Kintsugi Illusions

I practiced the art of kintsugi.
I wanted to believe in flawed beauty,
that I could repair my cracks,
upgrade my broken bits
with veins of gold.
The paint never dries.

I wrapped the butchery
with gauze and illusion.
Adhering my mask,
hoping for my pound of  pretense
like so many layers of mummified sludge.

Your fisted flesh inside me
scraped my resolve.
My bandages slipped,
exposing my deception.

You manufactured 
the distance between us,
calculating the cost of repairs
for my faulty engineering,
The right angles wronged.

The paint, blighted and bitter,
Pipes had been cut.

I forgot to read the manual.


Find it here.

Demon Lover

I knew you, but briefly.
Your words a flutter on my lips.
You boarded your airship to anywhere,
leaving me, altered and alone.

I peeled your skin
to make my own suit.
Curled your mustache.
Flowered your beard.
Bow tie or cravat?
Both suited you.

We waltzed in dazzling splendor,
strolled in the depths of the catacombs,
Our conversation balloons
followed in slow triumph.

Your phantom weight strained
even as your incubi fingers
found all my secrets.

Until, fleshed, you returned,
breathing in my castle.
Your weight collapsed 
all my architecture,
ephemerally perfect.

My demon lover imploded,
Xanadu, revisited.
The goo will leave a stain.

Captain, board your ship.
My port has closed.

Find it here.

Put away Childish Things

My malfunctioning tabula rasa, 

ready to be filled with editorial notes.

Some children are born to disappoint,

but a daily meal of criticism

filled even my thick skull 

until self hatred spilled out my blue orbs.

No more would fit.

My playmates and classmates were showered

with love for simply being.

I mirrored them, echoing,

but every action, backward, distorted

and wrong.  Or, so you told me.

Ten is too old for playthings.

My untouched dolls, eyes glassy with judgement,

lined dusty shelves.  Playtime was over.

My only escape from you, closed to me.

You locked the gate, sealing out the light.

Hoarding your miserly draconic love.

My inner drummer marched me cliff ward.

I learned to always choose the men

who loved by dismantling.

They knew all the songs

you ever sang to me.

I followed the piper. I danced, 

always getting the steps wrong.

I can never quiet your voice,

the siren in my ear,

the storm of your indifference

forever eroding the sand foundation

of my mirage of self.

Left Behind

My miserable friend,
companionably muted.

They constructed our cage
from reflections of their own
despair and disappointment.

I dreamed your dreams.
We shared their darkness.

Together we huddled.
We never told

until the door opened.
I flew fast on stolen wings.
The window closed
with you left behind.

I escaped our cage,
the one they built,
only to craft one of my own.

I made my bars with hate and self loathing.
I can't break them.

I hope you are far away,
flying free,
leaving me behind.

Grape Jellyfish

I suppose I should just come right out and admit it:  I enjoy anime.

Certainly, I don't watch as much of it as my children but I watch.

The illustration style is refreshingly different from typical Western animation.  

Some of it is so amazing that it quite takes my breath away.  

Over the weekend, I binge watched a short 11 episode series, "Princess Jellyfish".

There is something so elegant and yet almost alien about sea creatures like jellyfish.  

I just couldn't resist playing.

Escape Never seemed more Urgent and less Likely

A few days ago, I was having an intriguing conversation with some friends about how we, as a species, often explain the unknown.

We blame aliens.

Crop circles?  Must be aliens.

Mysterious ruins?  Must be aliens.

Unexplained lights in the night sky?  Must be aliens.

Disturbing abductions?  Must be aliens.

Not so very long ago, a mere century or two, and we had a very different explanation for such phenomena.

Crop circles?  Mysterious ruins?  

Unexplained lights in the night sky?  

Disturbing abductions?

Must be fairies!

When I started this piece, I started with a fantastic sky.  I had been admiring some antique  fairy tale illustrations of  "East of the Sun, West of the Moon", but I had a vague plan about a charming young girl and her polar bear steed.  As per usual, my art went in a completely different direction.

What happens when Victorian nursery meets Space Invaders meets Fairyland?

Now, you know!

To be accurate, my alien invader is actually an extremely large flying jellyfish, but I have often thought that most science fiction is probably way off when it always portrays alien species as almost all humanoid in style.  

I think that the inexplicable and eerily elegant life under the sea seems a more likely visage for our future alien encounters.  

Of course, I have absolutely no background in science so don't start betting the corn fields on it....

It's all Connected

Many of my blog posts have concerned connections.  

