Lost in the Woods

I’ve always been quite taken with medieval paintings especially those that tell a story by putting all of the events of that story onto one canvas.

Soldier’s Dance

Soldier's Dance

Newfoundland

A Dream of Newfoundland

Newfoundland was the place where the Vikings first landed. Where Portuguese fisherman dried their fish. Where Irish monks first landed in the new world. It was for a long time the jumping off place to flights from the Americas to Europe. It was for a long time a place neither Canadian nor British. And it’s people are a treasure.

Monster From 20,000 Feet

Monster From 20,000 Feet

I had this vision of life on other planets where intelligence would take the form of clouds, underwater steam, etc. That intelligence/consciousness could arise from the accumulation of different creatures into things like flocks and swarms.

Dusk

Dusk

I had this sense when working on this piece of a place/time being haunted. And haunted not be ghosts or some spiritual entity. But that nothingness was haunted by being. That where there once was nothing, there was something, and then it vanished. In physics there is an idea that even in the void of space where nothing exists, matter appears and disappears, like a boiling soup which is constantly bubbling. That is the idea I had for this piece.

Daniel’s Dilemma

Strange as you get older you don’t trust the spelling of words. I must have stared at dilemma for some time trying to figure out what was wrong with the word. Should there only be one m? Or maybe there should be an n in the word. I used spell check on the word but it didn’t make me feel any better. It just doesn’t look right.

Daniel's Dilemma

Crucifixion of a Pair of Jeans

This was the first of a series of collages that I just worked on hoping to use them as illustrations for my jazz poems. I’m not sure they work. But its something that has to be slept on.

Crucifixion of a Pair of Jeans

Ill for Lives

I’ve begun to do some illustrations/collages for THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS. The work so far has little to do with jazz. Except for the surreal quality of the work. And the way the work seems to me move from one theme into another as if the pictures were in a constant state of morphing. That’s what I like about jazz. And the catchiness of some phrases. You listen to a lot of music from the 30s and 40s and you can’t get them out of your head. One of the Andrew Sisters tunes about eating keeps rattling around in my head. Or try and forget this one. watch?v=Xe2UXccid40&feature=related
This song was very popular with the Nazis. And also popular amongst the inmates of the concentration camps. Its almost a distasteful irony.

To What Degree?

Now I have finished this series on Jazz Singers. I was going to include several other singers Ella Mae Morse, Lena Horne, Julie Christy, Jaye P. Morgan, Nina Mae McKinney, Eunice Wilson, and Sheila Guyse, all of whom have interesting stories but you can too much of anything. Now I have to come up with some artwork for this book. First of all I have to clear off a table to work on. I know when I start these things it takes weeks to accomplish. Unless i blitz. Which I think I’m too old to do anymore. The other thing is the artwork may or will not relate to any specific singer but more to the feeling of jazz that I have in my blood. To what degree I am successful, who knows. In any event I may post some of my work here. Otherwise this sight could be abandoned for a while. Still working on my other sight

THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS: Ella Fitzgerald

THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS:
Ella Fitzgerald
Born a lonely girl. Unkept and notoriously shy. With the taps strumming Ella jiggled her baby fingers across the hardwood. Harmonizing. Stomach growling. Ella took to scatting. As the windows rattled in the sugar sea bordello. Ladies entertained their paramours. By the hour. For exercise. Ella ran bets for her uncles. Who felt lucky? ‘That’s got to be me.’ Who felt rich? ‘Looks like my number has come up again.’ Ella was placed in the Colored Orphan Asylum. Poor girl. Years later her mother died of a heart attack. After a car accident. Passed time in a reform school. Where no one knew her name. But beat her just the same. Escaped. Back on the streets. Where she remained. One day she stumbled into the Apollo Theatre. Sang two songs. A gawk. She had eyes for the bigger prize. The belle of the ball. How that lady could scat. I don’t know if she was happy or sad. Someone said she was the only one who really knew. All she heard were Gabriel’s golden horns. The rushing of the percussion. That low road that simple strife. Where she stole notes from the birds. And sang with the breeze.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow