2012

Apparently the end is near, or at least the end of the Mayan's Calendar. And we know how well they lasted...find me a Mayan, that's all I have to say.
Here is the thing. We're all so quick to focus on trouble. Real or imagined, high or low potential, big or small. There isn't a damn thing you can do about it anyway so get present and enjoy the day. Make plans, follow through, participate, evolve!
Shake up your schedule. Talk up someone you never chatted with before, take a new route to work, create a different workout at your gym, listen to music previously unconsidered. Read a book. When you shake up your life, change your schedule, or handle things differently, the Gods Pay Attention To You. They're like, "Holy Shit, what's that motherfucker up to now? Wait a minute...damn! Look at her go! He didn't! Unh-unh..." They get involved then. Then contribute. They participate and agree with you. They love it.
Have a great and beautiful New Year.

Heureuse Nouvelle Année

Daisy

Graphite on Paper

4" x 6"

2011

Moscow, Russia...

I love Russia. Well, to be exact I have only been to Moscow. But I feel a deep love for the whole nonetheless. I worked in Moscow for two weeks while I set up Pagliacci for Los Angeles Opera via The Israeli Opera who rented our costumes. Directed by Franco Zeffirelli, it played at the Kremlin Palace Theatre. The thrill of going through security to get into the Kremlin, right next to Red Square and working with the Muscovites, is something I will never forget. I remember walking over the bridge that takes you into the Kremlin proper, knowing this was the very bridge that Napoleon crossed on his horse...among so many other people of historical significance...and me. One evening crossing this bridge I remember in particular. The sun was golden light as it was about to set. Deeply set stone-cut bricks  make up the bridge. It is powerful and sturdy, built with precision and strength. To me it spoke volumes about the people; what they had, created, and endured. Standing on this road I felt these bricks underneath, and looking down at my feet as I walked these 'cobblestones' I had the most amazing time travel flashback. I am a teenager. It is nearing sunset also, with the same golden hued evening light-time glow. It is one of the many times I am walking towards backstage in the summer musical theatre production I was a part of for many years. I quickly returned to where I was, on this bridge into the Kremlin. I stood there thinking of the long road of Life I have walked, and the many shows on which I have worked. My passion for the theatre began at that summer arts program I loved so much. I thought to myself, "I have a love for the performing arts so I could be here today, in Moscow, at the Kremlin Palace Theatre." All the Broadway shows I have worked on, all the Stars I have watched, worked with, and enjoyed from the wings...and that moment, right there on that bridge on my way to the evening performance of Pagliacci, is the most special to me.

The bridge into the Kremlin.

Onstage of the Kremlin Palace Theatre

Flying over Moscow en route to land at the Sheremetyevo Airport I looked down and saw nothing but Birch trees. It seemed like fields and fields of Birch trees. Their shimmering leaves catching the light in the wind and their unmistakable white papery bark standing down into the ground like giant white icicles. Russia was a mysterious land to me, a place we were taught to fear growing up in the 70's, and then magically dispelled by Reagan and Gorbachev in the 80's. We were suddenly allowed to be friends.

Me and Peter, Red Square

I wanted to dive into the Moscow World. To understand, to befriend, to know. I felt like I had never lived anyplace else once we were there. I felt the Spirit of Russia as if it was a part of me, and I was a part of it. Its size was marvelous. The food was incredible. The vodka, well...not that I was able to enjoy too much as I worked long days and didn't really want to drink at night as to be too tired the next day, still was delicious. I brought home a bottle that to this day I haven't opened. The coffee each day in the cafe  at the theatre was the best I may have had anyplace. Tiny servings in tiny cups that packed a delicious intense warmth that got you going. Running down the street after the costume designer Ramona, who claimed that Russia had the best cherries in the world. She darted into a shop and came out with a huge bag full of the dark fruits that we enjoyed the rest of the day through fittings. I Discovered one day that American cigarettes were cheap as candy bars, so I smoked Parliaments like all my Comrades at the theatre. I found this incredible honey shop that had some 100 or so different vats of honey. I brought home a couple of jars that I wanted to save forever, but couldn't help myself and enjoyed the golden flavor. Eating apricots soaked in honey from Moscow...mmmmm, heaven.
There are many days when out of the blue I am transported back to Moscow. I can see the light of the day in my minds eye...the beautiful people...men sitting on the sidewalk making brooms out of the fallen branches...the tall statuesque young women each one more beautiful than the next...the expanse...Red Square...St. Basil's...Gorky Park...all of it. I miss it, Her, regularly. I believe that in the future, Russia is where the next pyramids will be built. but that is another story...
The one thing that stayed with me the most though, were the beautiful Birch trees. I took many pictures of these trees while we visited the Novodevichy Cloister. I have loved birch trees since childhood, as many were on my grandma's land in Minnesota. We used to tear off the paper bark and fold it into a canoe-styled shape and float them in the marsh, or down the clear stream that ran through the woods. I always thought of these trees as magical, as silent watchers. The earth in Moscow at the Cloister smelled just like the same earth as on Grandma's farm. Soft and with a slight sandyness, damp and rich. I remember smelling this so clearly and also flashed back to her farm. I felt two places at once. Was I a child at her farm, or a child here, in Moscow?