With my art, I oftem explore my connection to the world and to my past.  I may have taken things a little too far this time...

I am still in the midst of my Tarot card series and putting the final touches on my last two Jack the Ripper pieces, but I wanted to take a bit of a break and do a piece that could stand on it's own.

I started with the idea of two different little girls having a playful skirmish battle with umbrellas, but somehow, I ended up here.

I have been toying with the idea of doing a Side Show series for many months but didn't feel quite ready to start.  

With my art, I let my emotions lead me.

I've commented in the past that I am a firm believer in the clarity gained through daily pages (a k a "The Artists Way" fundamentals.)  

Whether you believe that you are communing with a higher power or merely removing all the petty minutia from your thoughts, I find a sense of purpose within those pages.  

By focusing for 45 minutes and letting my thoughts wander on paper, I find that am never without ideas for a new piece of art or series.

My interest has meandered a bit this year, from Victorian crime to my grandmothers' mystical past.  I've enjoyed working through my obsessions but am really excited about this new piece.

Expect to see several more Side Show pieces from me in the weeks ahead!

Interested in seeing a few in person?  

I will have these Twins as well as Mermaid Girl ready for viewing this weekend at Fest for All in Baton Rouge.

Look for me in Booth 3 off of River Road!

Mary Jane Kelly Disassembled

Mary Jane Kelly was the youngest and, arguably, 

the prettiest of the victims of Jack the Ripper.

She was the only one killed indoors.

Hers was the most brutal and horrific of all the killings.

Canonically, hers is considered the last of the killings attributed to Jack.

Compared to the other victims, little is documented about the past of Mary Jane Kelly.   She was believed to have been born about 1863 in Limerick, Ireland.  Her father was reputed to have been an iron worker and the whole large family to have migrated to Wales when she was a small child.

Her hair color is reported as anything from blonde to red to brown.  By nickname, she was known as Fair Emma, Ginger, and Black Mary.  She may or not have been married at some point.  She may or may not have had a child.  She may have lived briefly in France as the mistress of a well-to-do man.  

By 1887, she was living in Whitechapel, making a living as a prostitute.  She enjoyed her drink, apt to become quarrelsome under the influence and inclined to drunkenly sing Irish songs.  She lived for a time with laborer Joseph Barnett.  They quarreled on October 30th and he moved out of their rented, single, furnished room.

On the night of November 8, 1888, Mary Jane Kelly took a client to her room.  No one ever saw her alive again.

The scene that met the eyes of the agent of her landlord on the morning of the 9th is one of the most gruesome crime scenes of that century and this.  She was completely disassembled, identifiable only by the blue eyes that had been left in what remained of her mutilated face.

Many reported seeing her out and about at various times during the evening and night.  Close neighbors reported hearing her sing one of her Irish songs late in the night, and, later still, some heard a cry of murder and a plea for help, which never came.

Good night, Fair Emma.  

Your stay in this world was far too brief.  

May your welcome in the next have been far kinder.

The Gypsy Connection

Lately, I have been feeling an increasingly strong connection to my past lineage.  My father's mother descends from a Romani background.  While I've always had a streak of mysticism in my nature, reflected in my enduring love of the Tarot, I've also been most comfortable in familiar surroundings.  I like having a stable home base.  I never felt the need to travel or constantly change my environment.

Traditionally, the Romani people live out of a caravan.  They travel, almost constantly, selling and working each new day, and at each new stop, to survive.  I never felt a connection to that type of life.

And, then, I began to market my art.  Almost every weekend, now, I load my car and travel to an art market.  I set up a tent.  I hang up my wares.  I have established that connection.  It's only a mere glimpse, and a weak shadow reflection of their lives, but I can feel that long road of women, traveling, and selling, connected all the way to me, and my new life as a traveling artist.  

Last year, one of my long term project goals was to create my own interpretation of the Major Arcana cards of the Tarot.  I wanted to honor my past in my present vocation.

I started, made the first three cards, and then stopped.  I wasn't satisfied with the images.  I couldn't feel my great love for the Tarot and its mysteries reflected in my work so I stopped.

I've received a lot of positive feedback for my first card of the Tarot, the Magician.  I took a new look at this project, reflecting again on my new found sense of connection with my Romani past and realized that I really just needed to re-visualize my plans for the cards.

With that in mind, I re-approached the High Priestess card and came away with an art piece that I like.  It inspired me to re-boot the whole project.

I'm pleased to be exploring that part of my life and my past even as it reflects who I am now and what I envision as my future as an artist.

Look for more of my Major Arcana pieces as the year unfolds!

