AdPock

Lost my buddy yesterday, Today is quite a day, Happy to see it, Wish he could too. But now… Immediately so, He’s just a memory. If a man leaves a mark, though, Deep down in my being, A change upon my soul, Then his mark beats on, With me as I go.  So today, I’ll gaze upon this day with some of his perspective, too. I’ll be brave enough for two. Do my best to stir another buddy’s soul anew.

Beneath the droning planes, Beached before the tides, A lone perhaps lonely drummer, Keeps time, As the ancient ones before her, Mallet after mallet, Skin upon skin, Beats on into the noise. Why, the wonders wonder, Does she beat on just for her? To keep her heart pounding forward, Her movement time may cure? Or does she hammer on for the rest of us, Without mastery of time, For whom the ocean keeps, A lone steady beat, Ancient evermore?  

Garbonzo Ron,  Tried to keep it turned on, But sometimes he had trouble seeing the light. Thankfully, glory was but a spark away.  

 

 

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...

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...