Outside Novodevichy Cloister

Novodovichy Grounds

Russian Birch

I believe the space of Moscow, of Russia, allows for this kind of experience, this time-jumping through memory. The enormity of her allows an openness that I never experienced in the comparatively and ridiculously cramped, puny, Manhattan, or the country-like Los Angeles. When I thought of these places I felt I could hear Russia giggling..."as if", she seemed to say. "There is no comparison to Mother Russia!" "Come, cleave to my breast!"
But still, it is the quiet gentleness of the Birch trees that I think about most. I painted them several times over. Coming back to them again and again. They are like ghosts, silent young gods. Waiting. Whispering, "come home. Come home."

Birch Tree #1

Oil on Wood

12" x 13"

2008

Church

Oil on Bamboo Curtain

60" x 84"

2008

Russian Birch #1

Oil on Wood Tree Planter

23" x 23" x 15.5"

2008

Missing Painting?

So, in my office at The Ahmanson Theatre I have some of my paintings hanging on the walls. Yesterday when I went to work one of the paintings was missing. I was in a slight panic thinking it has been stolen. My friend and co-worker Ann found it behind the support beam, behind the door as it is when the door is propped open. I was baffled. I am the only one who has a key. Well, actually security has a key, but to be honest they have no idea which key it is. The lock was put in special when they built my office. The few times I have left my keys at home or in my car and asked security to open it, several minutes of fumbling and hunting for which one fits made me realize that no one would ever go in there. Note...this means the cleaning staff never goes in either, which means I have been cleaning my own office for the last year (gratefully, not a complaint). Said painting is hung on the wall to the right of my HD monitor, behind a sculpture and two other small paintings that lean against it. In order for this painting to "fall down" all this other stuff would need to have fallen also. When I opened my door last night I saw right away that the sculpture, one of my "Delicate Balance" sculptures was on its side. I made the Delicate Balance scupltures after 9-11 as a reminder of just that. We all reside in a very delicate balance. I have most of them at my studio, up on shelves. I call them my earthquake detectors. They are figures that stand on a precarious balance. They have never toppled even when we had a 4.9-something earthquake...I also noticed that the two paintings that lean against it were more forward than normal, but I didn't notice the big painting that was gone from the wall, until a few minutes later when I was like "what's missing here?" "OMG where is the black and white Shell Reversal painting?" One of my dressers asked if it was one of my 9-11 paintings. When I confirmed it was, she said she felt it had to do with the truth of 9-11 being revealed...hopefully. Then Ann found the painting behind the post, behind the door. I put the painting in a new place on another shelf, this time not hanging it.
I work with a lot of very special souls. Psychic, healers, yoga instructors, astrologers...all on the cosmic wavelength.
It can be tricky working with such aware souls. Sometimes it brings in so many unseen energy/souls/time jumps that we have to constantly check in with each other. "Where are you, did you get that?"
LOL
I like living in the realm of magic, possibility, spirituality...it reminds me of the special place we inhabit. It is so brief, and it also lasts forever.
I don't know why my painting was in another place. Science so easily removes the magic, all inexplainable things can be explained away because the mind doesn't want to live in a place of unknown. But it is all unknown. For me 9-11 remains a reminder of the beginning of the our last chance to understand: You can't chase money. People, their lives, their connections are all that matter. It was the World Trade Center after all. Occupy Wall Street is its child. And like any child, they are here to show you where you are wrong. Your faults, your misguided and misplaced focus. Your lack of self awareness. Your lack of self love. My experience with our daughter Marlow reminds me of this daily. She is two. Terrible? No, not by a long shot. Oh, yes I joke about it, but I am taking it very seriously. She guides me to do better. Not unlike the White Spirit I encountered in our house last night who said to me, "Do good work."
It was both a statement of acknowledgement, and a command. It brings tears to my eyes to hear it in my head over and over again. It is I think the next line after "love one another."
We need to do better, we need honesty, we need to Do Good Work.

Shell Reversal Black/White

18" x 30"

Oil, Oil Stick on Cardboard

2011

with various ephemera on shelf in front:

Sketch of Starpeople

Study for Amerika

Delicate Balance scuplture "Showgirl"

Occult

Striving to create new work is a lifelong goal. After all the work that has been created and produced I wonder, "is there anything left to do?" I know, I know... like I said here in the beginning, "not been said by you though, George." However the desire to create something that opens a new vision, a new idea, is so compelling that it is always at the back of my mind when I work. All that comes is from what I have seen before, just distilled and computed by my creative self into a new series...and then through that it is new in that it came from me, directly, honestly, compelled by a force in me that strives to make something that hasn't been made before.
There are those accidents that spill out. Like Kate Bush sings in An Architect's Dream:

Watching the painter painting

And all the time, the light is changing

And he keeps painting

That bit there, it was an accident

But he's so pleased

It's the best mistake, he could make

And it's my favorite piece

It's just great

Kate has a new work coming out, I am listening to it on KCRW a free preview:

http://www.kcrw.com/music/programs/ap/ap111114kate_bush_50_words_f

It is different, a new expanse for Kate. It must not have been easy, knowing her music as well as I think I do. The tonality of the chords, the harmonics of the voices, the etherial lyrics. More light and opaque than usual. Inspiring to listen to an artist who continues to push her own envelopes like that. I listen to music constantly when I work, Kate being one that I've mentioned before who takes up much speaker time in my studio. It is like a drug to me, enabling me to escape into my own depths so I can work. Undistracted, hiding from the rest of the world in my studio. 

Why does the painter paint? Why work to make new art? I wonder that as I am at it. Unable to stop if I wanted to, but not an addiction, an extension of how I came into this world and what I desire to do. Even if that desire is coded and screened from my conscious mind. I do link to my unconscious, my superconscious, seeking from where the work comes. My job is to bring it out. Not quite sure why.

My new works are coming from this place. New works that started out as leftovers, accidents and spills. I had a few of these from over the years that I kept. One of them I put on a wall in my office and I have an understanding of now that previously was only a hint. I have always liked it, wondered about its significance. It is abstract and yet is very much a picture as the picture that it creates in the mind. Well...I don't want to over analyze now what I will be showing later. I think of what is hidden behind the screen, what the opaqueness remains, and that is what these works are. Occult.

On another note, but in the same vein, it feels like 1987, 88, 89 to me...those were years shortly after the huge New Age convergance that swept the country, and the world really. Books referenced in The Occult section took up more and more shelves in the Barnes and Nobles. Shirley MacLaine, Whitley Streiber, Ramtha...they occupied my imagination, took ahold of my fear and eventually set me free. 

More on that in a later post, but for now it works with the new works I am working on and is part of the inspiration for why now is the right time for these new paintings. 

Study for Occult

Watercolor on Paper

5" x 7"

2005-

Three Loud Knocks...

above my side of the bed on the wall behind the head board struck at 4:30 AM, Thursday, early morning. 11/3/11.
I sat there in bed wondering, what the hell was that? It was unmistakable, even in my sleep state what I heard. Normally I would tune in and ask "what is that?" However, this was so precise and specific that my shock took over and I kind of retreated, not wanting to know or even connect that this was perhaps "real." I laid there for another hour before I fell back asleep. That evening going to bed I asked Peter if he heard the knocks, and he confirmed that he had indeed, but tried to ignore it also. "We watched too much American Horror Story," he said. Many times during that day I thought of my dear friend Byron, who lives in New York. Byron, who I have mentioned here before as he lives across the street from Patti Smith. I heard Byron talking in my head. "High-Society voices," he said. I laughed to myself. Little funny things he has said to me over the years, funny things just between us. Things I had not shared with anyone else and I thought to myself, "funny how this particular thing between us on one else knows about...and as funny as it is I have no one else to share it with."
I learned the next day, Friday, that my dear beloved friend Byron had passed the day before. No one seems to be sure when he died, although I have a pretty good idea.
My beloved friend Liza told me she was just reading about the number 3 in spiritual terms, connecting to the perfection of Birth, Life, Death. She felt that the three loud knocks resonated with this, and Byron passing.
When someone close to us passes through, they leave the door open and through them we can connect to the multidimentionality of All That Is, of who we are. I have experienced this many times in the last two days. Connecting with Byron, even when I am at work and trying to focus on the job Byron will pop through and I will be transported to another place and time. Suddenly backstage at the Winter Garden Theatre and Bryon is passing me in the dark carrying a wig. In the smoke lounge laughing as he flicks another cigarette out the window. "Did I tell you about the time I flicked a cigarette into the open window of a taxi driver and it accidentally landed right in his crotch?" Laughing until tears formed in the edges of my eyes.
"Tout a lour." I find myself saying to the performer I just apparently had a quick change with during the show Bring It On, which I am currently working on. "Tout a lour" was what Byron always said to me and what I said back to him whenever he left. I bounced out with Byron without thinking of it. Of course I am fairly susceptible to wandering, although Byron is helping. I think about Byron downloading his Life as he passes and wonder how that affects those of us who shared it with him. Does it cull from us those memories, those attachments, those shared experiences and work them through so he can pass easily? Do they hold him down, slow him down, keep him near for a bit longer because the pain of the belief of separation is too much to bear? I hope Byron flows easily into All That Is. I hope he is detached from these earthly experiences, and enjoys the expanse of the infinite that he is. I know these aspects of him that are so funny, so courageous, so connected to the beautiful mystery of Life, and so giving to those he encountered and worked with and shared with but I know that he is infinitely much more than this. He is complete. He is 3 and has experienced Birth, Life, Death, and upon leaving (or maybe it was upon arriving?) gave three loud knocks.
Thanks Byron.

Opium. Dreams. Poppies.

It's just a dream, right? All made up but a willing participant. The plot of the dream made up so long ago we have forgotten what we all agreed to, and now fumble around trying to get back. Like when you run in your sleep but don't move. Wild horses off in the distance of the Great Plains thundering towards you, or is it a summer storm? I haven't decided yet. Both are plausible. Both sound good but each bring something different. It hasn't arrived yet, still time to decide. Still plenty of time to change my mind.
Like what is contained inside the envelope folds of a Poppy. Beautiful silk paper wrapping, smoother to the touch than anything. The hands of God giving you something pretty from the Winter cold, first signs of Spring. The thorny leaves of the Poppy should give signal to what She hides in her heart. Cold icy freeze. Bringing dreams and despair depending...The Opium Angel who reaches out to hold your heart in her icy grip. Numbing, removing, detached. "Hurdle jumper," she said to me. Reached out and taught me what She has to offer from a distance. Understood. I was a Chinese man selling Opium in San Francisco She told me. Part of the dream, part of what I'm here to work through. What I didn't leave behind. The smell of it burning in the night, taking me back. The idea being that She's here to remind you of where you came from so you could jump the hurdle too. Stay on your path, remembering what you came to do. It's so easy to forget though. Then body breaks down trying to remind you of where you sidestepped, helping you to reboot and continue on.
"I fell off the wagon for you," Arden said to Myrna, and their Life began, living his dream. Doing what he came to do and then moving on. Marcia told me she dreamed of a man smoking a pipe and I knew Arden had passed, my best friends Father. Reminds me of when my own Father died nearly 19 years ago? Is that correct? Nineteen? Nineteen years ago I left the fashion industry behind, and decided to work on Broadway. Dressing the actors for their show...pointing the way for them to flow into the spotlight. The illusion of attention. The illusion of being left behind. The illusion of time standing still as they perform their magic for you to hide in too, while you watch. I'm done watching. I'm done pointing the way. Making pictures that no one wants but me. Well, that's okay. I still make them, still do what I can to bring them into the world. Who knows? With the internet so many more see my work than could have years ago, not having a white gallery wall today to hang them on. But I'm not complaining, just wondering when I will get my walls. Once I declared I wanted to work in the theatre. Well, now I'm done, and my work needs a gallery.
I want it to be Wild Horses. I have had a Summer Storm. I know what that is, what it brings. I want the Horses.
Poppies. I'm dreaming of Poppies. Poppies to take me there...remembering what I came to do.

