I must confess, I almost mugged a little old lady the other day for her Christmas float of a sweater complete with flashing colored lights. I stood before her, drooling in a sugar cookie coma; I heard the raspy spoken words "my precious" escape from my mouth as I fingered the glittered knit snow people parading around her ample hips.
A client previously commissioned a Haunted Clock for their Halloween decor and liked it so much they requested one for permanent display in their kitchen. This is a more practical version behind glass, measuring about 12 inches across.
The client wanted a different expression so I sent some sketches of possibilities and they chose this mischievous fellow.
I am very pleased with the outcome...I hope the client likes it. Some how he reminds me of Salvador Dali.
Last night, we took a trip to Tower City Mall with friends and their kids to see a fluorescent lime green and pink Santa and some crazy pastel colored elves.
In the forest of slightly nauseating colors and metallic trees, 7 year old Hailey was singing "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...not really" with dramatic emphasis on the "not really". I listened to the kids recite their wish lists to Ol' Dayglo Kris Kringle: the usual cars, trucks, and weapons for the boys; dollies, animals, and kitchen play sets for the girls. I wondered if they really wanted that stuff, or if they are unknowingly force-fed their preferences? The mall had tried so earnestly to redo Christmas here, give it a fresh look, a new wacky colorized futuristic version lost on customers so stuck in the past in every way...even in our traditional roles as boys and girls. Because we feel safety in tradition, because we are terrified of change. But, if you are a clever child, you find the loopholes in these rigid attitudes of gender assignment.
When I was a kid, it was perfectly fine to ask for G.I. Joes, those seemingly positive role models of the idealized American hero. They were dolls but they were used to enact war scenarios, so it was still "butch" and allowed. I had several and kept them impeccably uniformed, with weapons at the ready when in public. But in the privacy of my bedroom they would shed their boring uniforms, put on their toilet paper hats I had made, and join me for an impromptu nude tea party. Don't ask, don't tell was our policy. It was the 70's after all and alternative lifestyles were in vogue. The Universe threw me a double whammy bone with Mego's Planet of the Apes action figures. I was able to request not only dolls but cute animals too!
This is the set that was waiting under the tree that morning...still in perfect condition. They not only got to keep their amazing clothing on most of the time, but had me in an ape costume as well (supplied by Mom). Even better, a serious playdate with the apes involved wearing the costume, a chimp mask with a WIG, fur glued to my hands, and...drum role please...permission to paint my fingernails black in the name of authenticity. Who cared if the world had been annihilated by nuclear war and apes had evolved to take the place of man...we looked Fabulous! It's 30 some years later now, and I still look for the loopholes. I'm an artist, a perfectly respectable career for a man, but I still spend time with a doll every now and then. Not playing with them so much, but making them. You can call them art figures, sculptural human representations, historic portrait effigies, whatever makes you feel comfortable...but they are dolls. In the spirit of retelling Christmas and blurring those darn gender boundaries, here is a clip from Mark Morris' version of the Nutcracker, with the graceful "ballerinas" being men and women. BRAVI!
I like the look of vintage advertising. I have a small collection of it. But my question is always: was the general public really this weird 60 years ago or just the hacks that wrote this cornball text?
Fellow blogger Linda Fleming found my post about Lakeview Cemetery worthy of an award. I am thankful for the thoughtful gesture, but here we are...dreaded "Kreativ Blogger Award"...face to face. If you know me at all, it won't surprise you that the cute gingham and cheery roses make me vomit a little bit in my mouth. And the hokey down home spelling of creative irks me to the core. It's like a Kountry Kraft Jamboree! The award also saddles you with an equally irksome set of rules like one of those damnable chain letters. It all seemed like so much work, not really like an award at all. I decided there had to be more to the story.
