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We just got our business cards

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a sheep egg

@2010. moving along.

exploring fantasies

I have been having the strangest couple of months.

I feel out of place as though some interstitial zone has

opened up its path to me, yet I fear treading its ground.

The fear exists because of past experiences with my

nagging wayward spirit, that seems to be wanting some

respite and stability now that my hardest year is drawing

to a close.

I haven't created anything in months -until recently-and I feel

as though my heart could burst with every moment

of practiced restraint.

Of not knowing what to say and how to say it.

I am working backwards, trailing these fantasies and

memories that have become trapped and silent. Just over a year

ago I remember speaking about preservation. I crave distortion now.

I have a funny feeling about the rapidly approaching new year.

I am yearning to collaborate and cleanse my spirit and body.

I need to feel weightless again.

yellow skin red piss

yellow skin red piss

Arc

we have set up a facebook page here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Arc-Magazine/155918677753214?ref=mf

keep your eyes peeled at www.arcthemagazine.com

lots of motion in the next month.

the ark: a work in progress

The Ark, a work in progress.

in variations

my 2011 resolution is to learn how to

letterpress all of my text pieces.

© 2010

4 steps

4 stills from the ark

@2010

the grands

this morning I woke up and missed

the last days with my father.

a sickness lingering in my throat.

the grands © 2010

With Imagination little can be done;

www.littletundra.org

beginning and end

In 1954, my mother donned her red uniform and stood still whilst a proper

photographer from St. Vincent visited the family on the hill where they

lived at Mount Pleasant. She retells the story to me each time we look

through our family album that is coming apart that its edges. The loose

plastic clinging to the surface of the photographs trapping air and dust

beneath, near the faces, skin and water. I ask her if she remembers the

day, she looks at me with disbelief on her face; most of the time my

mother can barely remember yesterday. I guess she was nine or ten in

the photograph found below.

The more I study this photograph the more I find myself in it. Not in any

of the faces that litter the steps but in her gesture and being, it is

uncanny, at that age I could replace her and no one would be the wiser.

She is at the top standing with her hand on her hip, her wild frizzy hair

making some Holly expression. They are all gathered together for this

important moment, it wasn’t often that photographers came to Bequia

and navigated to the top of the island. I can barely imagine what it looked

like back then: sparsely populated, rolling hills of dry sour grass, small

wooden houses with kitchens and tanks as extensions, thatched galvanized

roofs, pineapple skirts on mothers, schooner filled harbors,

wharf-less shores.

Yet I am privy to this world, to scenes that would be impossible for me to

recall. I can sit years later and talk about that specific moment, and all the

moments that spiral out of its center because of the existence of this

photograph and numerous others. I can recall the scent of the sea and the

wind as it captures me in the moment of positioning myself where that step

used to be. The faint scent of rotting mangoes, cashews and plums rising in

the air, and the evening turning a piercing warm before the sun drops

beyond the horizon line like a heavy globular God. All of these things

I envision in a single unchanging moment, time inside me standing still.

I find myself now at the end of the beginning of this unquantifiable thing;

the journey has been at times treacherous and enlightening, but I have had a

companion, my work. There is an omnipresent advent light protruding forth

from the horizon in my dreams, usually it is tangled up in some diluted and

deluded fantastical realm or in the arms of a nightmare. I am seeing things

that have been hidden from me, hopes and dreams buried by previous

encounters with hostility, anger and insecurity the many revelations and

Revelations, the alphas and omegas.

Yet I remain at the crux of understanding the freedom of this light, its

action, fluxes and waves. In the beginning there was light. I am learning to

embrace its life and rays; I am beginning to believe, as an act of generosity

and as an active gift of love.

fracture

is it the fact that i have been tucked under

my mother's skirt for the last four months

that I have suddenly become really aware

of fabric, tapestry and its potential?

a work in progress.

fracture © 2010. from the compound series.

tucked under her skirt

i am exposed to her flesh

and to the fabric that swings gently from

her hips.

swish, swish, swish.

her body broken and aged, distorted

now in sleep, a permanent sorrow

has taken the place of rest. Nightmares

sound like whines, that God cant reach.

shriek, shriek, shriek

Yet she lays in tormented rest

unshaken; steady in her faith,

comforted without gestures.

A miracle transpired.

inversion

My trekking back to the erudite North is

what the doctor ordered. The wheels have

gathered their tyre rough-edged black back.

I am ready to attack, pounce and step outside of

any known comfort zone.

Tonight I feel able, for the first time in

months. My mind, a mass of clouds, but

clarity and silence slivering its way through.

Today, a kind compatriot whispered to

me about destination and considering

art as an entity belonging in a physical

place/space. A definition that anchored me

in feeling comfortable to arrive to an end, not a

finality but a beginning to think about work

on walls, within a boundary of material.

I am considering pages again- paper and its

tactility- as an invitation to produce work

on transitions has made its way on my list

of gracious opportunities.

Up North contains a collection of unforeseen treasure.

Not some wayward dream of an easy road,

but a budding network of island aromas that wash over

me in image and words. Tonight I am grateful for my mind,

for the collection of people around me and mostly

for the embedded passion I have for the picture, the scrawl,

the murmur, the motion, the light, the color and the rendering

of imaginations and souls.

stir it up!

She threw a musky

netting over our heads

to protect us from the noise that

bellowed up from the inside out

when isolation was confused with

the stillness of silent tongues.

© 2010

Diffusion Magazine: Ortus

My work has been selected to be included

and featured in Diffusion Magazine

Volume III, 2011 –

Group Showcase

Theme: Ortus (Latin) — rise, become visible, appear, birth, origin.

Along side other artists

Barbara J. Dombach

Becky Ramotowski

Brenda Biondo

Brian Jolley

Brianna Burnett

Buzzy Sullivan

Catie Soldan

Catlin Harrison

Colin Edgington

Deon Reynolds

Elspeth Maxwell

Gail Pine

Grace Kim

Greg Kemp

Heather Leavitt

Holly Bynoe

Jason Kelley

Jeffrey Crowe

Jessica Somers

John Bridges

Juliana Cala

Kirsten Hoving

Laura Hartford

Lisa McCarty

Lori Bell

Matt Frantz

Michael Kirchoff

Michel Pincaut

Nicole Campanello

Niniane Kelley

Polly Chandler

Rebecca Clark

Rebecca Harlan

Richard Hricko

Rómulo Peña

Ross Sonnenberg

Ryan Zoghlin

S. Gayle Stevens

Tarja Trygg

Teresa Nabais

Arc Magazine Survey

Dear Friends, Family and Colleagues,

I want to make you aware that Nadia Huggins and I have

decided to collaborate on our first project which will be the

production of a quarterly Arts and Culture E-Magazine dedicated

to the evolution and growth of Caribbean Art.

We are now in the inception phase of planning and we would

like to gather some critical information from the public before

we go ahead. We have put together a short survey and would deeply

appreciate it if you take the time to go through it and give us your honest

feedback.

The information gathered from this, will prompt us on how to proceed

and move on with our conceptual ideas on how to bring this new venture

to life. Thank you.

Please find the survey here:

http://survey.constantcontact.com/survey/a07e30hoxqzgdnd5njp/start

Kindest Regards

H

doppelgänger

this morning trails to the east side of

the porch, led my gaze to rest upon

the season's declining sapodilla clusters, brown,

sparse and turning the concrete a warm mahogany.

My ears hearing your voice as you called,

head rearing to your valiant direction. Eyes

unfocused for a confusing particle of a second,

while I realize again for what must be

the millionth time, that men in dark blue

dress shirts clinging to their skin in this dusky

humidity-

are only reminder that you are gone.

oh captain my captain © 2010

a gesture

the genetics of a gesture

friday evening watching the sunset

after two years apart we have begun healing, mending

and have started the plans to spend the rest of our lives

with each other. It is not the custom for me to bare any

sort of words that move between our beings, but. I figure

promises and goals have accountability attached to them

intrinsically.

" it will be a struggle, we will have our difference boil towards

the surface and explode, we will have new parts of us extending

beyond our individual comprehension. We have a life together

ahead and I want us both to be fearless, compassionate, forgiving,

brutal, honest and forever questioning who we are individually

and collectively. Only then will we fully understand the potential

and greatness of our love together."

Wanderlust

“Homesick, my desire

Crawled across snow

Like smoke, for its lost fire”- Derek Walcott

My bed is in the south-west corner of a small room, walls to

the north and south, on the north wall resides a clock in the shape

of a compass’s wind rose, long hand on eight, short hand between

one and two, much closer to one. It closely mimics the clock that hung in

my parents’ living room for years when I was a child. A golden crown

of thorns nailed into the concrete to its left, a cabinet to store my

papers and books, lined with several paintings that my New Jersey

surrogate family sawed up and placed inside for reinforcement.