Steampunk Miriam

I think I warned you that I would be re-visiting Miriam Angel.  It's a process.

Something gets stuck in my mind and I have to work it out.  I have now created three Miriam Angel themed pieces, read numerous articles, and managed to find and read two books about Israel Lipski, the man convicted of murdering her.

My first instinct when I heard the details of the case was to be outraged about the scant attention paid to Miriam herself.  I've unearthed more details about her.  She was 22 and pregnant with her first child.  She was having a difficult time with it, but still managed to breakfast with her mother in law every day after her husband had gone off to work as a boot riveter.

She was asleep in her bed, clearly visible through a hall window when the killer / killers came in and the murder occurred.  

As I worked my way through the information I could find about the case, the focus was always on Israel Lipski.  I can absolutely see why.  Based on the evidence, I really don't understand why he was ever even bought to trial.  

I suppose it came down to a case of his word against those of his two employees who pointed the finger back at him.  He was at the scene, bearing similar burn wounds in his mouth and throat as those inflicted to Miriam Angel, but the police chose to believe that the wounds were self-inflicted out of guilt.

Despite his swift conviction, enough doubt remained that the local Jewish community managed to have the execution put on hold until another police inquiry could be conducted.  While the investigation was under way, however, strangely, Israel Lipski confessed to the crime.  

As to be expected, he was hung in due course, but the trial and conviction remain controversial. 

Admittedly, I took a bit of a surrealistic bent on the crime as I did in my other two pieces featuring Miriam Angel.  

For whatever reason, my interest lingers on all things Victorian London, at least, those concerned with crime.

I live in south Louisiana.  Much local art features swamp landscapes and sea creatures.  Mine does not.

Admittedly, I didn't grow up here, but I also didn't grow up in Whitechapel at the turn of last century.  I did grow up in a world in which Victorian London seemed to represent all things magical and beautiful.  Remember "Mary Poppins"?  "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang"?  I grew up on such classics so I think maybe the contrast between the Disneyfied version of that reality and the gritty contrast of what that world was really like is what draws me in.

I am wrapping up my Jack the Ripper series, but just know I will be back with at least one more Miriam Angel piece.  I read the title "East End poisoner driven to murder by Angel Lust."

How delicious and dark is that?  What exactly does Angel Lust look like?

As soon as I figure it out, I will share it with you!

Kate Kelly the Fourth

Kate Kelly is the fourth in my series about Jack the Ripper.

I was surprised to realize that it has been over a month since my last posting on this series.  I put up my Long Liz piece all the way back on January 19th.

In some ways,  Long Liz and  Kate Kelly are eternally joined in the mind of the public and, especially, to the Ripperologist.

Catherine Eddowes aka Kate Kelly was killed only an hour after Jack the Ripper murdered Long Liz.  The murderous night became popularly known as the double header.

Reading up on Catherine Eddowes, I was fascinated by her character.  If ever a woman lived the life of the mayfly, it would be Catherine.  She was described by friends as always jolly and singing.  The difficulties and poverty of her life seemed almost to be of her own making.

The four other victims of Jack the Ripper all survived their difficult lives, at least in part, through prostitution.  Catherine Eddowes might well have been the exception.  Of course, walking home from jail at one in the morning through the dark streets of Whitechapel, whether she was actively soliciting or not, made her an ideal victim for Jack.

  Catherine Eddowes was born in Graisley Green, Wolverhampton on 14 April 1842. She one among ten children born to her parents, tinplate worker, George Eddowes and his wife Catherine (formerly Evans), The family moved to London a year after she was born.  Growing up, she was known affectionately as "Chick".  Later, she moved back to Wolverhampton to take up work as a tinplate stamper.

She spent twenty years as the common law wife of ex-soldier, Thomas Conway.  The two had a daughter and two sons together before her increasing drinking created too many problems in their relationship.  By 1881, she was living with her new common law husband, John Kelly.  The two lived a hand to mouth existence in the poverty stricken area of Spitalfields, London.  As soon as they earned money, it was spent.

Catherine, John Kelly, and their friend, Emily Birrell, made some money picking hops in the countryside.  Within a day or two of returning to London, the earned money was gone.  Catherine Eddowes and John Kelly were forced to pawn his new boots just to pay for their breakfast.

On Sept 29th, the pair split up, Catherine to see if she could get some money from her daughter while John Kelly  settled into a lodging house.

By 8:30 pm, though, never having made it to the home of her daughter, Catherine Eddowes was well into her cups, arrested for lying drunk in the street. She sobered up in jail and was released at 1 am.   By 1:45 am, she was dead.

