The Studio, prints, collage, & mixed media
“All human actions have one or more of these seven causes:
chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reason, passion, and desire.”
The studio needs cleaning, I lack motivation. The clutter is so great that every time I turn around, something falls. My hands are dirty with soft pastel dust that I scraped off on a wet painting. After wiping my hands, I begin putting away books and old journals. I am reminded of a time when I had a studio downtown; I usually only worked there after ten at night. But this day I went there to finish a charcoal self-portrait in the middle of the afternoon. After a while, I went to the donut shop for coffee to wake up. Staring straight ahead in a daze I ate a donut. At an adjacent table this man yells at me “Why are you staring at me?” I look his way; he looks furious, he growls. “I’ll knock your head off.” My palms coated with charcoal, the lifeline on my palm filled to a deep black. Out on the street the afternoon sun was blinding. Looking back through the window in the donut shop I see the man alone talking. A guitar riff from Carlos Santana plays in my head.
Care is in the Name
A flash then a filtered glow shifting form to order.
Quite remarkable, I remember the motion of each stroke
smooth and precise floating over the board.
Never a common event but always predictable,
as introduction resonates with craving.
Transferred to cotton sheet so that feeling blends with language
known as Feather Bellows.
It was rhythm selective, conscious life mitigating story telling.
Expressed from this, mechanical vessel to abduct
light and frame a moment.
Above, held by this expression, is a sphere
with shaded curve the dimension of this thought.
Planet or game, the soft weightless shaft travels the tunnel
to form a namesake Feather Bellows.
Between streaming review of what is happening I pause.
I saw it so it must be true. The tides of change roll ebullient on this mystery trip.
So find an architect to design an intention,
walk into this account part image, part talk, still happening.
Turn with the sphere into a comet tail first without fear because,
you know Feather Bellows.
They found his mark in conversation attached to longing,
seeking fortune, vicariously watching, breathless, for truth.
Somewhere west of figurative this studio cowboy sipping cognac
saddled with no map rides toward the heat of passion.
A living twisted cognate object, waiting inspiration.
this place doesn’t work without a pencil.
He draws over them and then out again.
Warm pull, and start again.
There is a vessel, still life water hole, and carnival music plays.
Deserted saloon, ghost with paint brush is cheek to cheek with collector
Image translators, imitators.
I often suffer and smile
enveloped in a stream of ideas,
words, and image metaphors,
unable to filter, I miss the point.
I am a creative imbroglio.
Rather than development of an impasse,
it happens that at these humbling moments
a twist of fate blends into
this extremely complicated pickle.
It is more than my luck, to have tenacity,
to be a part of difficult circumstances, and be inspired,
preserved in a solution of creative brine.
So I will not ignore the flood of sound,
the color of atmosphere, and brilliant light from a memory.
What it means is just what it seems,
an arrangement, a place,
a intentional effort,
and a part for everyone in the story.
Rome Train Station Fall 2011
Here are a couple of black and white photos with subtle-surrealistic tweak.
This is the OSHU tram that travels between the hospital facilities in Portland, Oregon. Pretty cool, very sci-fi, modern style. Very interesting to watch travel from down by the river up the hillside in the fog,
This motorbike, (or is it a motorcycle?) photo is from a trip I took in Italy in 2011.
Great film noir memory for me. I saw it through the shadows of a chestnut tree.
Art is an expression of things, as we see them, sometimes backward, inside out, or in the mirror.
Observation establishes orientation, or even perspective, and expression becomes the release of intention at the moment.
The last place I left it, the search for a lost feeling passes there.
The object carries what I leave to it by design, shallow or deep, a presence remains.
When I go a memory stays with me.
To reclaim this lost self missive, involves a search for transitory meaning, seamless blending of the past with the future.
Transposing what has been into what could be?
For me these moments are singular, remarkable mysteries of daily life.
Has the object spoken? Are these echoes of lament?
Lines converge at the horizon while the object remains a figure to ground.
I watch for the invisible train I sense coming.
Secret violet waves cover her in a shallow cove of impulse.
A crack in the shell left her below the surface emotions.
A drawing shows conditions to be changed.
Clouds of unknown outcomes are forming so she resurfaces.
For a moment, the perfect chance appears.
Trouble will not survive this simple solution.
Secret violet waves turn to blue, and now she is home again.
I am delighted by your interest in
D Michael Studio