Tag: art

Tattoo Dreaming

My 59-year-old, lily white skin is unblemished. Kind of. If one ignores the C-section incision, the old scraped knee scars, and a multitude of freckles, then my epidermis is almost pristine.

Recently, though, I’ve been considering the addition of a tattoo. It’s no longer taboo for a woman my age to consider getting inked (note the hip jargon) and a tat would be an interesting way to mark the end of my fifth decade on this earth.

Plus, I have a nephew who is an exceedingly talented tattoo artist. Russ Bagwell, and his wife Ashley, have a top notch studio, Royal Avenue Tattoo in Spring, Texas.

 

An example of Russ’s work on model Veronica Lowe.

 
Now lest you think I’ll be going all out like the young woman pictured above let me reassure you that I’m getting a very simple tattoo. I’ve asked Russ to design something special, but for now it’s a secret.

That being said, I had a realistic dream several nights ago in which I finally got to view my new ink. It was already on my body, just above my right hip. Apparently in the dream I hadn’t previewed the design, so I was somewhat shocked to find this:

  
I guess I am the softer side of Sears.

Russ Bagwell, I will be previewing my design. 

Stay tuned. I might just come back with a bit of art.

Peace, people.

Blank Space

if i were an artist
and this page a canvas
i might simply leave it
just as it is and exclaim,
it is done!
this is it!
i’ll call it
B L A N K S P A C E

curators might declare
my work the best ever done
and offer it at auction for
thousands of dollars,
bidders would clamor to add
B L A N K S P A C E
to their private collections.

but a writer cannot
leave the space blank.
i tried.

and the writer cannot
type
B L A N K S P A C E
on the page because
that defeats the purpose.

it’s a conundrum, really.

  
I need a DIY Abstract Writing Tutorial.

Peace, people!

Etch-a-Sketch

geometrics
squares within squares
within squares
and on into
infinity

stare tunnel-ward
feel the draw of hyperspace
or shrink into
nothingness, as near
as possible

at the epicenter
just a dot stands guard;
a placeholder
hinting at the end of
this world

or a precipice
into a universe beyond
tunnel’s end
oh, such exquisite
possibilities.

  
I’m no artist, and that’s probably why my time fiddling with an Etch-a-Sketch consisted primarily of drawing decreasing squares until I could go no further. The resulting tunnel provided countless hours of contemplation for me as a child. I’m either incredibly imaginative or unbelievably dull.

Peace, people!

Paper Pictures

Great artists
work in
a variety of
media:
construction
paper and glue,
glitter and
fingerpaints,
thumbprints in
tempera.
They do not
concern themselves
with brush stroke
techniques or
fickle critics,
their only goal
a smile from a
proud recipient,
a place reserved
on the fridge.

 

two works of art by our youngest grandchild.

Peace, people! 

Bee Confused

silly little bee
the daisies on my tee shirt
offer no pollen.

Artist Mark Ryden markryden.com

buzz on along bee
i’d rather not swat you, friend
but the flower’s fake.

  
blazing day heat bee
seek your blossoms in the shade
purple hibiscus.

By Paper Ship

Artsy Fartsy

Every now and again I am struck by the need to create a work of art using my keen eye and able hands. On those occasions I’m usually walking through a Michael’s craft store with a couple of extra bucks in my pocket and a good case of amnesia.

Because no matter how often I purchase paints, or pencils, sketchbooks, or canvases, I am totally incapable of drawing anything more complex than a primary yellow sun with a happy face and straight rays poking out all around. 

  

Yet I conveniently forget this simple fact over and over again.

There is something about a blank piece of paper that fills me with the burning desire to create. All that’s missing is a bit of talent.

Here’s my newest purchase:  

Notice the beautiful sketchbook? Oh, the possibilities!

Notice the color pencils? They are not sharpened, and I have no sharpener at home.

So, for at least tonight the sketchbook is safe from my fumbling attempts at creating art. I think I just heard a papery sigh of relief.

Peace, people!

Graffiti Train

I’m sitting in my car watching a train roll through Quincy, FL. Every car has a bit of art painted across the side, some beautiful, some provocative, some profane. It occurred to me that these cars have their own stories and we just get a small glimpse as they chug on by us.

Graffiti Train

Union Pacific rail cars
Taking their sweet time
Chockety-chock, chock,
Covered with
Moving pictures:
Gang signs in
Fuchsia block letters
Join or Die!
Submit and Live!
4-2-1 Brothers.
Peace, man!
Skull with Crossbones
Oversized funky feet,
Hands, and eyes
Adorn these cars.
Secretly rich lives lived
In train yard towns like
Galesburg, Illinois,
Kansas City, Missouri, and
North Platte, Nebraska.
Chockety-chock, chock,
Squee, squee, squee!
Move on now,
I don’t have all day,
Just because you’re all
Dressed up,
Places to go
Doesn’t mean I can sit
Idly by just to
Watch this show.
Chockety-chock, chock.

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Still Life

In my grandparents, home
There was a painting of a bowl
Brown, with cream swirls,
Uneven and tilted, spilling its
Contents:
Red apples and green grapes,
Oranges, too, though,
Simply orange, but
In shades that differ
Ever so slightly,
Onto a table set for one
It takes a sharp eye to see
The tiny dimples and
Wrinkles, curves, and lines
Of the woman outside the
Frame.
Still, life is life.