Friday, December 13, 2013


20x26.5 Acrylic, red and black string on weathered composition board Emergence

Thursday, December 12, 2013

Spiritual side of Sexuality

The question came up on another blog, would you like to stop being queer if you could. Raised some interesting thoughts. My answer: No. No. And No.

I feel most whole when I feel something closer to a balance of male and female desires. My spiritual center--not as in, bisexual. There's too much of the male side, my body is too much male--and loving men, being able to sexually love men, better keeps that balance.

Sexual desire is pretty complicated. It's more than physical. It's cultural, political (yes! Sex in a patriarchal tyranny is political!), and also, spiritual (not supernatural spiritual...more the the way Freud used the word 'soul' to designate the whole complex of psychic and bodily life). The imbalance of male to female became for me a source of recurrent depression, chronic anxiety, self-loathing. Accepting the female side--giving it more say, more power, made it possible to reclaim something I'd lost in adolescence--the ability to love men.

In that way, my long coming out was part of my spiritual growth, and even, I think it's not too much to say-- a product of that growth. A process that is far from finished. So, no, I wouldn't want to give that up for anything. The journey is far from over.

Of all the thought I've given to writing and rewriting the narrative, trying to understand and explain the long years in between, this brief reflection rings more true to me than anything I've come up with yet.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

The (rich) Noah's Arc Syndrome

It's the part in Hedge's piece about the belief of the rich that their wealth will insulate them from coming disasters that I see as more and more, a driving force in the funding of climate denial, the marginalization of the poor and everyone else, the militarization of police. This is sub-rational. A collection of ideas and beliefs and attitudes that coalesce into an unarticulated political agenda. The Noah's Arc syndrome. I've been watching this happen for decades!

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Social Life of Genes

There is so much amazing stuff in this ariticle, I have to post a link.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

#218 Atmospheric

24x22" Acrylic on composition board

Friday, October 25, 2013


Self-Portrait 30.5x26 Acrylic on Massonite

Monday, October 21, 2013


24x18, Acrylic on canvas

Living in Imagination

But are these powers real? you ask. Real, as imagination is real, as the world opens to us, yes, and we live within our wonder. Within—not outside examining, measuring, weighing from the cyclic year of endless drought, but timeless, or timeleaping making memories, our lives out of dreams—outing our dreams and finding them in things, the things we make and do: in poems, in art, in the work of our bodies. Now and then it happens, and we don’t know what it is that has happened—a feather and a sash on a walking stick becomes or was both dream and waking action, know it by how it persists, endures, the dream that comes again changing forms, begging recognition, understanding… not in explanation or translation (so called, interpretation), but in following where it leads.

I lay a piece of rusted metal on a table beside a shard of glass, a few can tabs, crushed bottle caps, a piece of weathered wood. Move them until they fall into a dance and dance themselves into place. There is the dream and in it the answer to the question I’d forgotten to ask. It told me, I could say (if you let me speak dream speak) -- it told me that this branch, my walking stick, had power, power to lead, but it was only in the dream that I heard, the dream I thought I’d forgotten on waking. But I felt it. I said it in my own voice. This stick has power.

It was beautiful.

I found ribbons, string, pieces of wire—found them on the street. I picked them up and tied them to my stick. And feathers. And leaves. Can tabs. An earring a woman gave me past midnight at the Berks Street EL station, a bell from a poet.

I carried it, self-conscious at first, this strange thing in my hand, walking beside me, and knew inhibition to be a thing imported, not part of me, that inhibition was a not prohibition, but the feeling of resistance when you begin to push open a door that has been long sealed. Push… push through, and on the other side, you find yourself saying, that if I were to see a feathered earring in a window, I’d go in that store and have my ears pierced so I could wear it. And that happened! A small thing, you say—but it wasn’t. It was another door to another world. Or rather, the piercing of an invisible membrane , and the dreams came leaking out into the waking world.

Nevermind what anyone might think. And I hung poems on a dead tree. And recited them in the SEPTA concourse at 15th Street with my Spirit Stick and earrings, now made of can tabs, and a bowler hat, undoing myself and making myself anew—out of a single feather and a sash. This has power, I said. Can you tell me I am wrong?

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Telling our stories for the next generation

... just read from one of our beloved Oxen, gone to the West Coast... that people had never heard of MOVE. Was there really a bomb? What evidence? It was ON TV!!! this got me thinking...
Think about it... Thousands, many thousands of people saw that on TV... and it becomes a forgotten event, but through oral memory, recounting, reminding. If not archived in some 'official' way... it ceases to exist. Like the Black Panther executions.

Think about this. What we have witnessed. In the Occupy encampments. In the attempt to stop feeding the homeless here in Philly, in so many confrontations. If we don't remember, record, tell the stories... no one will know. No one will believe such things happened. Maybe on Youtube... but for how long will that be accesable? Other than for old TV shows and pop songs? Can't let it all depend on the digital extention of our memories... we have to tell the stories, over and over and over, and give them form, so they can be remembered and repeated. Repetion matters. Neve ever say to an old person,.. oh, we've heard that from you before!... untill you can tell it too, tell it to someone else.... if it's something that matters.
Nothing lasts longer than oral memory.
Not TV
Not YouTube
Not Facebook
Not accademic mongraphs
Not print news
What we carry in our minds and imagination and memories--is everything, and most of what will matter, for future generations.... if and only if, we begin to take that task seriously. To tell our stories, and to shape them... to give them form that will hold them, like vessels of living fire, that will burn them in the souls of those who come after. Else... what have we done with our lives? Because the changes we long for, won't happen in our lifetimes.
This is a hard lesson, in a time when we are divided by generations. To understand, that not only what you believe and do, but how you tell it, how you give it a shape that will endure beyound you... this matters. Else it all come to nothing.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Tortoise tat

This was a significant time. I was in Sante Fe, surrounded by desert and mountains and dreamed of a desert tortoise--one of those dreams charged with feeling, like a message to myself. The desert tortoise lives in burrows, comes out at night. I thought, I've been living underground, and now this is the evening of my life. The sun is setting. It's time to come out of my burrow. Those were my thoughts, and I didn't even connect them to sex! Other than the standard Freudian stuff... in and out of the hole sort of thing.