After a lot of research and running sentences through online translators, the mystery is revealed. Just like a big online game of 'telephone' the original version is very different than the award I was handed. The creator is a blogger named Hulda Husfruas. She is Norwegian and in her language creative is spelled kreativ. Here is her original blog post showing the creation of the award, all pieces of fabric that she lovingly laid out on her table top. If you poke around her blog and see pictures of her quaint lakeside cottage, the gingham and roses make more sense. In her text, there is nothing about divulging seven secrets about yourself or passing it along to seven more people. She originally gave the award to four of her friends whose blogs she enjoyed. Her only stipulation for passing it on was that you explain why you think the recipient is worthy. She doesn't say it, but I suppose the polite thing would be to link back to the person who gave it to you.
That's it...end of story. Much more of a welcomed award than a boulder around your neck. So now I am restoring the rules that Hulda intended and passing it to Haunted Tiki Island for sheer creativity in my most favorite genre...Halloween. Have you ever seen a tropical Halloween display with head hunters and a glowing volcano? Hands down winner in my book and all he has to do is pass it on if he chooses to...or not.
It is an odd sensation when you look back at some events in your seemingly little life and realize that they are quite extraordinary indeed. I was always "art boy" in school, it was my thing, it's what I did. Danny Rosenburg was known for how many boogers he could eat in a single sitting. Cindy Manning for how many boys she had French kissed by the 4th grade. And I was known for the stuff I could make. Any art contest...sign me up! Any art challenge...I was there for the smack down! I was extremely shy unless it had to do with art...where (in my own mind) I was king of the world!
In 1973, Diorama contests were all the rage. Kids were making planets from Styrofoam balls and hanging them in black shoe boxes with little silver gummed stars all across this great nation of ours. So when I saw a sign-up sheet on the library bulletin board, I marched my little burgundy-corduroy-bell-bottomed-self right up there and proudly scrawled my signature. The rules were simple: create a diorama from your favorite book you read that year. No Problemo. The obvious choice was "Where The Red Fern Grows" which I had just finished with a tearful classroom declaration that it was the best novel written to date! (applause, applause) This insightful and dramatic book review was challenged with taunts of: "Fag", "Book Fag", "Book Worm Fag", ad nauseam. Those boring bullies had pea brains, that was the extent of their wit. So holding firm to my opinion, and with shoe box and white glue in hand, I translated my emotion into reality: a small midnight scene of the old wood mill complete with two clay dogs and a small (yet dashing) boy/leading man. I won First Place!
My Prize was a private lunch at an Irvine California pizza parlor with the children's author Roald Dahl, a freakishly tall and scary man. At the age of ten I felt my bowels go icy in a very adult way when I realized that I should have done his book. The sequel "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator" had been released the year before, and it was what all the other kids were reading. I always tried to be different, not one of the Lemmings...thank you very much. I was dropped off by my chauffeur (MOM), And when I sat down for lunch I exploded with apologies as to why I had not had the time to read his current novel and that "Where the Red Fern Grows" had soooo moved me that I was taking a break from literature. He seemed a little shocked, as if there was some miscommunication with his secretary, and needed me to clear it all up. "So...You Have Not Read My Book"? no sir "HAVE YOU READ ANY OF MY BOOKS?" yes sir "YOUR DIORAMA WAS NOT ABOUT MY BOOK?" no sir, where the red fern grows...sir "OH...That is a good book too". At this point I was wiping sweat off my forehead...when Roald Dahl confided " I am not very good at conversing with children, I have some, and I write for them, but I find it tedious". I have always remembered that word...tedious...it's one of my favorite put-downs. I watched him as he was fancily looping some mozzarella around his finger and landing it on his outstretched tongue with a sidewards glance. Very much as Willy Wonka Himself. And despite being a real curmudgeon...I warmed up to him. I admitted from the start that I was not to be confused with most boys...I had an artist's soul and thus an appreciation for life through an artist's eyes. He concurred as he gobbled up most of the pizza. He told me that it was a "wondrous" thing to be an artist and that I should hold steadfast to my creativity...least the EVIL forces strip it away, and depending upon your class..it will either be easy or it will be a struggle. It was all so dramatically British, but I got the gist of it. He was as creative as his history would allow him to be. He presented me with hardcover volumes of his written works that were all personally autographed beforehand (then I read "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator" and enjoyed it very much). As I said my goodbyes, Roald Dahl was busy inscribing one last book from his satchel as our time was almost gone: a hardcover copy of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland". He handed it to me and said, "I have learned much from this book, I hope you enjoy it"... I did. I remembered it much later when I was sitting on the steps of Grace Slick's old mansion on Golden Gate Park. I had eaten "some kind of mushroom" with my dorm friends... and realized, this is the life I have made for myself. My own personal diorama. It's pretty Cool.
