Most here know me for my writing. I have been an illustrator and designer for most of my life, too. My Other Art.
I have always been at odds with my visual abilities. I can draw anything and I can emulate any style. It seems sacrilege against the muses to say:
"eh."
Understand: I love the zone I am in when working with pastels, or wearing out a 4b.
But it is nothing like the pure-d driven steel ingot pinpricklesleet brainfire ferociousloveclaw cleverspindizzy wetbite razorwire GOOD that writing is for me.
I am a writer. (And I can draw and design.)
Some of what I do:
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For The New Yorker
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"Mother and Child" original quilt design
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For me, my daughter Eliana, at 2 days and 7 years
But when I write it is burn and do, or die.
Radiant steam has amassed in me since I was 5. Reading more than anyone I know or knew, devouring books, always books, drifts of books by every bed, always reading -- until finally, in my late forties, I find I have a Voice, and have everything to say, and can say it in every way. And I get better faster now, too.
I need only hitch my overalls, adjust my lowers, and write.
I am now the writerly delirium of three stooges plumbing, cross-connections for the sake of patterns corrected-as-we-go. The divine lunacy of water/words everywhere, pipe/sentences for multi-purposes, fittings/meanings for all seasons. We'll see where THIS goes!
I build until my home bursts, then my fearless writer heart eats Chicago, supplants Paree, conquers Thrace; I erect my hisstremble racket over every countryside, a fertile landscape of leaks and gushes and leaded joins and marvelous valves.
I amaze and stupefy, shatter hearts and amuse no end, plumb for the world the holysmoke marvel in me, re-built of spare parts, otherly ideas and barbarian constructs, from life itself and the books I devoured for 40-some years -- and still read into my system, at every opportunity: late at night, rudely at the table, on my way to get more ice, standing in the weather; my books forever dog-eared, stained with chocolate and thumb-oil and fat plops of rain pucker...
And interleaved with all my reading now is beloved padfrompocket; my own words play, my own words work.
My pen in hand, scritch scritch scritch, scritch scritch scritch, scritch scritch scritch.
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Drawing? just an accident of birth and always feels like this:
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Spaceman's Hairdo
rita shibr
Malusinka
Michelle Motoyoshi
iamsurly
Ann Nichols
Salon.com
Comments
will you look at those words and let your mind and heart write my comment.....?
Myriad: HA! exactly! One could say that this post proves I am sort full of shit. But charming? thanks
But my drawing never advanced beyond what I could do when I was 6 or 7. I got to admit that I can write some but what I really wanted to do was draw and it never happened.
I envy your gift to do both.
John: my art, all kinds, got better one night watching a 60 minutes profile of Fred Astaire; he painted late in life, and was serenely indifferent to what resulted from it. He said the process of it was everything.
He pierced me, humbled me, deflated me from Good Artist. I started to care less what came of it, and all my art got better.
Draw again. Love what it feels like.
Or not. But thanks for this honest comment. You honor me with it.
Thank you so much for sharing these beautiful fruits of your inspiration and talent with us.
Gifts work their way to the surface as surely as plant life somehow worms its way through inches of solid concrete in anticipation of the sun.
Strange as it may be, the presence of one gift, rather than diminishing its fraternal twin, often serves to to fuel it. This is not mere sibling rivalry. It is more a case of the track star challenging the basketball player until both are honed and feared at the apex of their game.
You are an incredibly talented artist, Greg, in both areas of endeavor you’ve displayed here. And your gifts offer feasts for the eyes and hearts or your viewers and readers.
I only hope that the one twin continues to stir the other until until both know no bounds. And, truly, that does not seem far off my good man.
Rated and appreciated.
After happiness and success for my children? my only other hope is to be able to set aside all but art: writing, some pastels.
And a swimming pool.
R~
R
Rated.
Stim: happy thanksgiving to you! thanks
scanner: yeah. I honed skills. true. thank you.
dyno: Yes! post artwork! we should have an Open Call: Other Art
AtHome: thank you
JK: yep. luck. part of my diffidence.
scupper: thank you
Dorinda: Happy & Thanks to you!
marcellaqb: thank you. If I had only waited another 5 years it would have been so awesome: "they all laughed when I stepped up to the piano..."