I'm an artist and poet. I think in images and symbols--and dreams. Sometimes it takes years before I'm able to 'explain' them in prosaic language, but I find, even when I don't know it--I follow those dream images, and the symbols that emerge in my poetry and art (when I say that my Spirit Stick is inhabited by one of my Spirit Guides... it's more than metaphor). That tortoise was one of those symbols. Five months later, having come out--and planning to go to a fall gathering of Radical Faeries, I noticed in reading about one of the first Radical Faeries, Harry Hay... that I had gotten my tortoise tattoo on his birthday--not far from where he had once lived.

If ever I have the money for another tat--it will be a crow on my right arm. Can't tell you why, but the crow and the tortoise belong together in my mind. Maybe when I have that crow on my arm, I will cross my arms, and they will tell me their story.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Coming out ? From what? To what?

I'm so fortunate to be IN a queer safe space. What could be liberation, for so many--is pure terror, internalized. I've been on a web site for those coming out. Have read hundreds of stories.. so many, so many... the internalized victimization is so sad. I really DON'T like this promoted as a day when people SHOULD come out.. .rather, as a day to celebrate--that it's not a curse, it's a gift! A window to see the hetero-normative patriarchal exploitive world for what it is--an inside/outsider's view, that there's a consciousness 'we'... yeah, ... we.. queers, can create together, not just for our own protection, but for everyone. I was playing pool in the EL BAR tonight... 4 or 5 guys came in. No women. Hipster anti-drag. So obvious. I'm asking myself... why? Why such pains to hide... and this has nothing to do with 'coming out.' I'd guess they've all come out long ago. Like black people dressing white sheets. Jews in Nazi regalia. Why does anyone want to blend in and look like the oppreser? More than fear... it's a real desire to BE that very thing that, bottom line, wants you dead! Let's deal with THAT, and where that comes from, and how all this is connected with other forms of oppresion and exploitation. Like, come out--and join the fucking revolution!

Friday, October 11, 2013

Monday, October 7, 2013

Crossing the Street By Myself, Phil Clore. A Review

On Amazon I read this on a front porch in Old Louisville on a rainy afternoon coming down from the fall gathering at Short Mountain. Couldn't remember where I picked it up, or why I choose to pack it as only one of two books to take to the Mountain. It deepened my sense of connection to see that it had been published in Louisville, and that Phil Clore had grown up in Kentucky… but after a 8 days with the Faeries it hardly seemed a surprise. More like, inevitable.

I liked the first few poems... a dozen or so into the book. Appreciated their brevity, their concision, and the more of them I read—the more the depth of the insight and cathartic charge packed into these seemingly tossed-off-the-top of the head observations impressed me. The tension that developed between the manifest form and their latent affective power--brought me to tears more than onc--a terrible confession to make in a review, I know. Stick to the surface stuff stuff you more readily put into words, that you can dissect and translate into critical language—even if, even better if.. it’s alien to the poetry that brought those forms into being. I could see the columnist, Michael A. Lindenberger struggling with that in the excerpt (?) printed as an introduction. Let me say here, that I hope if this should ever see a reprint--that execrable piece of embarrased self-undermining praise, not be a part of it!

I would have to write a much longer review to do justice to this work... to quote and compare early entries (and I think of them as I would entries in a journal), and later ones, where all the ... well, no, I was going to say, all the artifice was stripped away, but it's more that the artifice has become so perfectly matched with the content that you... 'I' ... trembled in appreciation BOTH of the content... some of which touched so closely on my own life I cringed at my own reflective self-realization... and of the CRAFT. It is not easy to write in this almost aphorist, self-reflective mode. Think: Dickinson. You do this (mostly), not by working over individual pieces, but writing and writing and writing failure after almost-but-not-quite, writing and writing.... and moving on to the next. And the next. And the next.

How else to you get face to face pieces (pp 66 and 67, dated with latter printed first), like those of August 10, 1998, and August 4, 1998. The two together are ... devastating. Let me quote

August 10, 1998

at some point
a mature man
puts away his toys
accepts limitations
of his sexual prowess
and realizes he will
never write the greatest
piece of literature
or become president
of anything

thank God
that hasn't happened
to me

August 4, 1998
my therapist

said that at age 52
I had finally
divorced my Mother


I'll date awhile
before rushing into
another relationship

Much of the poignancy here is knowing (by this point) that Clore is Queer (I hope he doesn't object to the word... I HATE the word 'gay'... it reeks of euphemistic apologetic to the hetero-normative world!), so the complexity here is worthy of Dickinson--with her subversive use (and misuse) of her contemporary’s religious notions. So simple in the first instance (really the second, temporally)... but the realization that gave the freedom to that confession, is held captive by the next poem, so you have to go back and read it again thrugh what you've learned from the earlier dated poem. The impossible ideal... which is no ideal at all, but no more than a freely open embrace of the possible, given that "that" ... hasn't happened yet. Beyond and beneath desire, is a loss that can be never be made good. And yet... which made possible such freedom as ever was or could be possible.

I could go on... poem after poem, how he takes a reflection of something 'out there' and invaginates an inward explosion of pathos, which yet, refuses pathos.

March 27,1999

out with a group of
young men last night
even the ugly ones
were pretty
one in particular
showed me attention
I now know
eighty year old women
wear rough.

In the last poem of the poem, he writes,

my little poems
are all grown-up ....

yes they are, yes they are.

You've created a poet... Phil Clore, probably one you only partly inhabit, no matter how you might wish to have it so... who I would have fallen in love with in a minute. Ah… but the poems, if you you, or me, your reader… know the difference. And honor that difference. Where can such love hope to go… but back into poetry? Between desire. And where it comes from. Which these poems are ... no, not 'about,'... they are that. They are that.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013


11.5x28 Rusted cabinet door, weather stained board, copper wire


26x30 weathered electric panel door & composition board, acrylic

Monday, September 23, 2013


Auto door panel, acrylic

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Changing Names with the Clouds