Interrupted in his killing of Elizabethe Stride, Jack the Ripper inflicted a far more gruesome and mutilating death on Kate Kelly.

Catherine Eddowes was a woman who danced through her life, taking one moment at a time.  She may have enjoyed her drink a little more than she should, but certainly deserved a better end than the one she was given.

Rest in Peace, Kate Kelly  

(14 April 1842 – 30 September 1888)

Is it Spring yet?

I haven't had as much time to devote to my art of late as I would like.  I was super pleased to be accepted as an artisan at the Lafayette Farmers and Artisans Market at the Horse Farm and intend to be there the third Saturday of every month for their handmade and artist weekend  (so I will be there tomorrow!)  

Buying the mesh sides for my tent was definitely a wise choice.  I wasn't certain about taking the next step, but if I am going to be doing three art markets a month, I definitely need to bring my best professional artist game with me!

The continued cold days and grey skies of winter are not my favorite.  I don't mind as much when the sky is blue and brilliant, but we don't seem to get enough of those.  I find myself longing for the warmth of spring.

What comes with spring?  

Why, the Easter Bunny of course!  

I shifted through the photographs I took of the Bluebonnet Swamp Nature Center the last time I was out there and located what seemed like the perfect image of one of my Voodoo Goblin bunnies.  

 I love combining the fairy tale adorableness of the little girl with something just a little creepy.  Bunnies, especially stuffed toy bunnies, really just should not be so large!

 I've made some progress with some of the pieces for my Whitechapel series, but they aren't quite finished yet.  I think I may have one more image of Jack that I want to finish and then I can lay those ghosts to rest.

Miriam Angel still lingers in my mind so I will be returning to that series after I finish with Jack.  

Markets Markets Everywhere - Getting my Work SEEN

If you follow my blog, you may remember that I took a class last spring - "Artist as Entrepreneur" through the Arts Council of Greater Baton Rouge.  I learned a great deal, including that I had been undervaluing my own work and its potential.

I learned about the competitive world of juried art shows.  I learned about taking your work directly to the world through local art markets and juried art festivals.  I discovered that there is a solid series of steps to follow if I want to work to place my work in galleries.  The potential is there.

So, I started walking the steps.  I applied to the Art Market in Baton Rouge and then the Art Market in New Orleans.  My setup for the markets was minimal and less than eye catching, but I started improving and upgrading.  

I had a tent, a few grid walls and some prints.  I soon realized that many potential buyers were walking by my booth without even noticing that it was there.

 I printed up some fabric hangings and a colorful banner and more people started stopping and noticing.  I realized though that, if I wanted to continue down the path of selling at art markets, I needed to upgrade to a more professional set up.

So, I finally broke down and upgraded my tent to my current set up.

It's definitely professional and my work is at the fore front.

As an emerging artist, I share the dream of most such artists, I want to make a living at what I love.  I feel as if I have something interesting, something different, something of significance to say with my work and I can best express that by being able to spend more of my time actually making art.

I am following the steps.  I am working on my website.  I am applying to and being accepted into juried shows.  I haven't been walking down this art path for very long so I know I need to be patient.  Most artists in my age bracket have been working toward success for decades.  Becoming established takes time.

So I making the most of mine!

If you are interested in seeing my work in person, I am currently selling at the Baton Rouge Art Market the first Saturday of every month;  the Lafayette Farmers and Artisans Market at the Horse Farm the third Saturday of every month, and at the New Orleans Art Market in Palmer Park the last Saturday of every month.

I also have work currently on display at the RRAA Depot Gallery in Gonzales as well as at the RRAA gallery at Houmas House.

Finally, I will be participating in an exciting art event in Baton Rouge which opens on the evening of March 7 - more information here!  

Raquel Raccoon

Sometimes I like to turn the surrealism button way, way, way up.

Other times, I like to keep the surrealism on a very low simmer.

A young girl named Raquel Raccoon

grew up far too soon.

Her brother was shot 

in a love battle lost

on the floor in a gin soaked saloon.

Sometimes I like to write beautifully melodic poetry.

Other times, I just write really bad limericks.

You're welcome!

Masks

We all wear masks.

We want to fit in.

We want to be accepted.

What is the cost to our souls?

We shouldn't have to pretend.  We shouldn't have to hide our inner flame.

I may be a little different.  I may dance to the beat of my own private jazz band.

It doesn't mean I'm dangerous or a menace to society.

It just means I'm me.

Deal with it.