Thursday, June 28, 2012

Austin TX


Headed out of the Truck Stop for Austin. This sleeping in truck stops is economical but not for your sleep.  At times there have been gurgling Mac trucks idling next to Foxy Brown the whole night. My needs have gotten smaller and my tolerance is high, as long as I have a bathroom, fill my thermos with hot water and sleep in a safer place than a rest stop.
In the AM, I'm heading east on 10 and have 6 hours to get to Austin. The plan is to rendezvous with Ian and Jill, a couple I met briefly in SF.

Crossing Texas in April, the wildflowers make the highway a colorful blur as the desert gives way to lush vegetation and the rolling hills are painted thick with purple and yellow. “Yaw Missy, it’s the right time of year to cross Texas.” A local drawled to me.  This is a fertile area and far from West Texas landscape. I pull into a little town called Fredericksburg settled by Germans. Hence the wineries, beer gardens, galleries and home furnishing stores line the streets of this small town. I’m craving a beer but resist the delay of my Austin arrival by forgoing the Beer Garden temptation. Driving on, we come to President Johnson’s hometown, where they have renamed everything Johnson. Heard the presidential library was excellent but still trying to make time. 

I find myself a $12 a night accommodation in Austin at the Pecan Grove RV Park. It’s nestled in Barton Springs and looks like I’ve found the place that Austin folk go to unwind. The park is lush with rolling hills, picnic tables, a public swimming hole and hiking trails. I park the van, shower, and rendezvous with Jill and Ian at of all places, a beer garden in the newly developed part of Austin, by the airport. Diesel sits under the picnic table and acknowledges every plate of food that gets passed over his head. Jill is a writer and editor for American Fiction, a small non-profit and is working with the SF folks of Litquake for Austin’s version of the literary festival.  Ian is a computer programmer, and an accomplished musician. In retelling my Marfa experience he blurts out that he knows Solange, Beyonnce’s sister.  He sold her a song for one of her albums and she remixed it to end up in one of her movies. Small creative class here in Texas or at least they all know each other. Later Ian would take me around to the Red River Street scene and we would check out three different bars all with live music.

My first day in Austin starts with Jill’s recommendations. I head out to find the bookstore, Domy that she thought I would like and found myself lost and driving by her other recommendation: Wally Workman Gallery. A woman smoking out of the gallery window greets me and I think I love her for that transgression. We discuss Ian Shultz’s work and she tells me he shows in San Francisco. Wally Workman, and that is her name, gave me the tour of her gallery and recommendations on other galleries to check out. Loved Ian Shultz’s large expressionist strokes of his paintings and hope to catch a show of his in San Francisco.

Finding my way to the other side of town, I enter Domy Books. A “creative space” and bookstore. Graphic Novels, self-published writers, a great art show and an event schedule for live readings. Russell, the proprietor loved Diesel and when he heard our story, was eager to give me tips on Austin and where to go. He knew Tim from the bookstore in Marfa and I was beginning to think I am in this network of fascinating people that are conspiring to keep me in their web.  From there we headed out on Russell’s tips. On South Congress we hit the food truck and shop scene. A beautiful airstream ablaze with Hey Cupcake met me with a greedy eye. Musicians lugging equipment to their next gig. Dogs and more dogs, in the bookstores and in a beautiful vintage/object d’art junk shop.

It’s getting close to sunset and I take my leftover lunch from Magnolia Café and hike it down to the South Congress Bridge. There is a crowd forming for the spectacle of the flight of Bats that emerges every evening to feed. By 8pm the nocturnal creatures finally leave their roost and if it weren’t for the red searchlights from the tour boats on the river, one might not see them at all. Apparently, other times of the year make for better viewing.

My first foray into the Austin nightclub scene is to “The Broken Spoke”. Russell recommended it, as it’s a classic real deal Texas Honky Tonk nightclub with live music and two-step dancing. I enter the hall and there is a cover, the woman drawls, “You alone, honey? You gonna dance with men that ask?” I nodded and stuttered something about not knowing how to 2 step. She motions me to go on in, free of charge. I find a table with a woman in full western glitzy outfit. I sit really close to the band as they are tight and pulling me in with every twang on their guitar. Watching the dancing was like watching a free for all interpretation of the 2 step. There were college kids throwing their partners through the air and a ninety-year-old couple moving evenly and smartly through the crowd. Another middle aged man had a swing partner who put them all to shame. The band was tight and the dancers interpreted their music with a Honky Tonk glee. The band introduces the woman sitting with me as she used to play with them. Her voice roars out of this little woman with fantastic clarity and she takes the house down. I’m blushing with that instant fan feeling when she comes back down to sit with me. Jane has her own band now and we have a drink together while her new found fans come up and congratulate her on her fine voice.

