surreal feel

within each new experience there is a new space for growth. I have found within my new studio a calling I never knew I had... to bring people together to work artistically. I found art relatively early in life. I never had to worry after that. I wasn't alone. I believe it is within everyone's grasp. I feel the space telling me the goal is to share. To see them sitting there has helped my psyche. The space is allowing things to happen and grow. My art watches while I sleep. It guards and protects. Surrounding spirits of those I've known. I have brought spirits through my art as well as allowed others to find themselves within the art spiritually. It goes on in circles. I don't let it end with one singular definition. My father visited me in a painting. My husband left his mark. My flame fire spire absorbed my canvas and from a wilted photograph, Lucille looked at me with my eyes, my face, my hair. I must've run around before not long ago... and found myself back here after meeting death five years after school. The dead are the stones of my foundation and do burst forth from my pen again and again. Keep your eyes keen on this thinning veil. You will see through moonlight and mist the deepening essence of those around us. ~ k (penh) w

and in the routes leading in each direction

Deciding to be a person of action is difficult. I've found my mind seeing these things intensely. Vivid pictures of places and people.. .of stories. Whether or not I adhere to the rules... I've found a break and want to go for it. But where to go? The arrow points in each direction. Tells me which way leads where... but no warning of the ditches. We've seen these ways our entire lives but haven't searched them through. Haven't come back to talk of the war of activity. Why does it take me so long to move from this squeaky chair everyday? I guess I'm rooted to the spot of myself. Unable to unhinge my brain from my want of things... to do things. I'm going to try to be it and not wish it to be. I don't like flying stars overhead because I long to hitch a ride on one. At least see it closer... or feel a real orbit. So my head is my freedom and my cage. I can't seem to escape it. Once upon a time I felt I had a place... it seems that place has been rearranged and set for someone else.... like they invited me to tea and then decided I should sit on the floor. I don't mind. I haven't the mind for talking their small talk. I like tea in any old chair... in any old place. It seems my fountains are running and my hands aren't working fast enough. The cup will overflow again and those friends and faces will wash away over the silt. I'll rummage around for it... the little snap bean. I'm searching for it still. My inner curmudgeon... desperate to find herself a lovely spot on a current or wave. She wants to curl inside the pod... for a greedy feast of ideas.

Tru's 'schnitte!

Working on a scherenschnitte piece for cousin Tru! Scherenschnitte is the art of cutting paper and although the piece she wanted from the website was unavailable, I was able to produce a similar piece that she's pretty excited about. I am very happy to be moving the image. Especially to such a talented artist herself! Thanks Tru!

Projection of Opinion

Here we reach an uncomfortable place in which we place on the wall a picture. Then the crowd leans in and begins to verbally rip and tear the image to shreads disregarding it's place. I found, my first year in art school, this to be the most barbaric of acts against the artist and the piece presented. The "wall" was but a peg board. The "critics" a bunch of students. The room, a simple concrete classroom, nothing more. I found this place empty of knowledge, void of depth and increasingly anti-art. I left the department, even with a professor hounding me across campus. It's only mid-term. You could pass this class. Did I really want to "pass"? I would have rather failed it. So I dropped it. I dropped the entire department and moved on. It wasn't working, I walked away. I met Jacey that year. I remembered Jacey because she had the same earrings and was incredibly talented. I never found out what happened to her but I wished her the best. She deserved it. Remember your feet when faced with critics. What do they really know? These so-called experts of the aesthetic. They go by formula. Art is not formulaic. If it is, it's not art. I would rather exist on the periphery of this thing we call art than suffer formula, acceptance by a conditioned crowd or passing a class. This is your life hanging on the wall. How do you judge it? How do you critique it? The lines and colors, the days and the experiences. The texture, the inspiration. No, I'd rather exist completely outside of art than deal with this. I sat across from Karenina, drawing her as she drew me. Her drawing was delicate and wonderful, mine looked a little flat. Karenina smiled. She took the picture and we swapped movies. Her Santa Sangre vs. my Nosferatu. I must say I enjoyed Santa Sangre as much as anything. I sat alone watching it and wishing it were yet another existence. I suddenly wanted to jump into that film or into her drawing. Another connection made, another memory added, yet another lovely venture into art and the making. I was cradled from beginning to end by the memories of sweet faces and working hands. This is th e way I wish to remember it. The impression. Bringing any critique from the land of the lost I will say that another artist recommended "one color". I choose them all.

co-create

As it seems the shapes will change in front of my open eyes and move to something recognizable. Then the shapes will change and the hands will move. The image becomes obvious, the path clear. I have found a new direction a million times over and it never wants to stop. I enjoy these journeys. A million journeys a month into oblivion, pulling out by the hair in a rather neanderthal scene an image from my psyche. Then the delicate dance of creation begins. Popping the pages with razor sharp edges. Crystallizing the air. This is my little creation dance. My fire dance within that abyss. Tools work, hands move and suddenly a face emerges. Hello to you friend! Where have you been? Well these things would tell me their story had they the time, but mostly they choose to move within their own realm leaving me in mystery for some time before the break in the dam begins again. Movement. I detect movement just up ahead. Running like blood, the pen acting as a hatchet carving out the space, the ink gushes. Hold it up and move again. It won't be happy until it's unleashed on the page.

thoughtz

Wild Berry zinger, Peppermint, lemon, stripes and origami, polka dots, swirls and curlicues, zebras, fan dango, elephant blue. Artistic maze, labyrinth styles and stilettos. cosmo mama ivy, cinnamon and plums. Nook and cranny. Like to be a granny. spindles, tendrils, sea green and orange. In the night kitchen, mommy? Dishes make me feel fun when I'm with Curty.

the Eagles have landed!

Check out this unique view of a bald eagle's nest. It's located in Virginia. I tried checking it out at night and realized it would be dark... so daylight for me is the best viewing time for online.
http://www.wvec.com/marketplace/microsite-content/eagle-cam.html