The first photo looks kind of funny reflected in the new yoga mirrors (the new entrance to Borough is a yoga/tai chi studio...entering and exiting is so awkward now; without fail, I almost always time my arrival right in the middle of a class), but you get the idea. 

In the spirit of farewell, here's the writing that went along with this, my most sentimental painting, which was all about whimsical l-l-l-love and goodbyes. Every time I looked at this painting, I still felt the words, "...and moments that make you want to crawl inside another as every one of their breaths is a promise of feeling so vivid forever". Read it after the jump (Read More).

Tell me that one does not crave another
Without sharing our existence, our existence is not worth maintaining
Show me someone who says otherwise, and I will show you a fool
We’re here merely to explore our love for one another in a myriad of tangible ways.
I am here to tell you of the cool breeze over the translucent blue layer
That covers the frozen earth’s surface as it glows under this pale moon’s beam
And to tell you of my lover’s touch as we build our story
And the way that same beam throws light off our skin and shadows across his forehead
As he looks down on me
Of watching the sun rise on his face, causing gold sparks in his cerulean eyes
Casting unflattering light onto his too-early wrinkles
Which created a novel for me of his past
I’m here to tell you of the feeling when riding along rails
Of leaving everything you know behind, and that feeling so swirled and mismatched
Of freedom of unknown future, and despair of leaving any bit of your love behind
How every glimpse of land you pass makes you feel as though
It’s the first and last you’ll ever meet
How placing your hand upon the cool glass window makes your heart ache
For those whose heart you wish to be touching
I’m here to tell you of those quiet moments not shared with others’ ears
That express volumes of hidden realities when covers cover eyes, when pillows block out
sound
So inner televisions of the subconscious’ desires play repeatedly through the mind and
behind lids
No one could tell you what they really see, what their inner life sounds like,
The sensations they explore.
But we all know what the rushed solitude sounds like
I’m here to remind you of those moments when our hearts beat counterclockwise to our
desire’s march, that stirring revelation that beats like wings against the inside of our skull
Dear darling, this goes out to you.
I cannot tell you of buffalo or ocean life
I cannot tell you of wretched strife to maintain a lifestyle
I cannot tell you of glorious promises come true or happy endings for all
But I can tell you only what I know:
Of fiery sunsets under a sky of tomorrow’s promises,
Of the feeling of cool grass against bare knees
I can tell you of words to make you melt and moments that make you want to crawl
inside another as every one of their breaths is a promise of feeling so vivid forever
I can tell you of longing, of turmoil, of guilt and remorse
I can tell you of splendor, of brilliance, of the look of so many tomorrows within
another’s eyes;
Changed minds, disenchantment, of realizing you no longer want another’s presence
entangled in your own…of realizing they no longer want you entangled with theirs.
I can tell you that this universe we live in, this universe that hovers above us, lingers next
to us, gives us ground to walk upon
It does not always let us live out what we desire most
But it always gives us something now. It is always giving us something now.

____________________________________________________________________________


The cobblestones each come alive, I clasped your hand and we ran
We ran to where the people were, we ran to the lights
We ran until we heard voices that were not our own
And then stared at each other, flush faced and glowing
And we laughed, and then danced as though no one else was there.
In our circle, our own hands, make
Clap Clap Clap
We felt restless and alive with meaning and that meaning was now
You held the light of so many before you
You carried the age of so many others’ thoughts.
We were old in our young age, our feet sat right, everything was aglow.
I bid you farewell, while still holding you tight.
I’ve loved you always
I’ve loved you always.
I’ve loved you always.
While throwing rocks into the water my toes beat
To the night we could not run hard enough
To the night we could not laugh hard enough
To the night we were everything we needed to be
To the night I bid you farewell.
The breeze blows us away and through the sheets hanging on the line outside our house
We stumble inwards, we, empty handed, hand ourselves to each other
We waltz our emptiness together
Hands above our head, clapping,
Hands towards each other, giving
Hands around each other, creating
His harmony, it sings sweetly to me
Wraps itself around my head until drunk on its sweet, sweet sweetness
Sweetness and light.
He has become the air in which all things fly.

At once I believed in a vision not small
A murder of crows may flow between us but they only make us grin
Heart swelled and anticipation high
An escape from the jarring pain that destroys bright dreams
Sheer hope, it swallows me whole, this vision.