Closing my first Austin bar and its only Tuesday.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Very Large Array & Marfa, TX

New Mexico/TEXAS
April 7th – April 13
High and strange indeed, New Mexico is a NASA cowboy, Navajo artist who lives in an adobe. I will miss this wonderful strange place where the scientific future and the ancient past cross-pollinate in the land of enchantment.
As I head out, I take in the transformation of spring on the now blushing landscape. Shedding the mud color, everything is blooming rapidly into green, yellows, and reds with the distant mountains of purple. New Mexico is morphing into its other side from the monotone winter to every saturated hue on the color wheel.
Heard Space?
I launch American Bones road trip with one last stop in New Mexico, the Very Large Array, fondly known as the VLA… really. Apparently it has been in countless movies but “Contact” is the only one that comes to mind. As the world’s premier Radio Astronomy Observatory, it is listening to galactic noise - like black holes. It’s science architecture that eavesdrops on the Universe, our giant ears in an infinite café.
Exiting the highway, one drives another 30 minutes till coming to an area where the satellite dishes start to appear. It’s as if they are all listening in one direction while one or two are distracted and face another direction. The landscape becomes surreal with these massive dishes in rows like an orchard of robots. They are on huge tracks and have the ability to move 360 degrees. Surprisingly you can walk right up to them and take in their epic proportions, as if you were in a pre 911-world. They remind me of Pixar’s animated desk lamp and seem “cute” with collared faces looking into space. They are inspiring as I can see their imagery as scientific illustrations in a silkscreen, a block print and in photographs.
Reflection From the Control Room Window
The VLA visitor center is dense with explanation and a little over the geek top in regards to discussions of computer capacity for the data crunching. The gift shop was not inspired either. This pains me to see lousy graphics on mugs, key chains and mouse pads as well as T Shirts and other unrelated knickknacks. This interest in gift shops will be a theme in the trip. I am compulsively analyzing the missed opportunities in imagery, graphics and the lack of local art in these places. I would love to change the fact that the manufacturing of American souvenirs is made in China. More on that topic later.

Diesel is wilting from the heat and is eager to get into the dark van and hold his muzzle to the window wind. We head south to the town, Truth or Consequences. Yes, it is named after the show, but it is known as Spa City for the hot springs and Branson's SpacePort America. Yes, you have to go to New Mexico to be a space tourist. I wonder if they have a gift shop...

Small and sweet, my favorite little restaurant is called Deli Belly. I have stopped here before and ate under the shade of a vine trellis. The food is locally made and wonderful. The proprietor gave me a heads up on Marfa TX. She made sure I knew about the Prada Store. A collaboration of German artists built a one room Prada store and stocked it with a few shoes and purses in the middle of the desert. I drove for another couple of hours and soon forgot about the store and thought about the heat. It’s the kind of heat that sandwiches you from above and from the sweltering ground. I see a building go past with an awning I swear said Prada. I stop and turn around on the spot. There is a door but it does not open. It has lights that go on at night but there is no one there. It's is 194 miles south of El Paso, close to the hostage taking town of Juarez, Mexico. There is nothing there.

A luxury store in the wilderness is a statement on perceptions of value; well that is my take away.
I love it and see grant funded art installed in the wilderness, as its own statement on value. Public art will be another theme in my travels.

It's time for the photo shoot, it is a luxury goods store after all.  I think I’m appropriately dressed in a little black dress with cowboy boots. Diesel lurks his lithe body around the store with his hound nose to the ground and Foxy has the right hue but still manages to ruin the neighborhood. My only company is the train going by about 100 yards away. The engineer blows his lonesome whistle as I wave and he responds with a luxurious long note.

