Tuesday, November 20, 2012


Seven weeks headquartered in Todi, Italy, feat. one week in Rome and visits to Florence, Venice, Siena, and Assisi, offering a program of Italian, Art History, and Visual Art study.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Getting Worked Over.

Yesterday, I completed my relocation from Penn State's third-floor MFA Cave into my new studio, the bed of my beginning as Assistant Visiting Professor of Drawing.

I haven't made a lot since springtime. The few weeks before our show's April installation were spent worrying, readying the 'chosen people' (the figural pictures selected for display), and finishing sundry schoolwork. Then the show went up, then it up and went, and the moon was shot: I had testified. Suddenly unsure of what more I had to say, or how better to say it, I went mute awhile.

Early in summer, I got back to making, slowly. Whenever I am lost, I go 'home', to myself - my body, what is my means, shelter, trap, or foothold. In June I went first to myself (the outside, the immediate, the super ego, the seen) and then to the Orgasm (the inside, the id, the felt). Looking for the Holy of Holies, maybe.

The drawings are pastel on shower curtains and bedskirts glazed first with sandy ground.

I am thinking about strife, mess, and inundation. Our bodies expel fluid when they are labored. From hardships emotional, psychological, or physical: sweat, vomit, blood, liquor amnii and vernix that come out with birth, waste, tears, snot - and ejaculate, in a nirvana impelled by extremest pain (Lacan on jouissance). I want to depict the trauma of orgasm.
I am thinking also, as always, about shame, and the argued right to pleasure. 

I want to try spilling or paving gel medium onto some drawings. Or tying them onto fans to see them quake and thresh.
Ecstasy, for its every meaning. Spirituality, sex, suffering.

this feeling has a thousand limbs, of a first and hymns
tell me, do you like it? 
too big to fit in this skin
this skin I'm in
because I'm a lover


Sunday, April 8, 2012

Shooting to thrill.

In January, my dear friend, James, reasoned that 2012 will be a 'good' year, come whatever may.
In December 2012, people will throw great End Times parties. Either the world will indeed blow up, or the fĂȘte will instead 'blow up'. If the Man comes around, there can be no morning's regret or spinning head. And if he doesn't and we orbit still, we pin tails on those confuted, and plod languidly into 2013.

I like 2012.
In February, I went to Los Angeles with five of my peers, chiefly for the CAA Conference, seeing also the LACMA, the Hammer Museum's Alina Szapocznikow exhibit, the ocean, a passing John C. Reilly, and old friends.


Penn State granted me a Creative Achievement Award and a professorship for the 2012-2013 term.

In March, I completed my thesis text and presented my Oral Defense. Kerri O'Neill and I installed and opened our MFA Thesis Show, entitled Soft Tissue, on April 2.

The turn-out turned up my mother and father, DC friends, PSU community, and mata, Rose (shaman, wisewoman, mother of Guru Meher).

On our buffet table lay the living body of Emma. She was swaddled in cut-up images of her own nakedness and lined with plates of treats (all aphrodisiacs). A long boat of vegetable dip sat between her legs.

Rose drummed and sang a solemn blessing. She rubbed our hands and foreheads with holy water.

In these last two years, I knew excitement, awakening, grief, love, mania, anger, ideas of being - and of being nowhere - all at the same time. Everything regenerated. I'm too grateful to say.