Clouds forming as I watch. This is the first time I’ve ever seen this. A smudge in the blue, an opacity grows into a single small cluster. Forms & reforms in same place in the sky, dissipate, form again.
How much I’ve changed in the last few years. Retiring from teaching was such a release. I feel like a different person. I am a different person. A job freezes identity. This certainly was true for me. Having to perform in a role acceptable to the institution—inhibits change. Finding myself free of that—no longer having to play that role, that same role, day after day, year after year, holding me back. From the day I stopped looking for work, I began to move into a new life—first the poetry. A few months with MMP, the Spirit Stick, the Poem Tree—a series of de-inhibition exercises (reading aloud in Love Park, the subway concourse, carrying the ever more elaborate walking sick, the Urban Pilgrimage poem, getting my ears pierced). Then Occupy Philly and the Ox, a return to visual art.
As an artist & poet, it’s possible to keep changing, growing—& even there, there’s the danger of falling into habit, a pattern to repeat. Hear so much talk about ‘growth” in a culture that inhibits real possibilities of change—sets such limits on what you can grow into.
In taking on a new identity, first you play a role. And in time, the role becomes an identity, but that word is all wrong! While the role is something you put on, a pattern not fully of a piece with who you are yet-- ‘identity’ , what comes after, is fluid, free of the constraints of playing the role, dissolving it, always evolving, elusive & indefinable. Invisible… like a Faerie by day, wings and glitter by night.
What do you want to be? that young man asked at the party in Wichita. I don’t want to be anything, I answered. Fifty years learning what I meant by that. Goby. I think my name will be Goby. You see! I’ve always believed in having different names for different stages of life. As a child,
I was Rusty.
Then Russ/ Russell – formally,
W. Russell Johnson
Then I was Jacob Russell, which became my poet name
& Willard for art—reclaiming my birthname.
For the last chapters—Goby. My Faerie self. … out of the chrysalis.
Cousin caterpillar, takes his changes, easily. … some day, you’ll wake up…with wings

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

OWS 9/17 two years...

Those first days of rain and cops banning one form of shelter after another, as though, they only needed to dampen spirits and everyone'd just go home. Those, I think, were OWS's bravest hours. Wherever the encampments dealt with material conditions, dealt with procuring and preparing food, planning for demos, setting up and organizing space, we saw grow as out of nowhere, a collective energy and creativity that no one could have anticipate, saw awakening in our camps a realization of untapped power that made us, in those first weeks, giddy with love and hope. The general assemblies and commitment to "process," that seemed so important then, looking back, seem to have been more of a distraction, and as they became increasingly divorced from the logistical and material realities we faced, a drain and divisive force. They were about how to govern a new world before the foundation had been laid and before anyone could imagine, in other than abstractions, what that world might look like. We almost let our most impressive efforts, organizing and learning how to feed ourselves and hundreds of the homeless who came to our camps, slip by as though it were merely incidental. Where 'process' mattered, was in the planning for actions, in solving material problems: skills that have continued to be applied, as in Occcupy Sandy, on so many different fronts. What we thought the GA's were for, we did best with no process at all but that of the endless conversations and discussion that went on in those first weeks. Forgive my presumptuous "we," ... but I think it less so than using language of the outsider. How can I say "they" to something I was a part of, whose mistakes I share, along with the intoxication of those moments where my 'I' really did feel like a 'we', that I was a part of something larger and more important than myself or any one of us… and still do, still feel that. “This is for a lifetime,” I remember saying the first day at Occupy Philly, and it was, and is, and I will share a bond of love and dedication and purpose with my beautiful brave flawed comrades of those days to the end of my days. Solidarity/Love/Imagination/Resistance!

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Anarchism must be collectively realized

In a Libetarian perspective, anarchism means: I can do what I want, fuck you. Real anarchism posits, that if we (not just "I") concern ourselves with the real consequences of our actions on others, there will be no need of rules. The key point here, is that our actions are almost never solitary and individual. We do things together, and no exclusively individual perspective does justice to the interconnected world we inhabit. Understanding the consequences of our actions on others, demands both collective reflection, and active participation with, and listening to those outside our communal circles. Anarchism is not a simplification of how we go about decision making, but demands an infinately more complex, nuanced, fluid and creative way of living together in the world.

#209 Happy Homunculus Bursts His Bonds!

Art for perpetual loan. I will not sell my work. Because art should be available to all, not primarily to the moneyed class. Because art should never be allowed to treated as a commodity. Because an artist deserves material support, I am open to and encourage, but do not require, contributions, which can be one time donations, or on-going, to be worked out case by case. Loans are perpetual. I ask only that you pledge never to sell or trade what you take. VIEW ALL POSTED WORK HERE, (scroll down) or make arrangements for a day-time studio tour of my studio. We cannot defeat Capitalism, but we can replace it and make it obsolete.

Monday, September 2, 2013

We Know Everything Before We Know Anyting

Someone visited THIS PAGE I posted in 2008. Four years before I made my return to visual art. More than making art foregrounded here. Like we know everything before we know anything.
Check out newly posted poems on Ryan's blog. Chase scenes. What kinda world where we can't fucking dance in bars. Never could get it straight--whose job it is to do what.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

His Master's Voice: Poetry overrides Philosophy.

Have been thinking about how making visual art again has been part of the process. Feel deeply that it has, but wondering how? So was thinking about last year when I started making things... and drawing. I wanted to reclaim my drawing skills. Did dozens of gesture and contour drawings of this broken plastic dog. Remembering how my thinking shifted to a visual language without words. Like slipping out of one body into another. For a long time, I stopped writing. Couldn't read for more than a few minutes at a time. In a state of rebellion agaist the constraints of word. Then I thought... oh. That dog, that's the RCA dog. "My Master's Voice." Holy shit! There it is... how often I've recited the lines from Blake's Garden of Love, and never applied them to my own life. Yes! What I've been feeling, my heart so filled with love... the emergent power of homoerotic fantasies... the Master Voice overwhelmed by art and masturbation!
I wrote this--thought the thought walking home from Superfresh in the afternoon. Not a drop of wine since the night before. No excuses. It felt like it meant something--that Master's Voice thing. Still does. Only now it comes home that I don't know what. But then, what would it mean if I did? Ok, I'd tell you... tell myself. Here's what it means, and I'd write something else. So what would that mean, but the stuff I was talking about--the Master's Voice. Everything goes in circles when you try to explain. That's why poetry is better than philosophy. Like this is poetry or something, ya know what I mean? "One does not get better because one remembers. One remembers because one gets better" Lacan

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

In a Patriarchal Empire, Sex is POLITICAL!

