Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
New Art is Coming
New editions have come to the studio: gilt, old books, jewelry wire, and a sewing machine. 28 years of flat painting have evolved into a new creation.
2010 is going to be a massive year for the new Jay.
Joyce's baby bird is finally leaving the nest.
2010 is going to be a massive year for the new Jay.
Joyce's baby bird is finally leaving the nest.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Bells
The American Baptist church I grew up in was given a set of English handbells in the early 1980s. My mother and I joined the choirs; adult and junior, respectively. I played the bells for many years from around the 5th grade through college. If my memory serves me correctly, I last played bells in 1992.
My mother played bells for the last time this past Spring at a festival in March. She discovered her cancer a couple of weeks later, and was gone by mid-June.
3 weeks ago, the subject of playing bells was brought up at a meeting concerning music at Broadway United Methodist Church. The next day, the music director asked me to join the bell choir and I accepted his invitation. I believe Mom is proud of this, and I'm sure she'll tell me some day.
Yesterday was our first performance and I had only been able to make it to one practice. It went very well, despite the fact that it was a very difficult piece of music requiring techniques I had long forgotten. I could tell Mom was there counting in our ears and telling us to relax. My friend Doug came up to me after the service and gave me a big bear-hug saying, "Your mother was here today Jay, and I think she brought some angels with her." This meant a lot coming from Doug since he sang at her funeral in June.
I love the sound of bells, and I rejoice in the fact that I'm carrying on Mom's legacy and putting music back into my life.
My mother played bells for the last time this past Spring at a festival in March. She discovered her cancer a couple of weeks later, and was gone by mid-June.
3 weeks ago, the subject of playing bells was brought up at a meeting concerning music at Broadway United Methodist Church. The next day, the music director asked me to join the bell choir and I accepted his invitation. I believe Mom is proud of this, and I'm sure she'll tell me some day.
Yesterday was our first performance and I had only been able to make it to one practice. It went very well, despite the fact that it was a very difficult piece of music requiring techniques I had long forgotten. I could tell Mom was there counting in our ears and telling us to relax. My friend Doug came up to me after the service and gave me a big bear-hug saying, "Your mother was here today Jay, and I think she brought some angels with her." This meant a lot coming from Doug since he sang at her funeral in June.
I love the sound of bells, and I rejoice in the fact that I'm carrying on Mom's legacy and putting music back into my life.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Billy
This is a test image for a huge series of work based upon my friend Billy from Chicago. He's been quite the muse for me the past few months, and I know that drawing and painting him will be good therapy for my hurt soul.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
July
I've never cared for this month. Summer is not my season, but I'm learning to like it more and more.
With my mother's illness and death, I can officially declare that a long chapter of my life is over.
A new chapter is starting and I await the Universe's first words.
With my mother's illness and death, I can officially declare that a long chapter of my life is over.
A new chapter is starting and I await the Universe's first words.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
It's a Fine Day
It’s a fine day.
People open windows.
They leave their houses.
Just for a short walk.
They walk by the garden.
They look at the sky.
It’s going to be a fine night tonight.
It’s going to be a fine day tomorrow...
--Miss Jane 1992 UK
People open windows.
They leave their houses.
Just for a short walk.
They walk by the garden.
They look at the sky.
It’s going to be a fine night tonight.
It’s going to be a fine day tomorrow...
--Miss Jane 1992 UK
Friday, June 26, 2009
Quite a Life.
Margaret Joyce Cook left this Earth at 12:05 p.m. on Tuesday June 16, 2009. I was holding her left hand and taking her pulse with my right. She lived exactly nine weeks after being diagnosed.
I'm still getting used to the idea of her having cancer. What happened last week hasn't sunk in yet. I don't believe it.
But I know one thing: life has forever changed.
I'm still getting used to the idea of her having cancer. What happened last week hasn't sunk in yet. I don't believe it.
But I know one thing: life has forever changed.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The End of the Beginning.
Mom is broken beyond repair. The cancer is spreading like fire through her body. There is nothing more science can do; in her case, and like so many others, the cure is worse than the cancer. The chemo needed to stop this cancer would kill her much faster than the cancer.
I will soon enter a new age. An age marked by the single most important person in my life leaving her physical form and joining the universe. I'm frightened, and yet excited.
This is real point where you're pushed out of the nest. Like my mother's energy, I must learn to fly away from the present. I must join the future.