It's addictive...I freely admit it. All that butter and cream (yum). I have always made it a goal to cook a healthy diet but that big blue cookbook keeps calling. I used to be a real veggie chef, but now I see some lovely Russian Red Kale at Whole Foods and think "that's good for my body, I should buy it"...then it sits in the crisper bin until it becomes a colorful garnish to a French meal of Quenelles (simmered fish dumplings in a rich cream sauce)
My "pre-Julia self" would have had that kale steamed over brown rice with just a minuscule pinch of salt for flavor. Boring. It's all about those French sauces now, like sauce "supreme" (my loose version with wild garlic and Madeira wine that tasted like Lobster) which topped the Quenelles
and pate a choux (which is cream puff filling; either dessert sweet with sugar /or savory with salt and pepper and a pinch of nutmeg) a basic beschemel with eggs whipped in to increase volume. Julia says you MUST master the sauces. Some of this went into the fish dumplings. And then there was the Holy Grail of dishes, Boeuf Bourguignon with roasted potatoes...culinary excellence on a mere fiesta ware plate! Mon Dieu, was that good.
And the very basic but delicious soup: Potage Parmentier (Onion and Potato Soup)
And one of the handful of veggies Julia embraces: Fonds D'Artichauts au Beurre ( Artichokes braised in buttery lemon sauce) which I finished with more butter and a white wine and lemon juice reduction.
My poor stove has been getting quite a workout. We paid a repair man last week.
The last vintage Jack O'Lantern has been boxed away and I have that familiar old feeling...All Hallows Blues. Most people just won't feel this way for another 2 months, when they pack away all that Jesus stuff that they covet. But this was always my most favorite time of year and now it is done...as all of our lovely trees are finished...and our growing season is through. I know it is the inescapable cycle of life but it still makes me melancholy.
I am a self admitted Halloween Freak...with a capital F. But I just don't get all this blood and guts-slasher-stalker-psycho stuff that has slowly emerged to the forefront of our beloved holiday over the past 3 decades. Maybe I was just born way too late, Or maybe I am just an old Halloween prude, but this is much more my speed: A clip from MGM's classic "Meet Me In St Louis" that I edited and uploaded. It's all about Halloween night and being "the most horrible"! Boo! Here's some flour in your face!
I have been a professional artist since the age of seventeen and have executed work in every medium imaginable. My paintings have hung in galleries, my sculptures have been published in books, my characters have been on TV, my interior decorations have been in magazines.
Halloween has always been my favorite Holiday, providing inspiration for some of my work.
All personal images and work are property of the artist and may not be reproduced or used without permission.
This is the set that was waiting under the tree that morning...still in perfect condition. They not only got to keep their amazing clothing on most of the time, but had me in an ape costume as well (supplied by Mom). Even better, a serious playdate with the apes involved wearing the costume, a chimp mask with a WIG, fur glued to my hands, and...drum role please...permission to paint my fingernails black in the name of authenticity. Who cared if the world had been annihilated by nuclear war and apes had evolved to take the place of man...we looked Fabulous!
In 1973, Diorama contests were all the rage. Kids were making planets from Styrofoam balls and hanging them in black shoe boxes with little silver gummed stars all across this great nation of ours.
My Prize was a private lunch at an Irvine California pizza parlor with the children's author Roald Dahl, a freakishly tall and scary man. At the age of ten I felt my bowels go icy in a very adult way when I realized that I should have done his book. The sequel "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator" had been released the year before, and it was what all the other kids were reading. I always tried to be different, not one of the Lemmings...thank you very much.