I had a discussion a few days ago with someone who couldn't accept that sex is political. Some things, he insisted, like sex, are just what they are. Yes, if you're white and straight and never thought what it must be like to stray as an alien across the borders of normativity. How could he not see the relationiship between our outrageous immigration policies, and sexual boundries? That they grow out of the same place--out of our bodies before our minds have invented the words we need to confuse and subvert the truth? I'm okay with being open with what I think, what I feel--but what I've been posting about coming out... has been more conscious, more intentional. I have to push myself... but it's because of that heart rending post, HERE and what it tells about us--about ALL of us, that it seems to me nothing less than a obligation, a personal duty, to explore what this means out in the open. Adding to Sarah Dowling's words --that 'poetry is the discourse of weird people." ... an other step: that if only we can make the world safe for weird people, it will be safe for everyone. And in our glorious diversity, their will be no more weird people... because we will understand, at last... that we all wonderfully weird! And nothing could be better than that! #smashgender See what people are saying about #smashgender

The Gaze

On a recent walk, I started to make a count of survailence cameras. Within a few blocks, I gave up... just too many. Started thinking about The Gaze. Lacan, Faucault... remembered that the 3rd piece of art I made--last year at this time, I called, The Gaze. The frame once held an old photo--of my mother. Her signiture can be seen at the top, signed with her maiden name. All these things came together--that we are made into objects every where we go by those cameras... the images of which remain hidden to us. We are not permitted to see into the mirror, simultaneously turned into Things and erased. Seemed the perfect... not even a metaphor--or symbol, the very reality of our Late Capitalist demise.

Monday, August 26, 2013

#206 Painted maniquin

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Revolutionary Rap on Point Breeze

#204 23x39.5 Acrylic on weathered plywood.

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Rejecting Identity, Resisting the Normative

The problem with narratives as explanations is that they force elements into regimented orders that distort the interaction of time and memory (memory being essentially, timeless), and assemble representations of “identity” patched together out of a multiplicity of unstable positions. It may be fair to say, that that is their purpose, their social role. Every story, then, is an act of violence. I think this is especially true of narratives of self-revelation—which purport to reclaim what has been repressed, healing what had been a conflicted and divided subject. This is typical of the stories we use to fabricate our own identity. I found myself doing exactly this, wondering how to reconcile a life time of socially normative sexual relationships with where I find myself now—openly Queer and gay. It was useful to some degree: rescuing pieces of my childhood and adolescence. But the assumption of a continuity of desire, covered over or denied, is a narrative fabrication. As though I had been playing a role false to my real nature, and only in coming out of this metaphorical closet, did I begin to realize my authentic sexual identity.
Narrative would have us believe that the child is father to the man, when it is more the other way around. This belies the inherent multiplicity of the self, where identity may fasten to and empower one part, in effect, raising it to the level of Self-in-the-world, and then to another, and all of this in constantly evolving flux-- in relation, not simply to our past, but to everything around us.
Narrative selects what is important to generate itself, and excludes whatever seems to weaken profluence and narrative coherence. Applying this to our lives, that which is excluded may well be as. or an even more powerful causative factor than what passes through the filter. In my case, what I had been leaving out was just that. This had little to do with overcoming unconscious censorship. It was rather, a matter of changing the story by connecting what had been discontinuous elements—creating a new constellation, a newly fabricated ‘identity.’ Here, I see the entanglement of narrative-making and identity—an inescapable dependence, such that identity is a form of closure and erasure, an eradication of the multiplicity of a more fully realized life. I want then, to reject the story I’ve been telling myself and broadcasting to others. Identity is an end-stop. A period punctuating an end-stop. For myself, that means writing QUEER in caps, and gay in lower case. I see now how the hundreds of posts I’ve written on my blog, criticizing and attacking representational, ‘realist’ fiction (along with my political radicalization) were as important a part of this process of Queering what I’d thought of as my identity, as reclaiming memories of sexual experiences with boys in my early adolescence. If there is any common thread, it’s been resistance to the Normative and its pressures on multiple fronts. The very definition of “Queer.”

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Missing the Obvious Forever

So much of our lives we discover only in retrospect. Have been going over poems from 2011 to the present. I'd shuffled them away. Didn't like them. Thinking I'd written no more than a dozen in all that time, when there are more like 50 or 60. With two or 3 pretty good ones. Maybe it was coming off a year when I wrote some 300 new poems, writing only 20 or 30 in a year made me think the well might have run dry.
By putting them together, with pages that I had added from my journals, more or less in order, I see now a convergence I've been looking for --for years. the Poem to the End of My Days was a nice conceit. And I put together what I think are 3 strong MSS with that formal arrangement--the thematic Rondos--even if no one has seen fit to publish them. But they were too conceptual for my pogo-stick mind, leaping from this to that. What I needed was a poet's diary.
Duh... 7225 pages since 1988. My journals--like just realizing that this is central to my work? It takes me so long to figure these things out. Why is that that what is most obvious, most eludes us? Like taking almost 60 years to realize, no, these aren't just homoerotic fantasies, perfectly consistent with being hetero (that's what I told myself--if I'd felt the sting of contradiction, I might have considered the possibility that my primary orientation might not be what I told myself it was).
It was the spirit stick that saved me. A transformation that began with a feather and a sash on my Morris Park walking stick. That thing has Big Juju! Maybe only for my mucked up psychic life... but for that, it was my spirit guide. I felt it's power, and I followed where it led. Someone asked me today why I had paint on my cheeks. And I thought of the evolution of spirit stick. I said. I do it because I need to. But why do you need to? Because it satisfies that need. Sometimes, that really IS the explanation.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Creative Deviance!

Reading this article posted by Frances Madeson got me thinking about creative deviance. There's a tendency for Marxists to see all forms of deviance as products of class alienation, thus curable--end capitalism, and viola, we'll be good self-governing workers. Like Xians who want to cure homosexuality. Artists, not all artists, but certainly the one's I most indentify with, are deviants. In the words of Sarah Dowling, "Poetry…” I would expand that to include all the arts “… is the language of weird people." I see at the core of my activism, making the world safe for weird people... who don't need to be cured!