Poppy (1)

Digital Photograph

Print Size Variable

2005

2AM: Full Moon

It's 2AM and the Full Moon wakes

Stirring your night and lighting your way

Uncovering in your mind the things you thought you'd hidden away

A giant bird sits outside my back window

In the hovering blue moonlight it looks like a white faced owl

Huge haunting eyes

It alights silently

We stared at each other for 10 minutes before it turned midair and flew into the blue night

It is so clear, blue hours after midnight and the things in your mind race toward an eternal unconclusion. So when confronted with this giant bird at my back window I wonder of the reality of it. Her. Head bobs and turns quickly. I wonder what She sees of me through the window. Does She get a silent moonlight reflection, obscuring my image in the night or for Her is it clear? Moonlight even as bright as it is this evening can be deceiving. The light hovers playing tricks, and again I wonder of the reality of this meeting. I crack the back door as silently as this house will allow and watch Her turn towards me. Sitting on a line that runs right above this door, perhaps ten feet from me She stares. We are locked for 10 minutes. Door ajar a couple of feet and I wonder if She will come in. Trying to fix my gaze to Hers I know my eyes don't contain what Hers do and I give up and let the door slowly open all the way. I step into the moonlight with Her and She alights, turning midair silently and flies off into the night.

Detail, Pellucid

Oil on Canvas

10' x 5'

2002

Moving On...

Sometimes you just need to sit with something. Let it be as Paul sang to us. I think of how far we travelled since walking down to Yasgur's Farm. Is this the Dawn they sang of? We hardly left the Dawning when suddenly soothsayers of all sorts chanted 2012 and the end based on the Mayan Calendar, and who knows what all else. It is entirely possible that the Mayans just thought "you know, perhaps 10,000 years is long enough. Can I just stop recording the future days at 10,000?" It doesn't end Kids, it just changes. Evolves. Evolution is Gods work anyway. You may be ready for it, you may not. You may need to sit by the side of the road and take a breather and let it settle before moving on, but you need to move on. Read books on Kindle now, because that's where it's at. Listen to music on computer, because that's where you can keep all your favorites. Skip commercials all you want to on your DVR because they will still find you when you google search. Anything you ever searched for, or bought online will suddenly pop up in the column to the right, you can't fast forward the shit. It will follow you, so keep up. Keep ahead. Try.
Yeah it's a long way down that dusty road where you first met a Child of God. Joined a rock n roll band. Road cross country on a bus to Altamont, and we all know how that ended. Prescient don't you think?
You can't have the good without the bad I guess. We haven't learned to just accept the good without manifesting a barometer of bad to prove to us that it was. We need to period the sentence with a tragedy? Why is that? What if we could let it be. Don't judge, watch, listen, allow. Detach. Be here. Don't be here. We are stardust, we are golden, we are the garden, and the Earth she turns, and turns, and keeps on turning...rolling along that great gravity wheel. Free ride. Moving on.

The Road and All That Is

Oil on Canvas, Tire, Rope

Dimensions variable based on hang length. 

2005

Simultaneously September, 2001.

I am obsessed with Time. The endless march of it. What it gives you and what it takes away. How it is controlled by the space it inhabits. How it stretches out endlessly corralling all it owns in the vast reaches of space. It is simultaneous. All the Masters tell us All That Is, is simultaneous. It exists, and not, always.

I will never be able to lose sight of the idea, the images, and the stories of those who left the Twin Towers high up in the air before they fell. In my mind they will be forever caught up. I believe they left before their bodies were thrust out of the buildings. I believe they were all caught up, those who stayed inside and those who leapt. I believe that God caught them up, protected them, brought them home. They flew out long before the shell of their bodies ever returned to Earth.

