good morning jessicca

  

love 

   dad

©  Tom Taylor

Over Easy.

coldValentine

good morning Jessicca

sunday, 7 february


Jessicca

There's no case to plead on my behalf.

love,
         Dad



©  Tom Taylor

coldValentine

good morning Jessicca

letter to my daughter
sunday, 15 november



         Jessicca

joy, sex

              love, 

                        Dad

©  Tom Taylor

Small Town South

It's Sunday.  

The afternoon streets are nearly empty of people.  The first stop is Mount Pleasant, a crossroads town in North Carolina.  The day is warm and sunny.  Winter has come to an end on the day our clocks spring forward.

A few miles further down the road is the old brick village of Albemarle.  There are tall grain elevators near the tracks on the town's edge.  

A town big enough to have a courthouse is big enough to afford a memorial to the Confederate soldiers of the Civil War.  This memorial honors those who showed up and fought from Stanly County, North Carolina.

© Tom Taylor

 

s c a t h i n g

you said scathing and I got aroused

© Tom Taylor

Good Morning Justin...

Letter to my Son
Sunday, 8 June

Cast Away

Good Morning Justin…

Sometimes drawing a picture has no conscious purpose.  Doodling is too absent-minded to be what it is I am talking about here.  I’m thinking about other things while I doodle.  The kind of drawing I’m referring to requires my full attention but it doesn’t start with any apparent theme or have any desired conclusion in mind while I draw.  I start with a shape.  It suggests to me something I have seen in life so I elaborate on the original shape to create something that often appears cartoonish in its exaggerated simplicity.  The item created usually brings to mind another item for me to associate with it.  I am building a composition of images gathered together through a process that may have some similarity with word association.  The items drawn are usually very elementary in their appearance.  A house may be little more than a box with a single window and a couple of lines representing a pointed roof.  A person may be as fluid as a stake punched in the ground.  The land about these simple figures can be very elaborate in design.  This design contains within it a suggestion of forms that individually and as a group hold no clear identity.  It is a pattern of line and shadow that does provide an illusion of dimension but no reality works quite like this.  There is often a sense of movement.  It is not so much fluid as it is crumbling, ripped and tortured, like the slippage between layers of dissimilar sediments in an earthquake.  Are those gaping holes in the terrain?  Everything made by man attempts to root in what is inherently unstable.  The earth is up and the sky is down.  What is the sense of it?

I haven’t a clue.  Maybe it is nothing more than a junk dump of the mind.

Love,

          Dad