Foxy Prada Brown
Diesel vs Prada

I'm Prada Myself
Now I will be late getting to my tour and there are no refunds for my “block tour” for ex New Yorker, architect and sculptor, Donald Judd’sStudio and living space. I get to town and no one is there at the Judd offices. He bought half the town, so it’s hard to know exactly which building is actually the right location. I go across to the hotel to get directions, and the man tells me where to go for the block tour. I meet a crowd of folks that that are standing outside these massive oak doors to the Judd compound. This beautiful woman says we have been waiting for you. I apologize profusely for being late and thank them for waiting for me. She is wearing hounds tooth gym shorts made of silk with a silk butterfly top. Her skin is cocoa and her black hair is thick wavy corkscrews down past her shoulders. She is dewy sweet and of Creole descent with super- model possibility. Her escort is this handsome African American man with cotton Capri pants, and sporting light blue espadrilles. The four other young people are all from New Orleans and are architectural students with an interest in Donald Judd’s life work. They gather around me with such eagerness that I’m taken back a bit. I look into their faces and ask,
 “Who is the guide?”
 “Why, you’re not?” Blurts out a young architect.

After we clear up the fact, I am not the tour guide, and all these folks have not been waiting for me, but for someone to open the gates. It dawns on me this is it, I have just driven 5 hours to get to this tour of the abode of an esteemed sculptor, installation artist and architect for nothing. I am crestfallen as its Sunday night and nothing else art related in town is open till Wednesday.
The beautiful Creole woman mentions the fact her friend told her to go to the bookstore in town, as Tim knows everyone. All agree that might be the best and only idea we have. Walking the three blocks in this tiny ranching town and I learn my new friend is Beyoncé’s sister, Solange. Well, that explains the fabulous bone structure. We all pile into Tim’s bookstore and it is an uber hip architectural bookstore with thousands of ways I could spend my money. Here we are in a one-horse town, filled with ranchers, celebrities, architects and New Yorkers. Where I am I? True to his reputation, Tim puts a call in and we get a guide with keys to the massive oak doors and start our “Block Tour”.
Behind the cement block walls is a hundred feet of gravel interrupted by a perfect rectangle concrete pool on the left. Alongside the pool runs a custom-built picnic table fit for twenty under a modern trellis of vines. There are two huge warehouses on the right and directly across the span of gravel is a U shaped wall that runs along the outer wall but slopes down to throw the horizon off. Our guide tells us that Judd came here from New York to ensure that his sculptures and installations would be permanently installed and viewed exactly as he intended. Lucky for him, his reputation has enough pull to make Marfa a destination for the culturally literate and elite. So much so, you can eat a five star very expensive dinner at one of the many fine dining establishments in town. We tour his workshops and his living quarters (there are many, including the bank in town). He has a library in one of these warehouses and he seems to have so many interests that a Dewy Decimal System seems appropriate here. Every space has a wooden framed futon-like couch bed and it always faces the wall. He loved to entertain guests and these would be the guest rooms, cavernous spaces with steel, wood and books for company.
Looking Back to the Entrance of Donald Judd's Block Residence
We are not allowed to take pictures but I got one off looking back at the entrance and a view of his customized Jeep.
The environment he created reminds me of the Bay Area artist, David Ireland. Here, space, form, light and materials create an effect that can be dictated to conform to merging living working spaces. Judd started this project of living in and among his creations in the 60’s, and there are parts of his live/work spaces that are extremely contemporary today. We now value the open-air plan so much that our kitchens in our houses now conform to it. He truly lived in the refined air that surrounded and define his sculptures and architectural dalliances.
We wrap up the tour and thank our guide, who couldn’t stop staring at our in-house celebrity. He was a doll and I forgot his name but he lived only a block away from the “Block”.

I found myself later at “Planet Marfa” a sweet little local hangout outdoor bar. It had a sunken Tepee that held a crowd of drinkers. I ordered from the bar menu the chips/salsa and a hotdog. My waitress/owner and chef, looked like Andrew Wyeth’s lover and muse, Helga; she had long Germanic braids and she cooed over Diesel. Then Tom walked in, a huge white handlebar mustache, a bigger white cowboy hat and just wanted to drawl with a doll. Super sweet, he didn’t think much of the architect in town but he liked the movies that came through. Apparently Johnny Depp was in town, just in from New Mexico. Hope Johnny Depp and I's paths will cross again someday. Our Helga was dropping off oil lanterns as the light was fading, and I asked Tom if I could take his picture.
Marfa Rancher Tom
Tom was my only portrait I took in Marfa. I’m just getting the hang of this. Helga and Solange were a pleasure to meet and a missed opportunity. Talk about Foxy Prada Brown, Solange was it.
Headed out of town that night and slept at a truck stop. Crossing the Hill Country of Texas the next day, with a three-day stint in Austin.