My favorite images of the Twin Towers are from when I would lay down at the base of one of them. Laying down on the pavement, my head up against the foot of the building and then looking skyward at the enormous length of it. The immensity of the Tower running out of the full scope of my vision closest to me and trailing away as if only an idea from my sightline into the sky. The distance incomprehensible even though it is easily measured. 110 stories.
When the Towers were built their future was designed into them. They existed before they were built and will exist forever after. Their creation and construction is a part of what they were to become even though no one knew the outcome of their story. They are simultaneously linked to what they are, what they contained, and what happened. They are a parable for all of our lives. We each contain the story of our outcome within us, even though we don't know what that is, it is also simultaneous. Our memory provides us with the long look back. Our future towers beyond us but is also here right now, corralled by Time and only lays out before us. Closest to our field of vision taking up all that space and then trailing away into the great distance out from us into the beyond. As if you could lay your head at the base of your Life and look up into your future. You know where you are, what you are made of, where you have been, where you are grounded. You know all that came before you in your Life because you experienced it, but what about that long trail that shimmers into the sky? That endless, beautiful ribbon? The part you might have notions of, and the part that is measurable at the end but at this moment is enormous and incomprehensible. The painful beauty of it astounds because our attachments and emotional lives are so intertwined with our experiences but when all is said and done will still come crashing down around us. A ribbon collapsed. A chain un-taut. The DNA of us, of our Life. All that made us up, who we are, were, became, did and died. Simultaneously existing beyond Time and her space, beyond her reach. Caught up by God, protected and held close. All That Is.

These ideas were at the time beyond my comprehension. I was so pained by those who leapt from the Towers, ejected by the force of the heat, the smoke, all of it. I still am. It is enormous and beyond my measure.  So I painted them and waited patiently for time to pass which would allow me to gauge them, and understand what they contained, were made of, and meant. We may never knew the entire story of the Twin Towers, 9/11, what they were and what was lost. We have them collected into our consciousness and Time will slowly reveal their story as she marches on, trailing like a ribbon all they contain for their full expression. What will never be revealed are the people in her story. They were caught up by God. Out of Time's reach. They left before their great collapse and went Home, but are simultaneously linked forever into our memory of what happened. As painful and difficult as that may be, but part of it, and expressed powerfully.

Caught Up

Oil on Canvas

24" x 40"

2003

Deus ex Machina

Oil on Canvas

8' x 6'

2003

Lambda

Oil on Canvas

7' x 5'

2003

Pi

Oil on Canvas

7' x 5'

2003

Ten Years Ago, August

I was living in New York City, on 47th Street. Hells Kitchen. That summer I started having vertigo off and on during the day, sometimes at night. I would move and suddenly the room would move with me. I would have to sit down and collect myself. I wasn't sick, didn't actually have vertigo, but I hate saying "dizzy spells" as it doesn't sound right. In the evenings I was having gentle out of body experiences, not full, but I could feel the expansion that comes with it as I lay down to go to sleep. I used to get these as a kid, started during adolescence if I remember correctly. Laying down in bed I would start to feel like I was growing at an alarming rate. I felt as if I was being gently rocked side to side and then moving at a sudden speed. It used to scare me, but I decided one day that it didn't have to be unpleasant, that I didn't have to fight it. Once I let go and stopped fighting I soon felt a more pleasurable, incredibly overpowering rushing feeling like I was taking off, or out, or somewhere, and then I would usually fall fast asleep. These stopped for years, and didn't return until much later when I was living in N.Y. The summer of 2001 they started up again, this time with a whoosh. These only happened when I was alone, never when next to another body which I always felt a bit curious about. They still don't for the most part. Some nights I try to make it happen, but can't. At any rate, this coupled with the feeling of vertigo during the day didn't sit well with me, and as I recently quit smoking decided that I was experiencing latent withdrawal symptoms. I try to be a big mind over matter kind of guy. When the vertigo would come on I would talk myself out of it and carefully continue navigating whatever task was at hand. At the time I was dressing Michelle Lee in Tale of the Allergist Wife. Frequently I would be backstage and feel this vertigo rush, and be in the middle of changing Ms. Lee, or any number of activities. Internally I felt something was up, something was coming, something was going to change. My dear friend Vita shared with me a Catholic tradition of August 15, the Assumption of the Holy Mother. I understand from her this is a Day of the Water. A day where you would take yourself to the water; lake, stream, ocean, any body of water apparently, and anoint yourself. The Holy Mother would heal you of any affliction. I found this to be such a beautiful idea. I thought of my dizziness, the rushing out of body experiences, the aural buzz I could hear throughout the day (that is another story for another time), which I eventually learned to tune in to but haven't quite grasped deeper information from. I thought of the weird time I felt we were all living in. It all felt like "It" wasn't enough. Like we wanted more, like we were all unsatisfied. I thought of this Holy Angel who would come and heal of us of whatever needed healing. I painted an image of the Angel. On her shoulders she carries a vessel of Healing Water, this gift. Around her waist hung the holy prayer beads. Mala. 108 of them. Our prayers make up the beads hung from her waist. Our prayers bring her to us. She anoints us, heals us. She wraps her long arms around us and holds us safe. She steps out of a holy light into our lives and soothes our pain, heals our heart. She enlightens us.
After I finished this painting I saw that it appears as if she is stepping out of a light bulb. A few weeks later I painted a lightbulb that was burned out, shattered, scattered, fragmented, ruined, destroyed, exploded. Its image a ghostly burn that can never be forgotten.
Later I would paint a combo of these two images, which has remained unfinished to this day. A painting that I began long after midnight but just a few hours before the morning of September 11. I was unable to fall asleep the evening of September 10. I felt sick to my stomach and tremendously anxious, so I got up to paint thinking it would help. Working through feelings when I can't sleep usually helps me relax. Sometimes it is just because I exhaust myself, then my emotions calm, my mind can rest, I can sleep. The painting I created then is of this same angel being held upside down. She is being lowered by others into the vessel of healing water she carried previously. Next to her are two burned out, exploded, shattered, ruined, destroyed lightbulbs. (This unfinished painting I have never photographed or catalogued. Its image won't be seen here).