Our friends’ footsteps echo in the hallway and we can hear them periodically squeal into eruptions of delight as they revel in the pure joy of each others company. The light of our green room flashes in slow, choppy, gliding golden light coming from the traffic lights outside; pause, stop, go, slide; pause, stop, go, slide. Deep viridian patches of shadows cover our piles of the passing week’s clothing, the tattered chair holding a month’s worth of reading, a lifetime’s collection of notebooks. A pot bangs outside our wall, followed by a clattering of utensils and another eruption of sincere joy. I can picture Katrina’s long blond waves swirling around her green dress as she dances upon the black and white checkered floor, can picture Dan’s large hands clapping an erratic beat as he mimics her moves with goofy faces and well worn wing tips. I can hear, slightly, Mary’s soft voice as she passionately, eloquently, declares her intent while explaining her thesis exhibition, and I know Jon must be near her, close, waiting to kiss her pink, stained, mouth, while our other friends are out buying more beer. I know the sequins from our afternoon mask making experience must still be scattered around our pale green living room-purple, yellow, blue-because I still have purple, yellow, blue sequins stuck on the bottom of my bare feet. You had fun finding these sequins around my knees and calves earlier, made a game of finding them all, but I can feel their warm plastic presence between the balls of my feet and my toes; I guess you missed a few. But now we lay quietly, enjoying the ambiance of our friends’ energy while we lay in our warm sheets watching the colors pass. We draw letters in the air, create shadow puppets that erupt and dissolve and eventually eat each other as our hands combine and our fingers mesh, locking in our quiet moment where the only place we want to be is here, now.

We hear the front door open, a flood of footsteps and new voices ringing through the small apartment we and many others call home. I can already imagine the sleepy heads in the morning, slowly waking beneath piles of hair; groggy bodies billowing beside door frames, asking who’s made coffee and when will we go for brunch in the park. I can hear Madison’s cool voice as she sets what’s most likely Red Stripe down on our coffee table made of wooden crates we salvaged from a vintage shop going out of business this past fall. I can picture her bright scarf, her sharp black hair, I hear her ask Mike to switch the music and I can imagine him wishing he had his guitar here so he could impress the girls who live next door. I already know he must be wearing plaid, sleeves just barely too short for his long arms, glasses boxing in his manly school boy face.

We hear more exuberant laughter trailing outside our thin door, hear hands clapping, feet colliding, and as a pale wisp of a guitar’s melody tinkers into our room I get out of bed, float from your embrace and the embrace of such soft pillows, and walk to the window in my white t-shirt and sequin-clad feet. My hair tumbles around my ribs in small tangles, and I look out the window and down upon the traffic, proclaiming my love for this city of ours, loving the possibility that lies on the grit of the sidewalk, reveling in the energy so abundant we can feel it even while holed up, hibernating, in our small room that only we occupy. My head sways to the dreamy guitar melody and soon my whole body follows suit, raising my arms above my head to create flowing shadows on the wall behind the bed you lie in, the one illuminated by the pause, stop, go; pause, stop, go. You watch from this side of the room, cast in green and more green light, and I can feel your smile cast upon me. Dan runs by our room, quickly banging a kitchen utensil upon our door, and as Mary yells out, “come be with us, assholes!” you climb out of bed and come join me in the window light; disheveled as hell, angelic as always. We dance lightly around each other; arms entwining, fingers playing chase and release; small kisses passing exchange as our shoulders brush and our backs meet, as your head bows down unto mine, as my chin grazes your chest. It’s all ours, this moment, and we let it pass without the vain frustration of trying to hold on.

We stumble on our toes until you pull me to the floor with the sound of a smile, the cool wood floor meeting my warm white cotton and your bare skin. We remember that summer with all the stars, the one where I told you while lying in a field, fireflies all around, mosquitoes biting my legs, holding the smooth plastic of a phone to my ear while you perched yourself on a friend’s balcony somewhere in the city, that you were with me like every single star, I could feel you here. I told you I could grasp a tangle of grass and feel it like your hand, and I wanted nothing more than to laugh with you until all the stars faded and sunk. I told you where the big dipper was, and you told me which bicycles were gliding by your stoop. A holiday passed, a hot and sweaty Fourth of July, and I finally met you before the next holiday came...you crept up my stairs stealthily while I stared in the mirror fixing my hair, and we passed the entire night being nothing more than youthful and alive; you smelling like you’d run our of time, my face finally faded from makeup long past its time for retouching but eyes all the same shining with delight. I remember you pulling away that morning, your long fingers extending over your steering wheel in a silent wave goodbye, a soft sincerity covering your facial features. I lean over to kiss you hello, remind myself of the joy in knowing you’re right here, now, that I’m right here, now, as I think of the afternoon that followed that morning: brick walls giving me comfort in the love and familiarity of my current space, but hot tears of frustration in wanting to maintain the moment that had just transpired. When would we again notice, suddenly, all the stars hanging above our head while waiting on a not-yet-friend’s small staircase; when would we claim the dark, early morning hours as ours; when would we dance down sidewalks and steal smirking, knowing glances from bar stools across the crowd. That frustration was still magical in its pain, made me observe the world in a whole new light and awe of fine detail.