Even in some imagined Marxist workers paradise, creative deviance would be the difference between collective tyranny and repression, and an open, evolving culture. In art, like what Howard Zinn demonstrates in A People's History--it's the outsiders who create the possibility of change, and it’s about more than what we marginalize as ‘art.’ I’m thinking of divisions within LGBT peoples... where non-conformity to sexual norms ceases to be in any meaningful sense, deviance. A room full of gay retirees discussing their checking accounts. Yikes. Those who embrace their Queer are, in their bodies and their being, the creative edge--pushing and creating change, by more than making sexual diversity acceptable, but by pressing to new understandings and definitions of human relationships on the most basic level--that of our sexuality. Creative Deviance--something totally missing in this piece as in any brain-in-a-bottle WordThink that assumes ideas change action, when it’s always the other way around.

Friday, August 9, 2013

#201 "Whose House is This?

" Acrylic over cheesy discount store print. 18x24

I Was a Character in the Wrong Book

Thinking again about Himeji Castle as I rewrite the narrative of my life (my story selected for a reading by Interact Theatre-- a man in mid-life, a father who comes out of the closet). Like revising a novel. These passages were there all along, not repressed, never excised, but scattered without connection, and so, if not invisible, unnoticed. It was their relationship that was repressed. In my reading and writing of the novel-in-progress, and in my life. What we look for in analysis isn’t it? Not fragments of memory or dream—but their significance. Not recovering what we’ve forgotten, but understanding what we’ve known all along by stitching it together. Giving the disparate parts their true significance by revealing—or creating—their network of associations. I was miserable because I had the story wrong. I became a character out of character--who didn't belong in the novel I was writing. Sooner or later, the contradictions will kill you. Start over, or die. What you change isn't your 'self' ... but the story you live in.

Which of course, changes everything.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

There was once a queer little kid...

... and he was well on the path to carrying that into adulthood. But there were things that happened when he was 12 or 13, and I've only recently, day by day, come to see their significance. I have lived in a prison of my own making for six decades. Or was it that kid? While I went on about a life that wasn't mine. But he didn't go away. And he didn't die. He tried so hard to get my attention... the self that had gone on without him. In recent years, he was merciless. He would kidnap my voice--shout curses at me, in my own voice! "You fucking asshole! You pile of shit!" Every morning I'd wake like that, my gut tied in knots. If only I'd listened to what he went on to say... after the words... in the silence. "... your depression, the anxiety--you don't need to drink for that. You don't need pills. Remember me?" he'd say... in the silence. "... remember that queer little kid who got beat up coming home from school? You thought playing football, learning to be 'manly' had got you a new life. No, no, no... it was all wrong. All wrong! Embrace your queer little kid... embrace the queer that you are. That you've always been!" ... I have never felt such peace. I haven't cursed myself since I came out--not once. THe physical anxiety, the turning in my gut, my pounding heart that once landed me the hospital cause I thought I was having a heart attack. Gone. Let me tell you, it's never too late. It's never too late.


29x26 Acrylic on composition board

Sunday, August 4, 2013


#199 Monochrome with De kooning pink. Fabric on canvasboad with acrylic, sparkles and Sante Fe dust

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Out of the Closet

I'm 72. Have been married twice. Two children. 50 years of pretty satisfactory hetero sex. But there's always been something left out--something awakened with news a few months ago of the death of a friend I knew from early childhood. Saw again ten years ago after many years apart (seems not that long ago) in a reunion for his 60's birthday. The news of his death was a blow I could not have anticipated... and woke in me a realization that, not only did I love him... I was in love. We never had sex. The usual early adolescent masturbation sessions... but had we, had he been receptive, I think my whole life might have taken a different turn.
I did have sex with boys... 11 or 12, 13.  years old. Never fully consummated. I wanted. They didn't. This was the early 50's. A different world.
I live in a sort of 'commune' --as sexually diverse as imaginable. Twelve to 20 people living in an old warehouse. So I've listened to people tell their stories... from any orientation you can pin a label on. I know, there are those who KNOW, without doubt or question--one way. Boys who always liked boys. Girls who always liked girls. I was more on the cusp. I was attracted to women, maybe more than I would have been in a world that didn't expect that of me, and driven, I suspect, in no small part by a kind of romantic displacement, but it wasn't false. I wasn't in a closet—not that I knew of.
But those early adolescent experiments, and that I was... secretly, even from myself, in love... profoundly in love with a boy... this never left me.
An activist. An artist. I've started my life over, many times now... like, all my life. And living in a family of wonderfully crazy queer trans radical fairies...and open, accepting straight housemates... made this ever so much easier.
Since hearing of the death of my friend... my never would be lover... my erotic fantasy life has been, obsessively, and persistently homo eroti... oh fuck that. About men. Penises. Touch. Affection--the kind that sex releases and makes possible by erasing the inhibitions. Other than those pre-pubescent cock sucking not quite to finish sessions...I'm a gay virgin. No, I am NOT 'bi-curious' or any of those awful (to me) labels. I want. I desire. Though it only ever live in my fantasy--if the chemistry were right, the person compatible, I so so want this. Again, yes, for the sex. Always for the sex... but for the affection, the touch... all that is made possible... by sex.
I've told people where I live. I left revealing messages on FB. I'm not ashamed or in any way inclined to hide...though it makes me anxious. I mean, like anyone. I want to be accepted. I fear rejection. (Oh, you're not REALLY gay! You haven't experienced the rejection, the... )... and I haven't. I don't want to claim the victimization. I just want the company. And even if I don't find it. I want to be open. Ecorche vif... skinned, if that's what it takes. Look at me. This is what I am. What I have become.
Has anyone at close to my age, gone though this? I’m sure they have. I can’t be unique in this.
Oh... after a late night confession in our kitchen, someone wrote on the chalk board: "Who is to say that you can't come out to your slut phase at 70!" I almost broke into tears...
postscript… two days later, I didn’t wake up cursing myself, my gut in knots from anxiety. I am at peace. Though it sounds strange, to say, I’m gay. I’m queer. It doesn’t feel strange. It feels right.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Ezekiel Rising, short fiction on line

A story I wrote 13 years ago--long before I began making trash art myself. I was amazed when I went over it to proofread, not having read it in years, how precient it was--projecting someting of myself I didn't know existed.    A kind of (not so) shaggy dog story on Long Story Short. Ezekiel Rising 

Door in the Forest. 12x16 wood strips, plastic, bottle cap, acrylic on canvas

Sunday, July 28, 2013

#196 "Whose Garden?"

