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“ In a snowfall that covers the winter grass a white heron uses his own whiteness to disappear.”

May 5, 2015

several weeks back I was staying with the person most dear to me, and she made me coffee before she left for work.
as I drank the coffee I noticed that the inside of the cup had fine craquelure all over and as I drank more of the coffee until empty the fine cracks got more pronounced and bolder at the bottom of the cup.
it was unexpected. it was a gradual surprise. perhaps unintended. but it made drinking the coffee and the coffee itself 100 times better.
on the outside bottom of the cup it said “Made In Japan”. probably circa 1950’s.
details, details.


imagine if you will a portrait which is not a semblance, a nude painting missing a body, a conversation without subject and object, a history: of everything.

that. that would be something



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“Now that you’ve found it, it’s gone… Now that you feel it, you don’t”

April 18, 2015

so here I am, painting, and it dawns on me that  the only way the painting can realize itself is within the painting itself.

let it answer its own questions- don’t get in the way, and bring something from the outside.

in this case, you have to think “inside the box”. the answer is within the box.

fuck thinking “outside the box”. it’s overrated and

meaningless. the problem is literally in the box-

thus the answer is somewhere in it.

to think otherwise is to be tangential- to be beside the point

to be art-ificial


the story ended as it began :

a lone wolf was found dead in the snow



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” i am all the days- that you choose to ignore “

April 2, 2015

You draw not to copy but to notice


How to find some kind of reasonable balance between life, art, and work…art predominating-

and this thing where one thing ends- let’s say a life, and another begins. I want them both…

if it’s a boy: Lucien Keone ( nickname Luke-Lucien from Lucien Freud the painter,  Keone is Hawaiian for John…

and if it’s a girl, Elise Martha ( Elise, from the Cure song- nickname Eli) )




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the dog of my life, my art assistant Ripley had to go through surgery recently-

and the biopsy result wasn’t good but at least she’s healing well, for now

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“Sail on by, sail on by for now
They play naked in the water
You know it’s hard, heaven knows I’ve tried
But it just keeps getting harder…
So won’t you lay me, won’t you lay me down
Won’t you lay me, won’t you lay me down “

“All actual life is encounter.” ― Martin Buber

March 6, 2015

this isn’t erotica- this isn’t titillation- this is the rude slap of leaves and branches on your face just before you walk into a forest clearing, or a path- and you see: being. being, being, being: complex, fascinating,multi-hued, shifting shimmering Other


one thing I’m fascinated with are creatives who perform publicly: the singers, dancers, actors. their art happens mostly “in situ”, in the moment, requiring an audience ( and the energy that transfers back and forth), on a stage or under the scrutiny of a spotlight; my work happens in a cave, so to speak- in the dark and relative silence, wrestling with proverbial demons- and then something is left, some trace that perhaps a public ( including myself) will look at “a posteriori.”

I should look into this


I’m participating in a salon show this Sunday, March 8th at 7 pm, at The Living Gallery. There’s a Q&A portion for the artists. Figured I’d do it since I’ve never done this before. My  ” do something different once a week ” thing, I guess.




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“Difficult Pleasure”

February 20, 2015

sometimes she would crawl inside my skin, pushing here and there, grasping, pinching and poking- stretching me from the inside; and through her I learn better where I begin and where I end, where I break and where I gather up-

she curls up inside me like a curious fetus, a something without a name- my inner cave hiding wondrous images


Altamira caves and Lascaux. And then the Sistine Chapel…I can’t help feeling that between one and the other, something was lost. The Sistine Chapel to me looks needlessly excessive and decadent- crass; not the height but the dregs, like leftover grind and sugar in the bottom of a mug

maybe the best art we as a species have ever made, were created in darkness and silence-fugitive as drawings scrawled on an Australian boulder with the sap of a twig, or eroding under tropical rain


MOST RECENT WORK  ( the fluid, less-finished ones are warm up drawings done, with my left hand )

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January 23, 2015

what burns is not Art.

what does not burn is not Art.

does the infant cradle the infirm? or is  the wasting on their  deathbed

caress the infant?

a tree sprouts  a seed in its maturity;

this seed, tiny and hard, contains in its shell

all the lives of the tree, and promises a  forest.



I grow older and  grow more inward.

I grow less patient with those who don’t get IT-

explain an ocean to a lake?

simultaneously I grow more and more patient

with those who don’t get it. I stop explaining oceans-

and talk about their lakes

their puddles,

their sewage systems.

water is water

after all


I have added a new step to my drawing process:

draw with my left hand, then both my left and right hand to warm up.

anything to break up my complacency , my routine.

and I’ve combined ink- wash and chalk,

wet and dry.

wet. and  dry.

I continue to try to do something different every week



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January 16, 2015

I have an ancestor who, due to violent physical trauma ( from one of the Wars), got unhinged- became homeless, wore rags, dug up tubers and ate fruits- lived off of what people in the town gave him, made bonfires and slept in the warm ash. My father used to go looking for him with me in tow- we would find him, and my father and he would just squat close to each other silently- the near-naked gaunt, long-haired old man with the stubborn square chin- my father with the same stubborn chin dressed in city clothes…I always felt that ancestor of mine did it for me, for us, so we wouldn’t have to do it ( be homeless, be hungry, be alone )

and sometimes  now, at night – when the daily mundane worries of my adult life lifts off me and my bed like stale breath, from the loam of my semi-sleep I find myself in that man’s body:  watching the town below from a hill, the grit of warm ash against my skin and the smell of burnt wood, the sounds coming from the town waking up, and this invisible lock clamped over my mouth

the townies used to mockingly call him “Tarzan”.

His real name was Bernan.


1/10- 1/16/15  ( some of these drawings were done with my left and right hand , simultaneously )


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