So here we are now, stumbling and floating, laughing and chasing, whispering and waking behind clumps of dark hair, enchanted by the possibility of anything at all. Here we are, love, on this hard floor, cast in pale and dark green, illuminated by pause stop go, surrounded by delight and soft, happy voices. Here we are, entangled in the moment we needed not to grasp to maintain, but rather open our hands to to let our moment come in. My eyes close as you run your fingers upon my ribs that push against your own, trace patterns of letters and swirling designs. You kiss my forehead and pull me closer, tell me you love me and can explain exactly how you know this to be true: for me you would do anything, there are no limits to your affection, your desire, your passion; no limits in your pursuit of our happiness and desire. We picture sunshine, we picture freedom, we picture liberated laughter and brilliant success and our forms dancing freely in an endless daydream that echoes the stop motion shadows of our earlier puppets against the wall. Our door opens and a triangle of yellow light is cast upon our pile of the week’s clothing, the collection of notebooks, finally cast upon our entangled, silent bodies staring out the window to the rooftops above. Our arms lie above our heads, our fingers lightly engaged, and as the music and voices become louder and more clear, a camera flashes to capture our moment in the company of each others joy.

You fucked a waitress that night, so I went home with Dan, leaving one of your hairs still stuck to my white cotton on his tan, cold pillowcase, and later returned to the viridian room before sunrise to throw all your notebooks out the flashing window we’d previously passed hours entwined and dreaming out of; the pages billowed slowly, the sight pregnant with transcendent promises we could not keep. I left New York the next morning in tears, and have yet to go back to its gritty sidewalks so abundant with the promise of the possibility of anything at all. The stars still hang here, but it’s no longer you I dream of, and I hear you still count bicycles, keeping a tally tacked upon your pale green wall, one lone green sequin taped to its side. You’ll never find the purple-yellow-blue, and I’ll never admit to the heat of my frustration while staring at these familiar brick walls.

In the spirit of "All Thing Amorous", I offer one of my favorite and most frequently mulled over passages from a biography of Elaine and Bill de Kooning. I picked the book up when I was still in college and from the moment I opened it it had a profound impact on my outlook and the structure of my vision for the future. I still pick it up every few days to re-read certain sections as they become relevant to my current life. I have a long list of people who inspire me in the arts-most especially women-and Elaine de Kooning has long been reigning somewhere in the top. Yes, the woman was a hot mess for a while, but I'm just going to go ahead and say that middle age is rough for everyone, so let's not get giddy about it. Let it be known that Elaine was not merely the wife of Bill, nor was she just some muse or submissive assistant. No, she was a strong, motivated, eager artist in her own right with an incredible depth of intellect, a bold, unfiltered personality and a mind and agenda of her own. Hell, the woman didn't even know how (nor was she interested in learning how) to be a wife in the way her time defined the roll. But, Elaine knew how to be a friend, she knew what it took to be an artist, she knew how to love with courage, and knew what was needed to maintain her unconventional lifestyle and relationships. She also knew the art of promotion and networking before there were titles for such roles...let's just say she had flair. She and Bill didn't have a faithful marriage, which more or less worked for both of them, but that doesn't mean their loyalty to each other was any less deep, for it was truly profound. Both had incredibly ravenous sexual appetites and Elaine was insatiable in her curiosity about people in general. But, both were dedicated to their own and each other's art and human spirit first and foremost. In fact, Elaine's affairs always had a way of constantly benefiting Bill, as she made sure her own convictions of his divine brilliance were known to everyone she encountered. She was the best PR he ever could have asked for, and if not for her I'm not sure any of us would know who Willem de Kooning is. Among other things, her affair with critics Harold Rosenberg and Tom Hess led to the career-changing reviews of his work, landing him the title of "The King of Art", and her affair with Charlie Egan led to his first solo show in Egan's gallery, which gave him public acclaim and recognition for the first time, making him-them, really-the "darlings" of the art world. 
Like I said, Elaine and Bill, separately and as husband and wife, held unconventional relationships. Society can judge or fear this relationship, it's a personal decision, but what can most certainly be taken out of it is the concise knowledge and understanding each had of themselves as individuals and of each other. Love is many, many things, and we can try really hard to wrap it up in security if that makes us feel safe, but personally I find that a little unrealistic and inevitably disappointing. Because what is security? Safety? Love is probably the most unsafe adventure and encounter anyone will ever embark upon. It's scary! It's like letting someone else in your cockpit and hoping like hell they know how not to crash this plane you've been flying, but you're going to let them take the wheel anyway-because flying with them in the next seat just became way better than flying solo, because we all have only so much we can offer ourselves. Love is abandon...it's saying, "okay, let's do this together, because together is better, let's go", and we have to trust and be trustworthy. Trust each other, and that each has their best intentions for the other at heart. There are no rules, but, if there is someone we care about-enough to want to understand them, learn about their personal needs and offerings, someone who makes and allows us to step outside of ourselves-then every relationship can find some unique guidelines that will surely allow each to be inspired and bettered by the insane and beautiful force that love brings. To each their own, and I hope that everyone can at some point enjoy the abandon while not losing themself, but rather flourish in the opportunity to positively build upon who they already are. Here are Elaine's thoughts:

"'I am argumentative in terms of painting. I think any artist argues with himself, with his tools, with the process of painting. The very act of picking up a brush-let's say, if the brush is your tool-is an argumentative act, because you're putting yourself in conflict with what's gone before. You're competing. You're saying, I have something to add. And from the beginning, I had that feeling, and Bill had that feeling, too. I think we encouraged each other.'

Drawing deeply on a cigarette and exhaling, she added, 'I feel that love is important, too. Especially for young artists. I feel that for young artists, to love something, to not just say, well, I'm interested in my own identity-I feel that's important. I don't think anyone can become an artist without having a sense of passion towards another artist. I had that passion about Bill-about Bill as an artist as well as Bill as a human being.' 

But, Elaine knew, while one individual's passion might lead to submission, another's led to opposition-'another kind of argumentativeness. After the initial passion, later on, one becomes so involved with one's own imagery that another artist's presence seems intrusive. I mean presence in one's mind as well as in one's spaces.' But, she reiterated, 'any great artist has come out of his passion for other artists. Cezanne with his passion for Poussin. Or Rodin with his passion for Michelangelo. Gorky with his passion for Picasso, Kandinsky, and Miro. And then, usually, what one is involved with is the passion for a good many other artists. This feeling of emotion-it's not just an intellectual response, but an emotional one-that's what counts, sets the tone, what keeps an artist going when everything is bleak. Remembering these things, keeping them in your mind, that's an artist's work.'"

Our entire building has been going through a change of dynamics lately: Borough has new faces and new energy, and 180 has a new flock of inspired artists and businesses as well. All of the commotion has caused everyone to come together in a new and exhilarating way, and everyone knows that unity around a common interest creates an amazing force. We're in the midst of scraping together a skeleton for a building-wide exhibition that will not only highlight the South End's phenomenal impact and influence on our area's artistic scene, but also expose the cultural smorgasbord of raw dedication, motivation, inspiration and joy that is the make up of the emerging art scene. Once we have a foundation laid down I'm going to be on the look out for an intern at Borough, so stay tuned!

OTHER and equally exciting collaborations include the creation of a new book with my studio mate Haley Bishop (finally!), whose work also revolves around the importance of memory,

a new Borough show revolving around the idea of storytelling that includes artists such as Rich Pellegrino, Eric Reinemann, Jessica Deahl, Cameron Schmitz, Borough residents Haley Bishop and Stephen Orloske, and hopefully Isaac Pelepko, among others (all images courtesy of respective artists),

and proposed exhibition ideas with fellow painters Ian Burcroff and James Juron over in New York. 

And, finally, if we can ever get it together, my most beloved and amazing friend Phil Hardy, who I'm already working on a children's book with, and I have been talking about a really conceptual installation for months now, one that wraps together the abstract sublime and dadaism. So, maybe in this year of collaborations, we'll eventually make it happen. 

I'd say this is enough to look forward to, and I'm excited and preparing to kick off 2011. It's ambitious, and I'm excited to see which direction all of the above Not that the rest of December isn't enough to look forward to as it is, because I definitely have amazing things coming up: two of my most loved friends are coming in to Vermont from Norway and Africa next week (ahhh!!!!). Can't wait to start these collaborations, and I can't wait to see where they all go.