I've never shown these two paintings. I understand now where they came from, what they represent, and what I was going through physically, emotionally, and spiritually. What I believe we all were going through at the time, and what we were about to experience. I accept all of it and still marvel at the wonder of the unconscious which whispers to us all. All the time. The unconscious which is connected to our Higher Self, and All That Is. That understands all and yearns to communicate with us through any means possible.
Life is precious. Nothing is promised. Love all.

August 15

Watercolor Stick, Wax on Canvas

44" x 61"

2001

Untitled

Graphite, Wax on Watercolor Paper

40" x 60"

2001

Writing, Sandra Bernhard, Fink, and Les Miserables.

So I started writing a book. This was in part brought about as a result of this blog here, and the reason why I haven't blogged in a while. I think I have a lot of stories, but more than that I want to share. That is my job after all, to leave something behind. Writing every night backstage in my office while the 25th Anniversary tour of Les Miserables has its run here. Surrounded by my sketch of Sandra Bernhard, Stevie Knicks, Natalie Maines, and Pink. They are my spiritual angels. Part of a dream I have that I am trying to manifest, and part of my team of muses. Also it is just a great drawing, so I keep them near. Sandra has always been a dynamic inspiration for me, and a beautiful friend. This sketch sits above a Life magazine cover of Gwen Verdon from 1959. Gwen was a friend and dance partner of sorts to my dear friend and dance teacher Eddie Gasper. Eddie was in Sweet Charity with Gwen. Eddie was, among so many more accomplishments, Bob Fosse's assistant for many productions spanning several years.  In this same picture with Gwen is Harvey Evans. I dressed Harvey in Scarlet Pimpernel on Broadway. We were reunited when he was in the cast of Leap of Faith here at the Ahmanson Theatre. He walked into my office and saw the Life magazine cover and told me that the guy on Gwen's right was him.  He told me how the picture was taken at around 2 am after a show. He said the photographer popped open a bottle of champagne before the shoot started, and they had a blast. Harvey has worked on Broadway all his life, and performed with Eddie in the original West Side Story.
The point? It all comes around. The recognition of the connection that is spun in a life lived as consciously as possible. Beautiful, meant, and perfect. These people are like landmarks that remind me I am in the right place. They would be the ones handing me a paper cup of water in the marathon of Life as I ran by. Supporting and encouraging along the way. I like looking at this road, this path I have been on and all the people along the way. Those who were on the bus for just a bit, and those that are here for the ride. The bus driver and all the stops, fits, and starts. I paint about the road, I think about the road, I love the road. I am writing a book about this road of mine because I think it is interesting. After all I have been the backstage privileged eyes and ears to many many moments, events, and people. All worth sharing. All of the stories say more about me really and just like a self portrait, it makes most sense to the viewer. Reader in this instance.
I always need to have some musical gasoline as I paint. I find in writing this book that it is the same as painting. I need specific music to match what it is I am creating. I have listened exclusively to Fink. His latest is Perfect Darkness, and it is perfectly lighting the way for me for some (as of yet unknown) reason. As I write I'm learning things about myself I had not yet discovered, and the enlightenment is revealing in ways I would not have imagined.
Adelaide Laurino was my first employer on Broadway. She was the production wardrobe supervisor for Les Miserables, among countless other shows. She was back supervising Les Miz on Broadway when I last saw her in 2002. I went to see her, to thank her for the opportunities she gave me and all I learned from her. I wanted to say goodbye to her before my move to Los Angeles. I knew then I wouldn't see her again. She passed a year later, but is still with me. I am reminded of her nightly as I work in my office. She is encouraging me along the way also, as the beginnings of this book is about her in so many ways. Another reminder of being in the right place...as One Day More sings in the background.

Sandra Bernhard and friends sketch, study for a woven, and outline painting: 

Michael Gardner

...hanging on wall next to my desk in my office at work

I dreamed the stars moved

...I am home where I grew up in Fargo. The field that used to be next to our house is like it was when I was a kid. Not like it is now, full of homes. It is night, and I am walking through the field down the dusty, car-created road that divides the old farm field in half. I look up into the deep night sky, full of stars. Stars I could only see when I was young. I see the grid of the heavens that aligns all the stars, and see its simple, elegant perfection. The stars before me near the horizon begin to move, and relocate...shifting their positions in an instant. It is beautiful to watch and as they move I am lifted up by an unseen force, flat on my back, about 6 feet off the ground. I am not afraid, I seem to understand that this should happen. I begin to fly forward towards home at amazing speed.
It is a beautiful dream.
I believe we live in a time of instant change. Of instant evolution. I believe we are closer to realizing who and what we are and our limitless potential. I believe the heavens and all its stars will move to support us as we need them to, as we are ready for, as we are clear enough with our highest reality to guide us, as we are fearless and full of love for ourself, and recognize our inseperable connection to All That Is.
The heavens are but a great bird. Flying us to our greatest destiny. A sweep of its unlimited wingspan and oceans of time are flown to another time and place.