Monday, April 16, 2012


February-March 2012
My residency in Corrales, New Mexico was due in equal parts good fortune, timing and connections.  I had no idea of what to expect.  Living in a historic town settled in the 1800’s turned out to be a perfect backdrop to be inspired by old architecture, rural setting and a posse of New Mexican artists. I spent the first week just getting settled and understanding adobe masonry and what nails will penetrate their thick walls. I unfurled 12 feet of butcher paper to sketch out my new paintings. The tape peels off and my paper falls in the dust that sheds from the clay coating on the wall. Apparently they use mud to finish the walls and as it dries, it flakes off. The whole landscape is made from dust and mud so suppose it makes sense to use it in the architecture. But trying to affix anything to the walls is a major undertaking. Sara, my host, keeps handing me cement nails, but I am sure my screws with my drill will do the trick. But alas, when I have nothing hanging after repeated attempts, I meekly ask for those cement nails she has been hocking. 
With a few canvases, stretched and precariously hanging on a cement nail, I start to paint my coyote critters. The image came from a gun shop as a  “Target Critter Series”. The graphic is a slouching coyote with neon orange outline and a black overlay that will give way to orange when  struck by the marksman. Ultimately this would work as a silkscreen but I imagine no New Mexican would wear it as a T-shirt for fear of being a target. It’s ironic that this “pest” has a rich folkloric history but now is the subject of a target practice series. 
I owe my residency connection to Jade and her husband, Tom. They are a lovely couple that I met last summer on my first visit to New Mexico. Jade is a painter from Mexico City and a branch off of Frieda. She has a lovely lilt to her voice, long black hair - a classic Spanish beauty. Tom is a rocking roll boy from Boston, instantly familiar to me having lived in Boston around the same time. We both worked at the infamous Coffee Connection, he at Faneuil Hall and I in Harvard Square.  We shared common grounds in more ways than one.
My first excursion was to the San Juan Pueblo north of Santa Fe for a “Deer Dance”, a ritual dance that apparently every tribe reenacts the hunter and the pursued deer with a dance.  Jade and Tom drove along with their friend, Jonathan Longcore, retired Delta Airline employee who took the job for the ability to travel for the rest of his life. He studied anthropology and music with a dissertation on both, only to find he would have to have two jobs, one fundraising for travel and another for his work.  Delta served him well and has traveled the world ever since.
When we arrive at the Deer Dance, I am told that they will not allow photographs or sketches and might even confiscate either if you try. So we approach a long line of yellow-capped Indians chanting and moving slowly forward. There is a group with drums that position themselves midway on the side of the lineup, keeping the rhythm and chanting. There are men, boys and few girls but I do not see any women participating in the dance. Their costumes are complex and wonder how I will remember the details when an old Indian wrapped in a polyester blanket asks if we would like to photograph and if so there is a fee of $20.00.  When I ask, “Who do I pay?” he answers with a tooth short grin, “Me”. 
I shoot and shoot; I’m on my knees…I run ahead of the lineup, I shoot the two hunters that taunt the lineup. One shot comes into focus; it’s the one of the deer hunter with yellow war face paint that I thought KISS invented. He is leaning forward with his arrows on his back and in the background is an Indian woman spectator wrapped in one of those ubiquitous polyester blankets, with a large Indian face printed on it. I think to myself, the American Indian’s image was confiscated a long time ago.
There will be an opening at Sara’s Gallery, Gathering of Artists at the end of my residency. The paintings I will be showing are about my experiences with the southwest, some are portraits from early photographers, Carl Moon and Edward Curtis; others are inspired from the deer dance and local landmarks. While everything is brown here during these late winter months, the paintings take on the colors of yellow, red and blue. It’s the memory from a New Mexico summer. 
The photographs are more representative of the present experience. I gather them on my walks with Diesel along the ditch that is dry for the first month, then a roaring river for the second. I learned there is a Ditch Master that has the high honor of releasing the water to the neighborhoods. If you are wealthy enough, you can have your own bypass ditch. This redirected water, floods your field for your horses & cattle to graze on.  The brown dust turns to mud and then blooms in a field of green grass.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Foxy Brown…

Foxy Brown was born in 1983...but conceived in the 70s. She slept through the 80's, closeted in the 90's and loitered in the streets for the last decade.  Her interior is from America’s brass age with shag carpeting, gold rack-n-ladder and complete with rec room wood paneling. Her plaid captain chairs swivel under two skylights and tinted octagon windows with levolor blinds framed in more gold shag.  The bench seat in the back folds out to a double bed with memory foam addition to make it, well...memorable. The huge sliding door opens to a carpeted cargo area with an option to screw in a table. Her sporty exterior is white with lavish wide brown and gold stripes that sweep around and meet at the back windows. She’s a brother's ride, and so was christened “Foxy Brown”.  A classic American Van.