Mission: the itch is back -- i know that one. I wrote briefly in college, knew I had the gift -- then just stopped. human perversity is so perverse. thanks
Barking: thanks (is your name a play on Pynchon?)
Lea: you always say such kind things to me. Thank You. And if Whitman, then from similar biology not imitation. I feel ecstatic, like Thomas Wolfe and Whitman. It embarrasses my teen daughters sometimes. Then again, I absorbed Whitman early, like a true son of the prairie.
Molly: sweetie! my rendering talent is one thing. Notice tho that I include only one completely original thing (the quilt design). You, tho, generate original idiosyncratic visual work every time. You live and work in that vein. Realism is a flashy skill.
You inspire me, too.
Duane: i dunno, slightly impure, and often. but thanks!
rita: o gee! wonderful You! thanks
Owl: damn. I know. Mr. Joe Artist. admire him, loathe him. THAT is part of my diffidence too. I could always elevate myself in an instant by playing the "look what I can do" card. I got bored. what do i do that is the whole of me, a whole skill, hard won? writing.
think: thanks! (and love your most recent sex every day post. Made me...wistful.)
I was really captivated by the quilt design, thanks for sharing these.
Came across a psycholocical compendium wherein a defintion of glossolalia appeared, felt clinically identified, and so lost interest in collating and compiling the ramblings in a form resembling coherency.
But to handle a box of pastels and a 4b such as this is most admirable. Perhaps you'll share more.
R
I'll definitely see that my son sees this.
My son attended Md. Institute College of Art.
Then, he got into Cornell as a token small farmer.
He once painted colorfully a 'block' on a dorm wall.
Michael did one panting that spread across 3 rooms.
That painting was photographed at Cornell University.
The painting is beautiful:`
a plow mule is being led pass fields on a narrow path that forks,
one path is old time agriculture - when everyone farmed without toxic herbicides,
and pesticides,
a NO GMOs era.
My how the world has changed because of greed,
monoculture, and QUACK tech eras. How pathetic.
You and Michael should meet?
The art on the wall at Cornell?
Old urban culture vs. GREED?
I Hope the 24 ft. X 8 ft. est. is still there.
It was panted in `Environmental dorm?
I think that's the right dormitory name.
He also was drawling plants in detail.
I was/am amazed at Michael's talent.
He thinks anyone can draw. I say`No.
I write a letter with my own hand and the receiver sends the hand scribbled (scratched) letter back and request:`Please type. Please Ask C.K. Haven to be your typist? Your letter (I am informed) is very illegible.
I can't draw.
He says it's just attention to detail. Anyway, I'm rambling and tooting horns.
You draw beauty!
I could not even draw a naked woman? I did photograph one a long while ago. Wow!
I have hundreds!
I mean ONE portfolio.
One of a beautiful woman.
She was curious:` how she did appear.
You make me go back to admire photos.
`
I must stop chatting. Yak. Yap. Babble. Ay!
`
I was onna mention (Louis) Leonardo da Vinci.
I think his drawings ref:`airplanes, plants/botany etc.,
and the human circulatory system etc., is in Baltimore.
I heard the end of a radio broadcast. If that true. Great.
All I'm saying is - It's wise to slow down and see details.
Oh, Irony -
Great Gifts.
True artist.
So ignored.
My son has No time to draw.
Those Gifts take new forms.
He doodles to calm his soul.
Ya bring sanity in wild days.
Tend natural environments.
tend a art of commonplaces.
Wendell Berry has a book:`
'the art of the commonplace'
It's a gathering of 21 essays.
apology to toot Ya's talents?
No.
Let another praise your Gift.
Yes.
But Not our own ill 'prides' -
These art 'pieces' inspire.
I'll google ref:`da Vinci.
He drew the submarine.
Balto city has good Deli's.
I feel like peanut butter.
It's gonna Be a wild day.
Dill pickle chopped rye.
Peanut butter and dills.
Honest Yummy Yippee.
Thanks for sharing art.
O ay enjoyable venting.