I will soon enter a new age. An age marked by the single most important person in my life leaving her physical form and joining the universe. I'm frightened, and yet excited.
This is real point where you're pushed out of the nest. Like my mother's energy, I must learn to fly away from the present. I must join the future.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Mother
Joyce is fighting a hard battle. Each day brings new challenges. It saddens me to know that her type of cancer is so poorly researched because it isn't attached to her breasts. How sick and sexist of our society to be physically subjective when it comes to matters of life and death.
I dream of a new world where every cancer is fought with equal vigor, and where certain cancers are not celebrated with fund-wasting parades that seemingly mock those fighting outside of the spotlight.
10% of women may get some form of breast cancer, but HALF of all women will battle some form of cardiovascular disease. Where's the parade for that?
I dream of a new world where every cancer is fought with equal vigor, and where certain cancers are not celebrated with fund-wasting parades that seemingly mock those fighting outside of the spotlight.
10% of women may get some form of breast cancer, but HALF of all women will battle some form of cardiovascular disease. Where's the parade for that?
Friday, April 24, 2009
Celebrating 67 Years.
Today my mother is celebrating 67 amazing years. Despite the recent news, she's in good spirits and ready to live. That's right, LIVE. Being alive isn't about decades or time, it's about being in the moment, and we all need to remember that.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Margaret
Her voice is full of fear. She's already in pain. I've answered the call and have cleared my calendar through the end of May. Our long-anticipated road-trip to New Mexico and Arizona is still on the schedule, but we've warned our friends that the trip could be called off at a moment's notice.
Cancer is a force of nature. Every species battles it. We're losing that battle in so many ways. We've poisoned our own wells. No other species has done that. Yet, we battle on against the odds.
In those battles are our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, partners and babies. We will join this battle whether we want to or not.
Tonight, I can only focus on one warrior: one woman among millions who finds her body invaded by her own cells gone mad. My mother and my friend. Fight hard, Margaret. I've got your back.
Cancer is a force of nature. Every species battles it. We're losing that battle in so many ways. We've poisoned our own wells. No other species has done that. Yet, we battle on against the odds.
In those battles are our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, partners and babies. We will join this battle whether we want to or not.
Tonight, I can only focus on one warrior: one woman among millions who finds her body invaded by her own cells gone mad. My mother and my friend. Fight hard, Margaret. I've got your back.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Cancer Plague
Today this plague hit my family, specifically my mother. Her liver and pancreas are spotted with it, and she's in a bit of pain.
I hate cancer; I deplore it; I loathe it. And sadly, if we avoid accident or injury, most of us will die from it, and in increasing numbers.
Cancers are not accidents. We pass them from one generation to the next, and we get them from the thousands of chemicals we've created. We live in a toxic soup.
Cures and better treatments are coming, but the number of toxins smothering this world is staggering and mind-numbing. It's going to be an uphill battle.
Cancer is a curse, and something we must live with as long as we continue to pass this plague from one generation to the next, and put convenience and shine above health and longevity.
I hate cancer; I deplore it; I loathe it. And sadly, if we avoid accident or injury, most of us will die from it, and in increasing numbers.
Cancers are not accidents. We pass them from one generation to the next, and we get them from the thousands of chemicals we've created. We live in a toxic soup.
Cures and better treatments are coming, but the number of toxins smothering this world is staggering and mind-numbing. It's going to be an uphill battle.
Cancer is a curse, and something we must live with as long as we continue to pass this plague from one generation to the next, and put convenience and shine above health and longevity.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Ramblings
Many people I know are in a tizzy about Easter: stations of the cross, endless vigils and dinners and foot washings and...
Many are also fretting over Seder.
For me, this is just another borrowed season from our far more ancient past. Traditions stamped on top of prehistoric rituals and observations. No one knows or can agree on how long Christ stayed in his tomb or how much blood to put on your door frames, but no one disputes the pagan origins of observing eggs and rabbits, or the sprouting of blossoms and buds.
I abhor pastels and "baby" colors. I prefer the bold and bright, not the faded and the pale. Commit to something, even color. For example, if you're going to have pink, make it a shocking pink, not the washed out hues of a poorly dyed egg or a piece of candy. This dislike of pastels goes to the root of my dislike of the particular time in the Judeo-Christian calendar.
