Some three hour paintings.

oil on canvas, 12 x 16. 2008

I started taking a painting class at the Art Students' League in New York this past month; as of today, two of the paintings have even dried. I'm plugging away at a picture book deadline till May, and thought I could use a visit back to the land of fundamentals with some intense observation and improvisation thrown in for good measure. Hopefully this will help keep the studio paintings from looking too stale as I dig in further.

Daylight savings time.

pencil and gouache on paper, 12" x 14.5", 2008

Surrounded by my studio detritus,
sitting on the futon
—that particularly uncomfortable,
and maybe even evil—
futon that her sister had given us
the first month we were married,
she was kind enough to sit for a drawing.
So she sat reading
bleary eyed for close to an hour
growing perhaps
smarter with each minute,
each word,
each chapter, sub-chapter,
footnote and sidebar,
while I sat across from her
in an old office chair
wired together with a coat hanger,
face, hands and clothes
smudged with silvery graphite and overpriced paint,
squinting to find the line between
the candid light on her cheekbones
and that funny look she gets
when she's thinking,
carried off somewhere
miles from the futon
–so miserly with the comfort it lends–
and the stacks of tape,
paper,
bubble wrap,
and crinkled, forgotten photos and doodles
that adorn each horizontal surface
around her now.
Outside the wind blows loudly through our stringy maples,
the lights flicker
and a chill drifts slowly through the seams
of the old house,
the one that we never quite finished
before the boys were born.
There are two boys now, fitfully asleep,
and I really must hurry–
a few more dabs of white,
and not so pretty
that she'll become skeptical.

6 am comes early tomorrow.

The Missus.

pencil and gouache, 12" x 18", 2008

Portrait sketch...almost

I was working with a high school student on a self-portrait project and did this little drawing of her in her sketchbook, demonstrating certain landmarks of human physiology and how they can sit in perspective. It almost looked like her, which was a plus. I don't usually do demos that require this kind of accuracy, as failing miserably at them can really muddy whatever point was to be made.


I made a photocopy of it and brought it home where I produced the following small oil painting from it.

It still almost looks like her.

It's Flat File Friday!

Some development work from several back burner proects I haven't quite gotten off the ground yet...

A Sketch of Andy.

My older brother.

Hooray! It's Spunky Old Broads Day.

oil on paper, 8"x10"

It wasn't the 1950 Vincent she rode
that Burt found enticing.
It wasn't the leather chaps
or the jacket
or the way she kept her silver curls
twisted up under her violet half helmet.
It wasn't even the women's penitentiary
teardrop tattoo,
Prussian blue bleeding into her crow's feet.
It was the lace and needlepoint
flowered seat cushion
puffy and downy white
perched on top
of her chrome and black chariot.
Had she made that?
Did the prison tat
and all that ebonized cowhide
conceal a softer,
even grandmotherly soul
with gentle hands
and a homey, suburban
decorative streak?

He revved his Viking
and pulled out of the rest stop.
The sky was a gleaming white
and overhead
a circle of turkey buzzards
clung gallantly to gusts of wind.

As for the seat cushion,
she'd probably
just pilfered it
from a newly deceased
cell mate.