I was never a Van Fan, can't say I ever looked at one. But this one, rolled down Potreo hill into my life. I traded a painting for her. I needed a van for an upcoming show in New Mexico and had started to look at my 4 door Honda sedan with disdain. She couldn’t haul anything, the dog's back hit the roof and I looked like an undercover FBI agent driving it.  When I learned the van had only 42K miles, electric windows, cruise control and power locks, this was solid gold and it was glittering. Built like a rock but not ridden hard, there is plenty of life left on those wheels.  She required new lungs,  and so I filled the new speakers with Doobie Bros, Bee Gees and a bit of Olivia to just to wake Foxy Brown from her long sleep.
With the deal sealed, I hit the road singing "Stayin Alive" in my 70's So-Cal surfer,  urban cruisin' bro ride. A southwest poor man's RV and southern rebel good-ole-boy van.  
Somehow I fit right into the American landscape.

Sunday, March 25, 2012



January 26 – February 1, 2012
San Francisco - New Mexico

Packing furiously, then pensively, take a break and have a drink with a friend. Run errands, collect money, and pay bills. Up till 12:30 the night before, just walking stuff to the van from the loft back and forth a million times.  I was methodical but it was never ending. I figured, in the end, I’d sleep in and not do the 6am departure. Why hurry? I have six days to get to New Mexico. 
This is the second road test Foxy Brown gets before the big road trip in April. Her first test was last summer’s excursion in New Mexico, Utah and Nevada for two months, which she managed beautifully for a 1983 Chevy. She is outfitted with a bed, an extra battery to power my office and lights. Two skylights that are rimmed in gold shag rug. With only 50K miles on her she has a long life ahead of her for a child of the 70's.
I’m packing for cold and hot climates; I’m packing a completely functional field kitchen and a complete office. My office entails a laptop, iphone, two backup drives, keyboard, mouse, headphones, speakers, camera, tax files, files, resource books, and blank DVDs. The artwork that will make the trip is the Amusement Architecture series and the few paintings I have done of Maine. I’ll take the raw canvas and lay it on the floor of the van and cover it with a canvas tarp then a rug. I strap in all the paintings that fit along the wall behind the drivers seat. The framed prints of the Birds On a Wire are boxed and bagged and go into the Cargo box on the roof.
For the last time, I take Diesel to Heron’s Head to walk along the bay. I am hyper sensitive about Diesel getting into trouble the day before we leave, as we can’t afford the time or money for a vet visit. Last summer, he wiped out on a run the day we were leaving New Mexico. The poor boy had to travel with stitches and see a vet in Las Vegas to get them out.  But he deserves to get off leash and run a bit along the sea to stretch his legs that will not be stretch for the next couple of days in the van. Of course on our walk, a skank punk girl is walking her aggressive pit bull ahead of us. I slow down but she stops altogether to let her dog run through the wetlands. She then releashs him and he strains and slobbers bloody hell when we pass. Upon our return walk back down the path she has him again off leash. This time I yell to her to releash him so we can pass. She yells back, “ he’s okay, it will be fine.” As the pit bull is charging us with fiendish menace, I stand between Diesel and Satan’s muscle coming our way. I lower myself to brace for impact and yell No! The growling gristle stops at the force of my voice and stands uncertain but still growling and barking in protest. Sensing I have the upper hand I take a threatening step towards it and yell Go! It backs off a little and skank girl comes up and tells me it will be fine as she puts canine warrior on a leash. I’m amazed that Diesel was completely indifferent to this exchange and thrilled the vet bill has been thwarted.  Now is a good time to hit the road.
Base Camp at Joshua Tree
We are finally on the road at 10 am. I’ve got tons of audio books lined up, new music and all my podcasts up to date. But the whistle of my little triangle window that doesn’t fully clasp shut, drowns out my new speakers. Put that on the fix list. Stopped in a truck stop and slept the first night. Made Joshua Tree National Park the next day. Camped there for two beautiful nights then drove down to the strange and faded glory of the Salton Sea area. Stayed over night at a truck stop in Yuma and headed for Tucson in the AM. The next night I stayed with childhood friend, Jill Plotner, she lives in Tucson and found me on Facebook last year. We reconnected last June on my way down to New Mexico. We laughed at old pictures of us at 10 or 11 years old climbing the rocks of Mount Desert Island, Maine. This time, I got to meet her husband and wonderful 21-year-old daughter. 
Picnic at White Sands
On the road again the next morning and took RT 10 down to Las Cruces to stayed at another truck stop. Love the truck stops- free overnight stays, safe, free hot water, showers and nice bathrooms. I text my location to a number of friends who don't think so highly of truck stops. In the AM, we head east and stop at White Sands National Monument…sand dunes from another planet. It’s brilliant white talcum powder sand that looks like snow and boasts the first nuclear bomb exploded here. Well, exploded way north of the Park, but it does border a still active military shooting range. Wonderfully strange New Mexico, we have arrived! We break for a picnic while Diesel finally got to stretch his legs with a run through the dunes.
We arrive in Corrales , New Mexico at 7pm and Sara, my host, is waiting to show me her home, the gallery and my wing of the old adobe. I will be living in this fabulous estate for the next two months as the Artist-In-Residence.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