The Heavens Flight

(10) triptych self folding cardboard panels @ 70" x 60"

Oil, Oil Stick on cardboard panel

2010

Creating new

...works takes up most of it's time in the creation process due to my need to just look at it. I can spend the afternoon, many noons over and over, just looking at new work.  This becomes especially true when I am working on the next phase in the evolution of my work. Sitting about ten feet away, and staring. Routinely walking away from the piece and then returning. (Something I learned to do when I was a college freshman, with a drawing of mine that looked finished. However I felt every time I glanced at it I saw that it wasn't fully realized. I propped up this drawing at the far end of the den outside my bedroom and stared at it from a distance until I understood what could be done).  If it is the day after I just started a new piece, I make a point upon my return to the studio the following day to not look at the painting until I am fully settled and situated, with a cup of coffee in hand. Then I finally allow myself to face the work and stare at it.  It is as if this new work showed up in my studio and I am seeing it again for the first time. I quiet my mind, and listen to it.
Yes. Listen.
Some of my paintings are much more talkative than others. I have a painting I did several years ago that spoke incessantly to me while I worked on it.

You, Me, God

48" x 54"

Watercolor, graphite on the backside of gessoed canvas

1998

This painting is deeply personal, and unfolded it's purpose of aligning me with myself, where I came from, love and the struggles I face, and how God reveals to me.

Some paintings don't talk to me until much later. Saving their thoughts until I am ready to listen and hear what it is they have to say. Most all of my paintings tell me their name, or title, if I ask. Putting a word in my head that frequently isn't a word I am familiar with, causing me to have to look it up in the dictionary.

Now, I'm not trying to sound all mumbo-jumbo here. Although if you know me, you understand that this is a natural part of the world I inhabit, and is part of the alchemy in my process. My goal is to impart the importance of listening, of looking, of being quiet. Quiet allows me to see something I may not have realized is there. Quiet gives me room to hear what is there if only I just listen. A painting is always like that, and I can look for hours. I must. I encourage all to allow the time to take in a painting in this way. That is why there are always wooden benches in museums placed back from paintings, so you can sit attentively and look and listen. Often I hang a particular painting near my bed so at night it is the last thing I take in. Quieting my mind to listen, opening my eyes to see so when I fall asleep I am open to my unconscious, and all the unseen worlds that my conscious eyes and ears don't connect with during the day. Plus, it gives me the opportunity to check in with a piece and see generally what I am up to. Giving me the option to go further if need be, to reflect, and then the following day when I go to my studio I have that information distilled for me when I work.

My new paintings which I am currently considering as "(The) Space Between" pieces are taking much quiet consideration. I was thinking while I was working on the current studies that I needed a reference from an artist before me, and was trying to think of who or what that was. The name Franz Kline popped into my head. Not an artist I have spent any time considering, nor can I say his work has stuck with me from anything I saw. However I am always trusting of quiet information so I googled images, and there they were. The first remark in this historical line of work (not ultimately 'the first' but first in terms of contemporary art, that reflects this direction for me...I could also site the line drawings of Van Gogh, and Picasso...but then I am not here to do research for you...just ask that you look as well), that gave me encouragement to continue. No artist in any medium works in limbo. To fail to question what came before and not recognize your place in the historical line is to deny your place alongside those that came before, and those who will stand next to you, after. So while I make a point to always work originally, I make another point to know what was done before me. Listening to what others have said too.

Study for (The) Space Between

8" x 12"

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

2011

The Space Between

...is where I/we all seem to be right now. So much dismantling of the land is shaping up. Tornadoes, earthquakes, floods. We have to remember we are on a ball made of rock and water held together by unseen force and floating through space defined by the lack of substance in between objects. So much and so little happen; royal weddings come and go of a privileged class by birth which are media-vomited down our throats as if they were all that mattered, terrorist leaders taking their last stand behind sandy walls, and celebrity children of celebrities selling out Radio City Music Hall on account of bad behavior.
I am reading Life by Keith Richards. He writes of the silent quiet spaces between the chords, the drums, the vocals that become interesting, beautiful.
I think it is the many dazzling facets of ones Life that become the brilliance. The facets. The flat blank spaces between the hard angled ridge in a diamond.
The space.
We are so compelled to fill our lives with constant, that the moment of pause makes one unnerved. Fidgety. Vulnerable.
Keith is right. It is the space that is beautiful. It allows you to recognize where you just came from, and gives clue as to where you may be headed.

Study for (The) Space Between 

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

8" x 12"

Michael Gardner

The Shells/New York City Post 9-11 Paintings

www.michaelgardnerart.com

I am finishing preparing for The Artist Project NY. I have nine new paintings done, and one left to finish. I had previously painted 10 large oil paintings in 2009 on canvas. These paintings were based on the small watercolor studies I did back in 2001, from polaroids I took of daily life in New York. Manhattan to be exact. A month after the 9-11 attacks to be timely precise. I took the polaroids as I wandered about the city. I love polaroids, something about them makes for a perfect time-capsule of a moment in a way that I don't find in 35mm or digital pictures. I think part of that notion is based on Andy Warhol's polaroid work. Part of it comes from my work in high fashion, where you polaroid the model as the final look is established and becomes the reference for the runway. Part of it comes from making the daily bible in TV or film. Polaroiding the actor in their look for a particular scene, noting what is worn and how in the event you need to re-shoot. A snapshot of that exact moment. So I was for me, trying to hold onto those days shortly after this singularity of 9-11. Trying to remember what life was like before and not yet ready to digest what was now. In fact now was now post the event, and life was moving along as it had to. We are always trying to keep All of It in status quo, but God doesn't work that way. All That Is uses evolution to express itself, and evolving is in my mind doing God's work. Allowing yourself to grow and change. Accepting events, the momentum of life, and change as the only permanent status we actually have. It took me nearly 10 years to allow myself to make the large scale paintings of The Shells, as was always my intent, from the small delicate watercolor studies. When I finally did, I was living in Los Angeles and had my studio downtown. Downtown Los Angeles; where Hollywood comes to film all the outside "N.Y." scenes due to the buildings and facades they dress up to appear as the real place, when they can't or won't go to N.Y. to film, and where I found myself on the 10th floor of a building in my studio listening to the noise of the city below. The same noise any large city would produce. It could be N.Y. sound-wise with sirens, busses, and various loud pedestrian antics rising up to my open window just like the wolves I used to listen to howling down 8th Avenue in Hells Kitchen where I lived when I started this project. It was the perfect time to paint The Shells.
A few months ago I applied for and was invited to participate in The Artist Project NY, and I knew it was time to show these paintings, and in the city they were meant to be shown. I wanted to paint some smaller pieces for the show. A new reflection on The Shells that moved the series forward in another way. I came across Andy Warhol's Reversals, and realized that I wanted to look at these paintings in this inward style. I wanted to make the background as important as the foreground "action" of the figures, if not stronger. In this way I hope to show how ephemeral and transient the Moments are, and drive home what I learned after 9-11. Life is precious, fleeting, and fragile. We are all but shells, and like a shell hard and beautiful, but surely Time will wear down the shell and but a grain of sand will remain. And as William Blake wrote long before:

To see a world in a grain of sand 

And a heaven in a wild flower

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

And eternity in an hour

Geranium Shell

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

44" x 60"

Fuschia Shell/Reversal

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

18" x 30"

In my studio in prep for the show. New paintings.

The Shells/Reversals

Oil, Oil Stick on Canvas

18" x 30" each

Upon meeting Stephen Hawking...

I'm working on 33 Variations starring Jane Fonda. It is because of her and her generosity that I was able to meet, speak to, shake hands with, and be in the presence of Stephen Hawking. And he did in fact speak back to me, which I learned firsthand takes time and patience. He said "yes". More on that later...
Stephen came to see Jane, whom he described as his heart throb, on account of Barbarella, and that being just one of many reasons I would bet! And why not? How perfect that this man of Science would be attracted to the beautiful and sexy Barbarella, the first lady of outer space, who is charged with helping to save Earth from a deadly weapon. He brought her a beautiful bouquet of flowers...we all stood around in a semi circle as Jane introduced him to Moises Kaufman, the writer and director of 33 Variations. Jane plays a musicologist who is struck with ALS as she is writing what will be her final paper on Beethoven's 33 Variations. Jane asked him if as with Beethoven upon losing his hearing resulted in creating some of his most beautiful works was the same as Stephen's mind being freed from the constraints and distractions of the body. After several minutes he replied "Yes. It gave me the freedom from having to teach". We were dumbfounded with delight, and all laughed as he shared this with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes. I stood directly in front of him in this semi circle, about 15 feet away. I was struck by his presence. Awestruck is more appropriate. I joke sometimes that after working in showbiz as long as I have, that I've met everyone. However, I never imagined that I would be in the same country at the same time as Mr. Hawking, let alone get to be in his company. Jane related to Stephen that there was a man present who was  their costumer and had read all his books and was so excited hearing of his visit. She looked for me  and asked me to come forward to meet him. Time stopped for me, and no joke. This is one of those moments that time speeds up and stops simultaneously. You step out of your body and something else takes over...I stepped forward to greet him (in front of I would guess 30 - 40 people?). The word on my mind the past couple of years has been "vulnerable". This on account of Francesco Clemente, who said to Charlie Rose in an interview that an artist must "cultivate vulnerability". In the past couple of weeks several people in my life have made mention of the importance of allowing yourself to being vulnerable. Well, my opportunity struck me like lightening. I said to Stephen: "I can't say I've understood all that I've read in your books, but I've tried to. They have been an enormous inspiration to me". I then wanted to say something about how important I believed his life was during this very specific time in our world's history, what with the state of humanity...but all that came out next was, "you're a very special man, and I am blessed to be in your presence". During this his kind assistant who was with him from Cambridge reached over and placed his hand in mine. It was all I could do not to spill tears from my eyes, and keep my voice from breaking entirely. I was moved to meet him in a way that I cannot begin to translate. I feel like I've been enlightened. I feel like I was blessed to meet a man who with all the grace and patience of a saint conducts his life in a way that is a parable for all of us. As I stood before him and looked into his eyes I felt like he was coming from a great distance, but his presence was enormous and palpable. I believe that he must operate on many levels due to the confines of his body and the chair he wheels through life in. But there is nothing imperfect about him. There isn't anything that I would now after meeting him think of as handicapped, or inhibited by difficulty. His grace and insight allow him to thrive in a manner that no one else could possibly imagine, and or replicate, but which allows us to learn beautiful lessons from. I know I will think about and meditate on Stephen for a very very long time, more than likely for the rest of my life...there was that much there for me from that brief but infinite crossing of paths. I hope that as an artist I can distill this into works that share a glimpse of this infinite.

Before the time with Stephen was finished, I was having a picture taken with him. I told him about an argument I had online with the British artist Damien Hirst about conceptual art. I shared that my response to something Damien said was constructing a box and sealing it with tape. I wrote on the box Schrodinger's Cat. I related how Schrodinger's idea that the cat existed and didn't exist at the same time was a basic law of physics, and how much these ideas inspire me. He responded, "Yes".

ps Schrodinger's Cat is pictured in the Wednesday, November 24th post below...coincidence? There is no such thing...