"Whose Garden?" 28.5x22.5 Acrylic on composition board

Saturday, July 27, 2013


"Where Through the Window Once from Fields Rose the Earth" 24x25. Window frame, cardboard, rusted clothes hangers, thread, acrylic.
I want the material reality to come through with the pieces I work on--and not just the paint. I dislike working on prepared canvas unless I can glue tie or nail stuff on. I love old weathered composition board. It's the material, texture, forms, state of deterioration, that initiates the dialog--gives me something out there in the world to respond to, not just the mess in my head. I mean, really... that's why I make art--to get away from the words and shit clogging my brain.

Friday, July 26, 2013


41x35 Acrylic on composition board
Art for perpetual loan: Beyond bondage to the Market. 
I do not sell my art, The prices on the photos are what I would consider fair compensation, were I do so. Because an artist deserves material support, I am open to and encourage, but do not require, contributions, which can be a one time donation, or on-going, to be worked out case by case.
Art should be available to all, not primarily to the moneyed class. I offer very piece I make as a perpetual loan. All I ask, is that you agree in principle, not to sell or exchange for profit what you take.
For now, you can view some of work HERE, (scroll down) or make arrangements for a day-time studio tour of my studio at the Ox. We cannot defeat Capitalism, but we can replace it and make it obsolete.

We can't go on. We must go on.

When a great and sudden crisis explodes in front of us we rush into action, aid those in need, dig through the ruins, or flee to safety. What we face in this country and world is of a different kind--it keeps happening, every day, every minute, ruining lives, endangering our survival on this planet--a slow motion explosion, devastating, inescapable, and yet, for those the blast wave has not yet reached, they go on with their work, propping up the machinery of death, throwing phosphorus on burning children, building prisons, hunting and murdering black and brown boys on the streets of our cities. How do you respond? I mean, emotionally--the way our bodies are made to respond to a great crisis? It is a war... with days on end when nothing seems to happen near at hand, though you watch the trucks loaded with soldiers pass on the roads, hear the planes over head--waiting for time to suddenly speed up and slow down at once, happening faster than you can react, taking forever for the battle to ebb. We wait. We talk. We make plans... lie to ourselves that we believe, really believe we can stop this Machine of Death, of money and blood. It all right, we tell ourselves--we will go on anyway, pretending to believe, as long as we can act, stand up before onslaught, anything but give up, anything but surrender and join the army of zombies. We tell ourselves, like Didi and Gogo. We can't go on. We must go on.

Monday, July 22, 2013


Monocrome Study. Folded fabric (cut up t-shirt) acrylic on mounting board

We change, and do not change...

Andy’s B-Day surprise at the Ox. 21. … thinking, 52 years. What did I do on mine? Went to a bar—my first legal drink. Alone. In Kansas City, 1962. Spent that summer at my parents. Best I can recal, working as an electrician’s assistant… joined the IEBW. Construction. I hitched a ride home—picked up by a Catholic seminary student. Got into a deep discussion. He seemed a bit surprised that I’d read, and was familiar with stuff he knew from his studies. When we got to my parent’s house, I invited him in. He accepted (Mom and Dad were away for much of the summer—I was there to take care of the house). We talked into the early morning... avoiding what had really brought brought us there. That was the summer I hauled rocks in a wagon to build a natural Missouri indigenous garden in my father’s back yard. My translation of the Japanese gardens—I’d fallen in love with them from photos in books. When you’re 21… it’s all about love. There was another ride home… not sure if it was that birthday, or another time that summer. Or when I drove a cab the following summer… seem to remember I was in the driver’s seat. No… don’t think so. Yes, I was driving, but had picked up my passenger—who, through many circumlocutions, and many apologies lest I should misunderstand—that he was interested in sex. When I declined, he was in such obvious discomfort—full of apologies, hoping there would be no problem… I remember reassuring him. It was okay. I had no problem. I apologized to him—that maybe I’d misled him… that I just thought he wanted a ride. Kind of mutually embarrassing—for all the wrong reasons. We talked. He told me how hard it was—that he was desperate for company and shouldn’t have risked hitchhiking. Had only accepted when I stopped because he felt comfortable with me. Comfortable. Okay… nobody used the word ‘gay’ then. The Seminary student, too—though he didn’t say anything openly. I remember feeling it pretty intensely—I was even aroused, but it seemed only to make us talk all the more around the elephant in the room. All this came to mind. 21st birthday. July 21. My 21’st on June 22, 1962. It was different age… even more dangerous than now. At least, one to one. Maybe not for the world. Pieces of my life keep coming back to me… 72… reconnecting with the 11 and 12 year old I thought I’d left behind.

Saturday, July 20, 2013


Imagined Landscape. 16x23 Acrylic on plywood with three holes


Imagined Landscape. Monochrome Study. Acrylic on boards, with fragment of weathered compositionn board. 10x26.5x3

You Can't Wait till You're Enlightened...

There was this reference to ... what amounted to a bit of junk psychology, something about ... too much wine, can't even remember, like faking it syndrome. It really hit home... how much of my anxiety--physical anxiety, which is chronic and constant, comes from defying that. I want to make art... but to call myself an artist in my mind.. I feel like a fake. But I do it anyway. It took me FORTY YEARS to get to that point, and there's always blowback. Everything I do that means anything to me. Why I don't trust the New Age Feel Good shit... some things.. most things, are way more fucking imporant than feeling good! Especially when those ideas are assimilated from a culture that wants you to be good and obdient slaves. Do the right thing! Even when you wake up in a sweat, wondering what you've done, you'll STILL feel better than if you'd given in. There is no good life without risk... grave, grave risk. You're not going to be able to act if you wait till you're not afraid, like some mythical Buddah living in a cloud above it all. It's gonna hurt. But oh boy... that hurt is the ultimate reward if you got it right.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Every Garden is a Revolution Waiting to Happen

When some signifcant percentage of our food comes from gardens... individual, community, collectives, and we're not near 100% dependent of farms, we'll be way closer to a real revolutioin. Every garden is a seed, real and metaphorical, to a new world. Too few take the revolutionary potential of the garden seriously. It's real. It's not just fucking WORDS. We can talk and talk and talk... but plant a garden, nurture it, pull weeds in the heat of July--watch it! Observe! Learn from it! Spend time together talking about THAT--how to to expand them, how to use the garden to challenge the status quo in so many ways, in every community. And it's not just about growing consumable crops... that's farming. Think about invasives. On making a place for native species. On the whole idea of terroir! Local, indiginous... when you start thinking...really thinking, about GARDENS--the whole idea of the garden, which is never just an IDEA... I think there is nothing more revolutionary.
Garden in vacant lot back of the Ox.