The Car Wash BBQ Send Off Party

The Car Wash BBQ Send Off Party

January 22,2012 The fine San Francisco peeps showed up for a BBQ  but we scraped the idea for the car wash in the chilly rain. Foxy Brown, the old Chevy van got a Thule roof box installed between her gold racks. Special thanks to Bob Lake, who lent me one of his many Thules. In the roof box, we managed to house all my Birds On a Wire prints and small paintings with room to spare.The boys worked under the shelter of the 20th street overpass to work out of the rain.

Streams of friends came all day to bid farewell and toss ribs on the BBQ. My Kiwi neighbor, Sam kept his foul weather gear on while cheerfully standing at the grill that fed us all. Simultaneously the 49ers and the NY Giants were battling it out across the hall on Cal's brand new, "just- for-the-game, big HD screen...sweeeet and standing room only.  Leah had a spread of fabulous foods that Diesel's nose constantly battled for.   Soon Courtney and Rob had to open their loft as rumor of Roy's homemade beer was on tap and flowing. The next loft to open was Hallie and Gary's.   We all got a rare visit to the home of St. Frankenstine aka the  Pianobike.  What was suppose to be an outdoor BBQ Carwash turned into a fantastic hall party with my neighbors welcoming my friends into multiple lofts.  If I was caught tearing up, I blamed it on the 49ers but this day was a fantastic send off. I am blessed to have such a place and people to return to after my journey through America.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Introduction To American Bones

American Bones is a project supported by my friends, family and patrons of my work. It is a two year endeavor that involves completing a two month long painting residency in New Mexico at the beginning of 2012. This will be followed by a five-month road trip culminating in a potential year long residency in New Mexico for the following year. From 2012 through 2013 I will be working on exploring the deep cultural threads of America, both past and present. The paintings and photographs will explore our nation’s regionalism and distinct cultural roots.  Driven by what creates these distinctions, I am examining how they contribute to the common thread that is Americanism. I am painting a new version of Americana.
2012 The Roadtrip:
America by car with a dog is definitively a cultural rite of passage for Americans. My retired greyhound, Diesel Lamar, and “Foxy Brown” my Chevy van, will go from San Francisco to Corrales, New Mexico to complete a two-month artists-in-residency.  I will then be back on the road, going through Texas, the Gulf Coast and the Eastern seaboard all the way to the Canadian border.  In Maine, I will stay for two months to paint.  August will find me back on the road traveling through the Rust Belt, the Midwest and The West, returning to San Francisco on the first of September.
 2013 The Residency:
I am applying to Roswell’s Artists in Residency program, a highly competitive program asking for a commitment of an entire year. I will need this time to assimilate all my photos, paintings, sketches, found images, writings and experiences to create the final American Bones body of work. Here I will come to terms with all I have seen and distill it into a series of work that describes what is and has been American from the Anasazis to the DC Lobbyist.