I have collected a lot of books, more than I can read in a lifetime it seems.

To the bookcase’s right a seven-foot mirror with the words “To Repel Ghosts”

written across its top edge in black sharpie scrawl, leans against the east

bookcase ascending up to the ceiling, plastic filing cabinets line the floor all

around it. Six film canisters are collecting dust. To the right of the clutter,

a small separator whose cloth oscillates between being bright white and moldy

yellow, is sectioned off into long rectangular sheets that offer privacy. It is

always pulled once I am sectioned off and in hiding.

Never pulled on a sunny morning, I lie in bed and watch the yellow spurts

creep over my body up into my eyes, my pupil and iris dancing in tune with the

brightness. The quality of light in New York is different, something about it

jarring, rough and erudite. The south wall has a bell screwed into the wall, its

brass exterior rusty after I left it covered in salt water and vinegar for a few

days last year when I started to conceptualize bringing “The Antilles” back to

life. To its right a decoration of the North Star and a bouquet of small dried

Calle lilies that were sent to me by my lover when I left. She thought I

abandoned her; it has taken a long time for us to come to any sort of

repair; we are finding a new language to communicate with, and to ease

the distance.

There are two photographs of mine that hang opposing each other;

one of a field, fake flowers, a plastic bag and glistening magic shoes.

It is black and white and blurry. I took it with a Holga in October 2008 in

northwestern New Jersey. The other photograph is a diptych of my lover

lying on our bed, her hand touching the plywood of her father’s house

that is split up the middle. The pillow that her hand is resting on is white.

The rest of her body is naked and shrouded in darkness, in the left section

her nipples face me. They resemble warriors.

The top of the room is lined with three strings of white Christmas

lights; I turn them on when I want the room to feel cozier, when I want to

feel less alone. To the west a red piece of cloth hangs from a golden rod

with leaves to one end, an emblem to a sort of forgiveness after reading

Genesis (the beginning) a multitude of times growing up. Two smaller

mirrors occupy the space and are littered with business and exhibition

cards. Looking at them now I realize that I wasn’t aware that I was/am so

attached the memorabilia of art.

I frequent the DIA/Electronic Arts Intermix building for Artist’s talks and

screenings of video works in their small stuffy room that is stocked with

too many chairs if you are flying solo through Chelsea. I always do. I like

the way my feet hit the concrete, and it is the only day once a month when I

really walk and listen to my body and my mind. For hours regardless of the

weather on Thursdays or Saturdays I find refuge within the sectioned corridor.

The collected memorabilia is housed around my mirrors. The disorder is stacked

between the glass and the frames; Weems, Anatsui, Trecartin, Ahwesh, Jonas,

Ruby, Lin, Wool, Cardiff, and Wonjnarowicz. The streets pass me, 22nd, 23rd,

24th, never past 27th, always above 17th, the small section that I feel akin to

I share with a multitude. The spaces in between the excuses and pardons,

openand closing doors, the Half King and crossing streets blindly. I find

stillness in 7000 oaks.

It is hard to think that four feet basalt stone columns stand out

amidst all the concrete, they don’t. In spring the trees that the

columns are paired with come into bloom; Linden, Gingko, Bradford Pear,

Sycamore, Honey Locust, Pine Oak, Red Oak, Elm, and Sycamore. One morning

between the budding leaves and reproductive systems I drifted into and out of

their lines, moving into and out of their passage and presence. The conscious

and social construction of 7000 oaks is how I look at the urban space of

New York when I flutter around and try to make order of the chaos and the

concrete. I liken the city to a macrocosm of that small space created by Joseph

Beuys, where I am allowed to drift into and out of the way, taking in the beauty

but understanding the form, content and its metaphysical relationship to the

urban, metropolitan and global.

Rebecca Solnit states, “Walking shares with making and working that

crucial element of engagement of the body and the mind with the world, of

knowing the world through the body and the body through the world...walking

is how the body measures itself against the earth, walking assuages or

legitimizes this alienation. All of my sparks and project ideas usually start when

I walk, when I explore old streets and give my mind time to shed its neuroses.

Blood vessels acting accordingly to shut out unwanted voices and fear, with my

body in motion, mental momentum stabilizes.