And now na coś kompletnie innego

Starting teaching life-drawing classes at the Art Center soon. Better start drawing myself. A few glasses of wine and a trip to the bathroom mirror. Do get to know me. Click on the image below:

Jak pozbyć sie tych kilku osób, które od czsu do czasu czytają ten blog: zmienić popularny, międzynarodowy język na coś przerażarającego, nieznanego, obcego. Albo(r), lepiej still/better nieruchomo: Ponglish.

Art Camp

Last few weeks I spent with Lizzie in Los Alamos teaching animation to children at Art Camp. Delightful children:

Made a mass of video, still sitting in the laptop hard-drive, some on DVD, some clogging other portable chips; soon, very soon, we'll put it on one big disk, edit a "best-of" and post that online. The kids all have their own material on DVDs, which we gave them.

Taliban

Don't seem to get too many significant images of the Taliban. Once, some time ago, I read a quote from a seemingly Sandhurst trained Pakistani officer referring to "those Taliban chaps". That for a while formed a picture in my mind, false no doubt, of "them". The image above I find confusing. The warriors look like gentle girls, they have a stash of unfermented apple juice disguised as rockets in the back of their Ford pickup, what look like rifles in their hands are actually native Afghan musical instruments, and the organic produce for their barbecue outing is sitting in a cooler in the cab. The truck is provided by the US Army (that, apparently, is true, even if not entirely intentional).

Reflect!

Look at all these posts -- and still no Reflections on the Process of Making Art.
I hurl myself through dark canyons and across awesome calderas to get over to the right side of this infestation of sierras, but! by the time to I open the studio door there is always something, something, something  wrong, something not quite right, something off...
I do paint, you know.  Well, alllmost every night. Very, very gradually, good things are happening in the last piece that I am working on, but stzooooo part time!
Yes! There are many factors that determine that the most essential issues in life are not dealt with and that stupid, diversionary piddle gets top billing. Oooooh! It's so hot in hot in here (a blast of 126*F air hits me as I pull open the door), perhaps I'll take my shirt off -- still don't look like a very skinny Pablo Picasso -- the brush! my favorite and most true brush, all stiff and twisted -- can it be rescued? The blue, the fucking blue. Prussian,. Shall I keep adding the dark, cheap (Hobby Lobby Art Supply shelves -- look! Prussian Blue. $10.00. Big tube. Winton? Who cares. That will take care of the whole surface. Get it! Buy it! I must! Yes ! Get two! Prussian Blue lust! Ultramarine! yes! Get that too! Cobalt! Yes! Haven't had Cobalt for months! Years perhaps! maybe never had much real Cobalt of my own ever before <---- stupid color, who needs it.)  blue. Violet. Never consciously bought Violet before. I wish I had some
Sent out a few probes recently -- one art center, one gallery. No one replied. What shall I  do? Second time in the last decade that I have approached anyone. Am I getting a bit too pushy? Should I get a grip on myself?

LA 2

No. I must admit that I adjusted some of the detail in the previous post.
He was not a Russian postdoctoral Physicist driving a classic convertible Mustang with a shock of blond hair bobbing as he decelerated before the pedestrian crossing.  She was not a ravishing East Asian beauty, immersed in deep contemplation. The sad truth is that he, Soviet not Russian, long lost and forgotten sleeper planted but never to be activated (the Evil Empire is gone, remember?), was driving a very old Subaru with the duct tape holding the plastic sheeting in the windows deteriorated to the point where a lot of fresh air was entering the cab. His toupee (blond, that much is true) slipped forward, causing him to wince which might have looked like he was smiling. She, standing anxiously at the crossing was in a hurry to get back to her post as the cashier (service representative) at the Chevron convenience store. Columbian,  with a strong Native American accent to her look, which gave her a slightly Asian air, she, just like him, did attend ESL classes where they met five times each week over the last decade or so, but neither ever learned enough English to hold anything resembling a normal conversation in the language, and thus never had a chance to express a longing for a deeper relationship with each other. More about all that another time.

LA 1

This morning...Los Alamos.

Came down NM Rt 4 on the East facing side of the Jemez Mountains unobstructed by early weekenders, unharassed by crazed scientists late for their sessions with the still unheard of and lurking beyond our wildest dreams New Weapons of Mass Destruction.

Nice start to the day.

Los Alamos: not just a bomb factory.

Obedient, compliant, I allowed my eyes a casual mingle with the gaze from the guard in the check-point booth. Skim past the Lab, rattle down the bridge, linger at the always-red lights, hang a right -- its downtown.

In the park on a bench by the pond: distinguished looking old man almost reading a newspaper, but really gazing over its edge at well fed ducks and geese pottering around by the fountain. At the edge of the freshly mowed lawn of the park: young couple, in love no doubt, sharing a joke, cuddling while strolling and pushing a state of the arts jogging stroller with a chuckling infant inside, its eyes wide with wonder at the lush, green, and sparkling world around it. On the sidewalk by the pedestrian crossing: beautiful young East Asian woman, stopped, deep in thought, a coffee cup with Home Brew from the nearby Starbucks slowly rising to her lush, receiving lips. On the road approaching the pedestrian crossing: Russian postdoctoral scientist, his shock of blond air bouncing lightly even as his classic convertible Mustang slows before the crossing. Her till now closed eyes open wide in shock and surprise, deep black, blazing. His blue eyes narrow as his face folds into a gentle smile. She smiles back, perhaps they know each other from ESL classes. She crosses, even though she was not planning to.

What a town!

Różnego rodzaje suszy

A bit of a panic these days. Trying to paint, teach animation at Art Camp in Los Alamos, and fend off mundane obligations, all at once. At least I'm not writing stupid short stories and painting stage sets. I miss digging ditches, moving rocks, and tidying the shed.

Two weeks to go.

The monsoon has come early this year. Everything has been hot and dry up until now. A dry spring and a dry early summer. No problem with weeds, very few creatures around, even the hummingbirds aren't annoying me; bees, poor bees, no more bees, nothing to do with the drought though -- even the Carpenter Bees haven't returned this year to make their perfect little holes in our porch posts.