Friday, July 12, 2013

#188 Imagined Landscape 28x40, acrylic, torn pieces of newsprint on PVC foamboard.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

#184 and 187

Acrylic on layered cardboard, with weathered wood, produce net. 24x23
10x8, acrylic and ink on canvas

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Page from my journal

Page 4741 from my journal, Vol 37-B, 9 years ago, after being hit by car.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Independence from the chains of our founders

Independence from the chains of our founders The language and ideals expressed in the Declaration of Independence and the preemble of the Constitution belied the reality of their makers. Language always betrays... the ideas of unalienable rights, of the equality of all (ahem) men, slipped free of the contraining definitions of those who wrote and signed them, stand in judgement of their failure to live up to them, and give to generations after a rallying cry to oppose our oppressors in the very name of our purported 'Fathers.'


I've kept journals more than half a century. Have been transcirbing them... I really can't tell you why. Not a bad read when I'm not into some enfatuation.. blech... have come to the day I was hit by a car... thown through the windshield... 7 surguries. A new appreciation of PTS... I do well at disremmbering, at converting experience to ... other terms. But I haven't been able to type these accounts up... what I wrote in the days and months after... trying to grip the pen between my 2nd and 3rd fingers cause I had no controll of thumb and index finger. I blank out how awful those those months were... and then here they are.. written down. Not unlike the pages I wrote when I was floridly manic... who wrote this shit? How do I come to terms with this? I walk down the street--stuff comes back to me, pops into consciousness... from childhood to yesterday--stupid shit I did and said, and I hear myself cursing myself. You fucking asshole! You stupid picece of shit!... and i don't know who I'm talking to. And then... in a kind of weak defense... I remember good stuff I've done. That I like where this strange course of life has taken me... we're all like that, aren't we? All the shameful terrible stuff we did and thought... and ...I don't know. We try to learn. To do better. There are no saints.

Friday, June 28, 2013

#86 When the Morning Stars Threw Down Their Spears

... And Watered Heaven with their Tears
40x24  Cardboard, string, dirt, wood, acrylic on Masonite (already claimed

Wednesday, June 26, 2013


#175 12x30 acrylic, string, sparkles on canvas


Fusion. 25x25 Insulation board, stucco, fabric earing, newspaper, wood block, rusted metal, acrylic on Masonite. 


fusion. 11,5x14  Kensington Winter. Wood strips, plastic, ginko leaves, glass fragments, dirt, ink and acrylic on paper on wood. (CLAIMED)


14.5x12 assemblage


Assemblage 12x8.5x3.5


10.5x7.5 Pen & ink on paper, with Sante Fe dirt


12.5x7 assemblage. Paper, rusted metal, leaf mounted on old photo album matt and Massonite

#40 Burning Man

Assemblage 24x17x8 


14x11 Stuco flakes, acrylic on canvas

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Dirty Hippies who Cried Wolf!

Once upon a time a Constitutional Republic was taken over by wolves. The shepherds ran to the people and cried out, ''The woves have taken over the republic." The people looked in their closets, checked to see if there was food in the fridge, and turned on the TV... nothing there. "Stop crying wolf! Dirty Hippie sheperds!" so the sheperds went back to digging for real news--and low and behold, things were worse than they had been before! So they ran to the people and painted posters and camped in front of City Halls. "Wolves! The wolves had taken over our schools! The wolves are poisoning our water!" The people turned on Fox News... CNN, some even checked to see what their representatives were saying... nothing there. "Stop crying WOLF, dirty Hippies!" and turned their backs when the cops came and destroyed their camps and beat the shit out of some of them and pepper gassed them and threw them in jail, went into black neighborhoods to terrrify and beat the shit out of anyone they wanted. And those who hadn't given up, found that the Wolves had tapped their phones, were reading everyone's email. building prisons at record rates... and the shepherds came out on the street... a few here, a few there, and the people yawned, and watched TV. "There are no wolves here, Dirty Hippies. The Wolves all wear hijabs and robes and ride camels. We know how to get them when we see them. And they people all began to grow long bushy tails, and what big eyes they all had, looking out to report on their neighbors, and what big teeth they had! And when they were all wolves, no one could see what they had become. And that was the end America.

A Brief History of America in My Lifetime

When I was 10 years old in 1950, we moved from Chicago to Kansas City, and a few years later, out of the city into one of new developments—houses could be had for 10 to 12K, bought by recent graduates of colleges and law schools with the help of GI loans (if you were white). America was a beacon of freedom and opportunity… if you were white, employed with a living wage. Did not openly dissent and gain the ire of HUAC or the Senate’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations of Government. Then you began to notice how many were--here, not abroad--were not included in that National Family Photo album. And then you began to realize that the abuses of power abroad were not shortcomings or errors, or inconsistent with national policy, but were systemic--and terrible for those caught up in our proxy wars and economic pillage. And then you began to see, as the Civil Rights Movement grew in strength, that poverty and racism and entrenched patriarchy here in  the U.S. were part of that systemic injustice everywhere, so when King began to connect the dots, it was no surprise that he was murdered. And when our proxy war in S.E. Asia was derailed by popular protest, it was no surprise that the predator class gathered ranks and decided there was too much 'democracy,' that the social movements of the 60's had to be demonized, unions--and every other effective form of popular civil resistance, destroyed, undermined or infiltrated and subverted, and with that--the media privatized and controlled. And when the Soviet Union collapsed under the weight of its own ineptitude and corruption, exhausted by our perpetual arms race--it was no surprise that our Empire of Money and Death would seize the opportunity to globalize its power, that the corporations--the oporational machines of the preditor class, would become the defacto government, and what was left of government, become a mere specticle. And Lo, it all came to pass as they had foreseen.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Language is Not Our Friend

I have a problematic relationship with words. They are--often the source--always an instrument of the worst of what we do to one another, and at the same time, our only means of finding our way out of the destructive maze they have created. It is so difficult to distinguish between their power to do us harm from their power to save us from ourselves. As though with fire--we could never quite remember or grasp the difference between using it to warm ourselves on winter afternoons and setting our bodies ablaze, and collectively--one might think there were a deep inclination or drive to favor the later over the former.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Snowden, for and against

Responses to Snowden mark a sharp line--on one side, supporters who believe we still have a legitimate governement and rule by law, and therefore, that it is possible in theory to betray it. On the other side, those who are convinced that the few left in government who are not bought and paid for by the preditor elite, are marginalized and irrelevant, that the State is concerned with NOTHING but preserving and protecting the power of that elite, that any benefits that acrue to the people are but means of keeping them pacified, therefore, there is no ethical or rational obligation not to undermine that utterly corrupted system in favor of returning to the people the right to know what is done in their name, and to create new relationships where people take control of their own lives and all collective action that effects them.

Beyond the Market: Art for perpetual Loan

Art for perpetual loan.  I will not sell my work.

Because art should be available to all, not primarily to the moneyed class.

Because an artist deserves material support, I am open to and encourage, but do not require, contributions, which can be one time donations, or on-going, to be worked out case by case.

Loans are perpetual. I ask only that you pledge never to sell or trade what you take for a profit. Art should never become a commodity and investment for the criminal class.

VIEW ALL POSTED WORK HERE, (scroll down) or make arrangements for a day-time tour of my studio.
We cannot defeat Capitalism, but we can replace it and make it obsolete.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

My mother was 19 when she married, not 21 when I was torn from her body.  Seventy-two years. Child of water, seeker of oceans and lakes, it was no use; a single breath and my aquatic life was over. Drawn in my age to deserts (a suitable emblem of my sexual life), do I even remember how to swim? My mother would be 93. Seventeen years an orphan, hard to believe that she might well be alive,  By some accounts a Cancer, by some a twin (where is my other?) What is my life then, was her death. Soon there will be no one to remember. As a poet of my acquaintance wrote… “forgetting is what we do.”

Friday, June 21, 2013


32x19 PVC, dirt, acrylic on Plywood

Saturday, June 15, 2013

On Free Art

The problem of what do with my work has been a weight on my mind and spirit for months now. What I should do, if I listened to convention: get high quality photos, a nice portfolio, look for galleries that would like to give me a showing, hope that somewhere down the line, I might sell a few pieces, at the least—have some compensation for materials. If I worked hard at promotion, I might even claw my way a few notches up the art food chain. This depressed me on more levels than I can describe. I don’t want to be salesmen. I mean, I really don’t want, more than don’t want. The prospect of being an agent in the transformation of my work into commodities was making me sick. Emotionally and physically sick. Getting out of the Capitalist Womb is part of why I do this—why I want to make art. Contradicts everything else in my life, where and how I live, the people I choose to be with, the kind of world I want to live in. But an artist deserves to be paid for our work, I’m told, and how can I disagree?
 So I compare, ask people who know about these things, and see what kind of prices I should ask. You know how it goes—if you ask cheap, the “market” will peg you as cheap. If you believe in your work, you have to show that by the price you place on them. And if they sold, of course. If I could get them before the eyes of the “right” people, convince the “right” people… that is, people with money, if I were to be successful in this venture, I would be making (for me… who did not earn $50,000 life time earnings until my mid 40’s), rather decent money. and yes, this was not a small enticement... this was a very seductive prospect—and poison. Pure poison. Emotional evil fantasy poison to soul…
 On a material level, I’m running out places to put the pieces I make. I hang as many as I can around the Ox, in my room. But have begun to stack them against a wall in a store room. I’d begun to imagine destroying my work as I made it. A kind of Zen fantasy. But then—even before I put it those terms, I realized that what really was bothering me, was that no one could see them. The selling was important, but in a lesser way. Yeah, I’d like, and deserve, and la la la, but the real point of selling—is to make them visible! To send my children out into the world where they can live on their own terms. Not that compensation isn’t deserved, but that these are two different ends, and of the two—there can be no question, that the nightmare for me, was that I do this and no one sees them. Whether they like them or they don’t… critical approval… so much noise. That’s not my business—because I don’t OWN them… not what they are. And what are, will only happen as they become real for others.
 I wrote a post last night on FaceBook—and none this stuff was in my mind, not consciously—an impulse… made easier by a few glasses of wine. I thought—I’ll give them away. FREE ART. Such a sense of liberation. Even the next morning. Cold sober (would that all posts on such impulses ended this way!) Most of the thoughts above followed after.
And then I began to think about conditions. At first I thought—ok… if someone sells a piece, I can ask for some part of the sale. But no… I want to give them to others for their pleasure, not for some idea of future profit. Not even mine. But I can ask for contributions from those who can afford it, right? And if they do give pleasure—I can trust that will happen. So… a kind of indefinite loan. If you have a piece for a few months, and want a different one? Why not? A circulating loan. And for those who would like to help support this work, maybe an option of a monthly pledge, the amount determined solely by what that individual feels would be comfortable for them? So it’s not just art for the rich. And this offers… if I can keep making pieces, a real possibility of some modest compensation—which is all I could realistically hope for on the Art Market model—and they won’t be stacked up against a wall in a store room. And if the cops raid the Ox, and I’m disappeared in some secret rendition, they won’t all be taken and lost! (this is not paranoia. This American. If you don’t believe it. Wake up!) Not to go into this now… but these are not new ideas. I’ve thought of this kind of arrangement in terms of an artist’s collective. For artists who want to say FUCK CAPITALISM as much as I do, and yet—hope both for some compensation and to see their babies circulate in the world. Enough! Solidarity/Imagination/Resistance!

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Willard Art -- FREE ART!

Click WILLARD ART for a selection of my visual art. If you are interested, and can't afford the suggested compensation, make me an offer. There are many more pieces here at the Ox. If you'd like to come for a viewing, left me know--any sunny afternoon!
I have no idea and less interest in what goes into marketing this stuff, and I'm running out of room to store it. So pick up some free art.  I want to keep track of any pieces taken. Should I want to have them in a show, I couuld borrow them back. Contributions to carry on the work, gratefully accepted, but not required or expected. Think of this as a free loan. They are not to be sold--they are for your pleasure, not your profit. I'll have a form to sign with these conditions.

Monday, June 10, 2013


Acrylic on Plywood. 14.5x32

#93 Assemblage

Washing machine cover, roofing, latex house paint 27x24 $800


26x22 Acrylic on Masonite $600