"A Good Book" 6" x 9.5" Pen and ink, wash on watercolor paper
Buy a print of this painting here.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Old Skool
The West End of Negril in its glory days...............rack 'em up, bredren.
Just finished this commissioned piece for a true oldtimer. Hope it brings back 'nuff memories of good times gone by.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
We Escape the Crazy
You know what I mean about escaping the crazy, right? The crazy scenes, the crazy demands and, in particular, the crazy people. Yeah, they're like gum on the bottom of the shoe. Crazy and they won't go away.
So we take a last getaway before the rhythms of the school year overtake us and cramp the style. The beaches of the coast of Maine give the beaches of the Caribbean a run for their money and we're fortunate to have both options at our disposal.
The Atlantic Ocean is barely above freezing, particularly as August winds down and September slides in. But the views are spectacular. A Jamaican beach can provide sugar-white sands, bathtub-water temperatures and shades of turquoise that make you want to take a bite out of them. But with the exception of jet skis and parasails crossing your landscape every five minutes, the pretty blue water can get rather bland.
The crashing surf of the Prussian blue Atlantic, on beaches that shrink and deepen dramatically with the tides, is a stark contrast to the mild-mannered Caribbean. The bay is pockmarked with rocky outposts, some abandoned, some hillsides blanketed with tiny cottages clinging fiercely to their foundations. It just never gets old.
So we meet up with our mirror family -- the bredren bond over the grill stacked with swordfish, the sistren shout their supervision from beach chairs, our patois impeccable if not also slightly mocking. The two grandmamas in attendance sip their vodka and grapefruit, yet another common trait they share. And the lovely all-girl pickney posse kicks around a soccer ball, trying to avoid the waves.
It's bliss, baby, bliss.
What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories.
-- George Eliot
Saturday, September 04, 2010
One drop of blood, one bucket of heartache
These are Tasha's half-siblings. They all share the same father but not the same mother. Neither the baby-faddah nor any of his three ( or more?) baby muddas has a job; despite being grown they just continue to live at home with their own parents.
And keep having unwanted children.
The children spend their time shuttling between one yard and another, typically tossed to the other parent when there is a behavior problem -- "she too much chobble" or "he too face-ty" (feisty) -- or when school fees are due.
Regardless, they are usually under the care of one of their grandmothers more often than not. It's always the grandmothers who seem to step in and raise the unwanted generation, isn't it? They pay the bills, feed and clothe them, provide the only stability they know.
Let's hope they do a better job with their grandchildren than they did with their own kids........maybe they are older and wiser now, hmmm?
"If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do matters very much." Jacqueline Kennedy
Sunday, August 29, 2010
She stays
Pity the children.
Pity the children used as pawns by lonely, desperate Baby Muddahs.
They are "mothers" in name only, mothers who have children by accident or design but, either way, without the consent nor desire of their partner.
That is why they are forever "Baby Muddahs." They are no longer girlfriends, never become wives, just the perpetual unwanted link to a man who would sleep with them but never marry them. A most unfortunate status, perhaps the lowest status imaginable.
And they use these unwanted children to get attention, to compel their equally irresponsible Baby Faddahs to look at them just one more time. When the Baby Faddahas just want them to go away.
Some will even go so far as to threaten to give away their children, to give them to strangers in a foreign country, just to get noticed again by the Baby Faddah. To get some attention from someone who just wants the Baby Muddah to disappear. The Baby Muddahs don't really care, getting bad attention is better than no attention at all, seen?
Pity the children.
But Tasha will stay.............despite the Baby Muddah.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Giving Away Tasha
"What do you mean, they're giving her away?" I asked.
My sister-in-law just shrugged, raising her eyebrows, pushing her pursed lips outward. She looked away.
"Felecia, giving her away to who?" I said, getting irritated with the typical lack of details about a typically outrageous situation.
She looked back at me, her expression blank. "To one white lady fram farrin." She stared at me, waiting for another dumb question.
"Whaddya mean, one white lady? What white lady? How does her mother even know 'one white lady fram farrin?' " I said, getting pissed off at the opaque nature of her information. Tasha's mother, one of my brother-in-law's "baby muddahs," lived way out inna bush outside of Savanna La Mar. How she ever came in contact with a white lady tourist was beyond me.
