playing with a brush

I kept the oils dry today
right out of the neck material
You can smear it and
you can dust it up
don't bother cleaning your brush
going from tube to tube
just keep in mind your order

©  Tom Taylor

coldValentine

Happy Birthday, Jack...

Letter to my Son

Thursday, 9 October

Jack's 17th Birthday

Happy Birthday Jack!

You’re 17 and it’s shocking me.  How could you grow up so fast?  I would like you to be where we were when I last saw you so we could pick up where we left off.  Growing up is rarely idyllic.  Setbacks happen but we are grateful for the love and happiness we have.  One day we will meet again and it will fill me with joy, no matter the potential problems.  The bond of father and son is not easily broken.  Google it.  You’ll find it’s a universal law. 

Be joyous.  Be safe.  I want for you a long and wondrous life.  I love you along with the rest of the family.  You are on my mind daily.  Happy seventeenth birthday, Jack.  Tell everyone hello for me.    

Love,  

          Dad

Good Morning Jack

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 14 September

Good Morning Jack...

gordoMars

I tire of words eventually.  I’m no poet.  Words for me are but a tool of reason.  They pass along straightforward information.  There’s little nuance and definitely no frills here.

Don

There was a time when I was comfortable with creating images.  I discovered I didn't have to be an artist – I didn't have to be good – to express something of what I felt.  It all offered no explanation.  I liked the mystery involved.

Diane

One’s own mind offers room to wander.  We find places we never thought to go.  I like it best when I don’t let thinking get in my way.  I’m not interesting when I try to be smart.

Daphne

Is this how she truly looked?  Don’t be silly.  This is how she felt.  Actually this is how I felt about her as she sat across the table from me… making up stories; creating altogether new words to describe her thoughts.

muse

It’s an image of a particular thought.  It’s like a hieroglyph.  Something captures one’s attention.  Something all too familiar is suddenly seen as though for the first time.  New ideas come to life.  New associations are made.  It only happens when we disentangle ourselves from our humdrum inner narrative:  yada, yada, yada.

no remedy

She was in a park.  I don’t know what was going on.  Does it matter?  Isn’t the face a marvelous device?  Our face provides a wealth of visual clues.  What complex creatures we are.  Think of all the means we use to express who it is we are.  Besides the face there is body language, words, voice, touch – and art of all kinds.  Dogs have tails, barks and whines.  Maybe porpoises use mental telepathy.  It doesn't make for Shakespeare. 

Gipper

You can get lost in a face.  Age enriches one’s image with extraordinary topography.  Countless frowns, smiles, laughs and arched eyebrows leave their mark.  There’s history here.  All these telling nooks and crannies.  Wrinkles are magnificent; even sexy.

curtain up

Explanations can be tiresome.  Intrigue provides a fertile field to explore.  If you insist on talk, try substituting this desire with music – minus the need of lyrics.    

sax

What is more personal than living in the moment?  It is its own reward.  We’re fully grown but we have all the observational powers of a three year old.  Here’s how we truly get away from it all.  Enjoy your day. 

Love,

          Dad

Good Morning Justin

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 6 July

g o r d o     M a r s

Good Morning Justin…

More than forty years ago, when I felt quite young, I made a mask and called it a self-portrait.  The face had yellow skin, dog ears and a preposterously large grin with teeth missing.  The image was of an irrepressibly gregarious character you’d be confronted with in a bar people would know as The Bacchanal.  Anyone who knew me then would not recognize this person as having anything to do with me.  Some self-portrait.  The image was never intended to portray who it is I am but who it is I most wanted to be.  Maybe I was describing an alter ego – someone I felt existed inside but would never see the light of day – unless, of course, I was at the magical tipping point of being just short of drunk.  We all have the desire at times to take on a role we weren't meant to be.  Halloween is an obvious fantasy.  We don’t need a costume, though, to try out a different role.  We just have to find the right moment.  That’s all it is – a moment.  We can’t make it last.  After all, it’s not who we really are.

Eventually I came to call the mask gordo Mars.  Over the years it has remained one of my favorite works.  On a rare occasion I might still think of a life lived more like gordo.  With such a personality I would have arms wide enough to embrace the world.  I would be shamelessly sensual.  My words would flow free of filters and I would point out something extraordinary I find in you.  It’s not flattery.  I say what I think.  I can be horribly boorish, as well.  You may go out of your way crossing the street to avoid me.  That’s of no use.  I will see you and cross the street myself.  How are you doing?  You can’t know how much I've been hoping to run into you.  Why don’t we stop by the deli for something to eat and take it to the park?  You can tell me what you've been up to.  What a great day this is turning out to be.

Sorry.  That’s just not me – never has been.  Maybe in another life.

c  r  a  n  k

A few days back I updated my portrait of self with a new drawing.  It’s black ink on white Bristol board.  I look rather pinched.  I’m squeezed dry; freed from oily sensuality and cloying empathy.  I’m a constant agitation.  Why are you bothering me?  Isn’t it obvious I’m busy?  Back off!  Take a number and get in line elsewhere.  This window is closed.  Sit still and take a pill.

I like the drawing but hate the portrait.  It shows my heart filled with nettles.  The problem with gordo Mars and this sketch of a samurai spreadsheet is that they are both one dimensional.  They are opposite ends of a sliding scale.  They are contradictions.  They are dispositions I’m known to wear, one more than the other.  Ask your mother as to which suits me best.

People aren't comic strips.  We’re subtle.  We are weighted down with contrary motivations that make us appear complex, mystifying.  We spend most of our lives being somewhere between a smile and a frown.  The images here represent nothing more than a moment’s impression.  I can define them as I choose but hopefully I appreciate these sentiments change with time and circumstance.  One day we brood on some moment of squalor.  Turn the page and there is joy in viewing simple light streaming through a window.  Emotional truth isn’t known for its permanence.  It’s like the weather in Chicago – interesting and consistent in its change.  I've had a sturdy ride.  There wasn’t much pleasure found in the nastiest of storms but I always benefited from the vista that came after.

Love,

          Dad