People swath themselves in pale colors and talk of sacrifice, but they don't commit like they do during the winter holidays; days covered in dark reds, greens, and blues. You never hear talk of caring for the poor in March or April. No one gives Easter Baskets to needy families; baskets full of food and clothing like the boxes people trip over themselves to get out during Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule.
Foot washing during Easter is all the rage these days, and yes, it does show compassion. But a suggestion for the foot washers: followup up this act of humility with a tangible gift for those you serve. Food. Clothing. Rent. Medical assistance. Counseling. Something more than touching a foot.
Look into the dark heart of winter for the way to observe the pale lights of spring. Do more than just share a cup of blood and wash a dirty foot. Get to the root of the pain and find a way to end it. God is in the mercy, not baskets of candy or tables filled with prescriptive food.
Many are also fretting over Seder.
For me, this is just another borrowed season from our far more ancient past. Traditions stamped on top of prehistoric rituals and observations. No one knows or can agree on how long Christ stayed in his tomb or how much blood to put on your door frames, but no one disputes the pagan origins of observing eggs and rabbits, or the sprouting of blossoms and buds.
I abhor pastels and "baby" colors. I prefer the bold and bright, not the faded and the pale. Commit to something, even color. For example, if you're going to have pink, make it a shocking pink, not the washed out hues of a poorly dyed egg or a piece of candy. This dislike of pastels goes to the root of my dislike of the particular time in the Judeo-Christian calendar.
People swath themselves in pale colors and talk of sacrifice, but they don't commit like they do during the winter holidays; days covered in dark reds, greens, and blues. You never hear talk of caring for the poor in March or April. No one gives Easter Baskets to needy families; baskets full of food and clothing like the boxes people trip over themselves to get out during Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule.
Foot washing during Easter is all the rage these days, and yes, it does show compassion. But a suggestion for the foot washers: followup up this act of humility with a tangible gift for those you serve. Food. Clothing. Rent. Medical assistance. Counseling. Something more than touching a foot.
Look into the dark heart of winter for the way to observe the pale lights of spring. Do more than just share a cup of blood and wash a dirty foot. Get to the root of the pain and find a way to end it. God is in the mercy, not baskets of candy or tables filled with prescriptive food.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Merman
On my easel, resides a merman. He's haunted me for years, and several weeks ago, I finally started bringing him forth from my thoughts. He is more than siren, and more than song. He's something ancient and powerful beyond words. He has been with me since I was a boy, and he'll be with me when I cross over into the next life.
Lately, as his first layers of paint have dried, he's been telling me to add more hue, more depth. And so I will honor his wishes. He's also conveyed that he has brothers, and so I've decided to bring them forth, as well. They are countless.
His sisters and mother are being brought forth by other hands. My task is to liberate his cadre, his ageless fraternity.
And yes, like the song of his sisters, his call controls me. I am his, utterly and forever.
Lately, as his first layers of paint have dried, he's been telling me to add more hue, more depth. And so I will honor his wishes. He's also conveyed that he has brothers, and so I've decided to bring them forth, as well. They are countless.
His sisters and mother are being brought forth by other hands. My task is to liberate his cadre, his ageless fraternity.
And yes, like the song of his sisters, his call controls me. I am his, utterly and forever.
I don't belong here...
...and perhaps, neither do you. I've long known that I'm residing in the wrong place in time. When I close my eyes, I see the steam from trains, and hear the hum from the cables. I also see the stars morphing into streaks and the vistas on other worlds. I don't belong here. Oh don't get me wrong, I like the toys and most of the entertainments. But having said that, something is missing. I need to explore the past and the future in ways most people can't comprehend. I need to feel the dust of the pyramids on Earth and Mars. I require things for sustenance that 2009 cannot possibly give me.
So what do I do? I have to create these life-giving fuels from the mists and ethers, creating a place in my studio where I can find life.
I belong to time, but not this present.
So what do I do? I have to create these life-giving fuels from the mists and ethers, creating a place in my studio where I can find life.
I belong to time, but not this present.
The Beginning
The thoughts that ramble around and haunt my brain now have a home on what the masses call the "Internet." Here you will be able to glimpse the goings-on in my art studio as I attempt to please my various muses. I will also share my views on the past and future. (The present is immensely boring.) My mind likes to explore the depths and asks far too many questions.
Let the journey begin.
Let the journey begin.
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