"Mi nah know. Jess one white lady who seh she cyan gi' Tasha ed-yoo-kay-shun an' ting. Mek she haff one bettah life den dung soh." Felecia curled up one side of her mouth and shrugged again, as if she were only repeating what she had been told and didn't quite believe it. "She seh she gwan tek Tasha up a farrin, adopt she, and raise her up soh." Felecia looked away again, this time looking wistful instead of annoyed.
"And Antsman is ok with this? He's letting the fool Baby Muddah just send Tasha to another country with a stranger? How well does anybody know this white lady, anyway? Is this even legal?" I was getting upset. But I was asking too many questions, much too quickly. I should have known better.
Dung soh, down in Jah-mey-kah, information drips out slowly, if at all, like the last spoonful of ketchup in the bottom of the bottle. You can slam the bottom of the bottle real hard, hoping that what remains will explode out in big spurts. Or you can just turn the bottle upside-down and let rest it on the countertop, until everything slowly collects in a liquid pool, ready to spill out.
So I tipped the bottle over slowly and waited........
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Von Dutch
Miss Una, who is giving you those dreadful Von Dutch hats to tuck up your braids? Seriously.
If I had known it had come to this, I would have stocked up on some finer millinery options for you, sweetie. I know the church hats are only for sunday and you need a proper day-to-day to protect your head from the blazing sun but, ma'am, Von Dutch?
No no no no no. That ain't right. Let me think on it some and see what we can do............
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Chester The Molester
A few bucks for a Canal Street special was certainly within my means. I would dutifully deliver the watch when we first set foot in the yard and unloaded our booty for the rest of the family. I never quite understood where he fit into the family hierarchy of cousins and step-siblings and distant aunties or uncles. He was just there, in a scrap-heap hovel of a house in one corner of the yard, eking out a meager existence.
But I don't bring him anything anymore. No Canal Street specials, no cheap I (heart) NY tee-shirts. Nuttin. I can barely stand to look 'pon him. Not since I learned that he was the fiend who lured young Poochie out into the bush, convincing Miss Una he needed Poochie's help to "collect limes." Why would this old goat ask for the help of a slim 12-year-old girl when there were 'nuff strapping teenage bwoys in the yard fi climb tree and ting?
Yeah, we know why. Mi dun wid you.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
A Reprise - "Who's Your Daddy?" in honor of Father's Day.......
Who gave you your first bath because he thought Mommy was too "frighten fi hold yuh right?"
Who was the self-proclaimed expert on breastfeeding, despite not having the proper equipment himself, and proceeded to give Mommy pointers, so to speak?
Who liked to carry you around the East Village in a Snugli and had to suffer the indigity of strangers asking, "Are you the nanny?"
Who bought a Lion of Judah flag and affixed it to your stroller, all the better to push you through the East Village with a little rasta pride?
Who mixed up a bush remedy to ease your roiling 3-month-old belly, showing up the pediatrician in the process? And to whom has the pediatrician given The Proper Respect ever since that day?
Who insisted a bath would "cool yuh dung" during a tantrum, when Mommy thought it would push you over the edge, and was absolutely right because it stopped your sobbing?
Who would chew up a handful of peanuts into a buttery paste, carefully retrieve them/it from his own mouth and then pop it into yours, just like a mama bird would do for its babies?
Who would scoff at the blue rubber suction bulb recommended for clearing a baby's stuffy nose, and proceeded to just suck out the congestion by putting his his mouth upon your nose and drawing hard?
Yeah, Mommy thought that was pretty gross, but had to admit it was effective.
Who counted the days until he could bring you bakka yard and show you off to Grandma Una, the breddas and sistahs, and jess about evry-baddy he knew?
Who fretted and vexed when you ended up in hospital, so tiny and sick? Who brought Mommy a fresh plate of home-cooked dinner each night, as she sat by your bed 24/7, while he stayed at home caring for bigga sista all alone, day after day? Plenty dark days when we thought we'd lose you but who kept us all strong and positive?
Who ran on foot from Houston Street to Chambers when the WTC was ablaze on 9/11, the North Tower just two short blocks away from your elementary school, knowing that he must pluck you from the chaos before it was too late?
And who, after scooping you up and bringing you home, breathlessly reported back to Mommy, before the cell phone lines went dead, "Mi haff her, mi haff her, she ah-right, mi haff her"?
Who decided to coach your soccer team after first proclaiming that "girls nah play ball"?
Who has volunteered to be the parent chaperone repeatedly and escorted you on school field trips to museums and galleries and aquariums, Central Park and Botanical Gardens and the Statue of Liberty?
Who has been to every First Day of School, every Celebration of term, every concert, every birthday party, every soccer game?
Who gave you your first swim in a spring-fed pool, your first sail in the Caribbean sea, your first rough ride on a jet ski?
Who chopped your first jelly coconut with a machete, peeled you an orange Jamaican-style with his ratchet knife, or cooked the corn-meal porridge which I share with you?
You know who.
Happy Father's Day, to our daddy, the best father ever.
One love, one family, always -- fi life.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
(13)
What is (13)?
The title of a show, an art opening in Chelsea, of course. And the derivation of the title is simple, not pretentious, not portentious, not superstitious.
The title simply reflects the average age of the artists represented - 13. Seventh graders or thereabouts. Ahhh, so nice to have a straightforward art collection in the belly of the oblique beast of contemporary art. The opening was a huge success, a packed crowd at the Lombard-Freid Projects gallery on West 26th, between 10th and 11th Avenue. Indeed, the belly of the best, not the beast........
The wine flowed, along with the ginger ale and Pepsi.........
The fambly scanned the crowd and admired the offerings, particularly the painting of our youngest, which was placed prominently on the easterly wall with the contributions of her classmates - the theme of this series was simply "Matchbooks."
"Paradou" by Haille McKenzie, 17" x 22" acrylic on canvas
The artists pose with their work.........
Proud dads......
The art on display was varied and accomplished. Prints and photographs, paintings and illustrations, drawings and collages. It was exhaustive and impressive.
Including a collection of original mandalas........
...customized skateboards (remember, 13 year olds).......
....exquisite photography....
.... lino prints......
......conceptual mixed media........
....graphite self portraits.....
....stunning re-creations of vintage movie posters in tempera....
And several local artists donated their work to a silent auction to help raise funds for the school's art department. Among them were these outstanding pieces:
This piece, above, was my personal favorite, a small collage on mounted board, entitled "Looking Back." But by the time I saw the auction sheet, the price had already skyrocketed to $250 and was sure to net more before the night was over. Sigh. Out of my budget.
But this next piece, below, gave me a laugh, another small collage on mounted board, entitled "Caused an Argument." I love it:
Back to the students - this painting, below, was an impressive and unexpected portrait - a black and white acrylic painting of a young Mick Jagger........
Still an idol to 13-year old boys everywhere I suppose.
Well done, PS126-Manhattan Academy of Technology and their Art Teacher, Nicole Schorr, well done. The show was spectacular in breadth and depth. An inspiration.........
Sunday, June 06, 2010
It Was a Quiet Week in Lake Woebegone
Morning Smoke by the Pool
But we don't live in Lake Woebegone. Been so busy, have had little time to paint nor post.
First up, a family getaway trip to Sag Harbor for the long holiday weekend. Lazy mornings by the pool, a day of sunning and fishing at Sagaponack beach and evenings spent teaching our hosts how to play a killer Jamaican "draught". They gradually got the hang of it but no one could beat the King....
Next up, a weekend road trip up Boston-way to pack up our biggest dawta from boarding school -- glad to have all the family together again.
Yeah, man, fambly is evry-TEENG.
Nope, it hasn't been a quiet week in the East Village but still, the women are strong, the men are good looking and, yes, the children are above average.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Please visit "My Private Coney"
The wonderful writer and NYC blogger, C.O. Moed, interviewed me for her latest series on her blog. I'd be pleased to have you take a quick look and be sure to read over the archives of her blog - she's great.
The interview is here.
The interview is here.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Dem Nah Really Know Dem Selves - Tales of Perseverance
How yah mean? (giving the side eye)
Let's face it, honey, you're like a Flystrip for Nutjobs, a Crazy-Ass Magnet. You're the Hurricane Alley for Storms of Insanity. Every year, a new one blows through.
{Kissssss teeeeth} Ah true, dat. Mi nah know how dem always a fine mi. A pure chobble dem gi' mi.
It's kind of like having your own personal hurricane season. They arrive slowly, without any indication that the season will be anything but slightly breezy. Maybe a few pockets of high pressure. Nothing to be alarmed about at first....
Ah true, dem all seem like dem narm-al. Dem nah seem so crazy.
Yeah, right and most hurricanes start out with only a few gray clouds in a clear blue sky. And, just like the storms, these nuts don't give you much time to nail plywood over the windows. