostrich, and a lot of crap from ostriches for being part octopus.  But Oscar doesn't listen to 'em, because he has no ears.

Gene and Gertrude reflected, on this wacky thing called life; Acted as if rejected, though truth ejected strife; When the most that they could want for, was one or two peanuts more.

When I was like 10 or so, my mom opened a Southwestern Art gallery in Cherry Creek, an up and coming suburb of late '80s Denver. I like to kid with my mother, who doesn't really appreciate it, that as soon as she opened the gallery, that's when I stopped getting parented.  The truth is probably closer to Mom just being ready to do something big, having parented the shit out of two boys to the point where they could be trusted to be alone... though perhaps she shouldn't have trusted us with HBO.  Regardless, freedom was a boon for me, and it turned out my older brother and I could take care of ourselves. But while Mom frequently let us stay at home to explore the wide world of Huntington Estates, she did make us hang out at her gallery, Canyon Road, quite a bit, too — which is where arguably some of her longest lasting parenting lessons took root. But at first, that's exactly what it felt like: being made to do something. That probably stems from th...

My life as an artist, and as a human I suppose, has been to overthink. In an effort to not overthink the pretty pictures I've been making for the last few years whilst putting off writing, I'm going to attempt to not feel so burdened trying to add words to all my posts here. At least not today. So, here's some of the images I've been creating in lieu of using my actual words. I know a true writer worth his salt would have had a field day during the Trump years, but I've found myself wanting to say less and less, perhaps because of how much stale prattle has filled the air. Or maybe this is just my way of not overthinking it.

Something’s missing from my beach today. The salt still tempts my nostrils, yes. Same as yesterday. The sand still stays my feet in coarse irritation. The waves perform their tragedy, singing their dying arias, giving rise to great crescendos, only to succumb to the seashore forever. The tragedy played yesterday, it doesn’t stop today. Repeat and coda, on and on. The seabirds run their usual races, taunting the lurking waves in their dash for beached plankton. The sailboats still sail. The joggers still jog. The trash still collects. The smokestacks still spew their poison to the heavens. The heavens, its the heavens. So resplendent today, much more than usual. So gleaming and free and expansive. Undisturbed. The clouds seem lighter, more airy, with room to grow, no ceiling to reach. The birds unfettered, more space to roam, no limits, no obstacles.  The planes. Where are they? What’s my beach — the closest to the airport — without the constant clamor of t...

I've had a thing for flamingos and palm trees since well before the two beach icons teamed up as thememates for my Bar Mitzvah, back in the late '80s. But they became a far more important part of my truth after Mom went all out bringing this blossoming Jew man's Miami Vice inspired dreams to life on the "Mony Mony" fueled dance floor of Bobby McGee's — my favorite restaurant at the time, due in equal parts to the perfectly pink prime rib and the fact that the waiters dressed up in costume. (Trust me when I tell you there's absolutely nothing like having a side of beef brought to you by Rocky himself!) The cardboard flamingos and palm trees that turned Bobby McGee's into a pastelled wonderland would go on to serve as my own room's decorations well past the sordid event of becoming a man — though the decor was demonstrably lessened when I accidentally knocked a basketball into the neon-pink "Adam" sign that my mom had made to real...

Once upon a time there was a boy who sang as if God we're his ventriloquist. But along the open road, the boy lost his heavenly voice, he couldn't even be sure where.  One day, the boy found a dog who barked like a hurricane, like the Scorpions kind of hurricane. The rocking kind. So the boy took the dog in. Unfortunately, the boy was homeless.  The boy and the dog hit the street, the only home that would have them. But it bonded them tighter than any roof could, and they made themselves a home without walls.  Though both had been self-described lone wolves before, now, neither could see the logic in that.  They were a pack now, forever. Though the boy's divine voice still escaped him, he felt the air in his lungs getting stronger with each pack-spent day. Until one day, out of the heavenly blue, it was as if God, the puppet master of fate, reached out once again and put his hand up the boy's butt. And the spirit so powerfully moved the ...

Monogamy worked for Sue and Lee, They didn't promise it would always be, But with weather being so darn cold lately, It just made sense to snuggle, freely or not. 

Once upon a time,  There was a gorilla named Kong, As big,  And strong, And long, As the lingering note of a well struck gong. Still, Kong was forced to leave his home, By the rarest royal of all, man. Bound, literally, for a new land, Pushed until they forced his hand, To make him something far more grand... A king.

Jean-Luc Giraffe made a helluva gaffe,  Way back when,  When he wrecked his whole life. Why couldn't he have just been happy for Geoffrey? Why couldn't he have just shaken his brother's hoof, Said, "Nice job!  Way to make kids happy!" He was the alpha.  The pride of the family. But it didn't matter. Did it really matter now? A giraffe has to save his own neck. But whoa to be part of  the tower, Basking in the cool shade of Acacia, The irreplaceable warmth of family.

What a heavy weight this world might seem if seen from down below where loud obnoxious air depletes the sublime brevity of breath. Are you loved? Are you hungry? Are you home? A weight impossible to haul. Let it go unbound it so. Unfettered by such chains let thine load be laughed upon from on high. A knowing wink may meet your eye, take solace take flight!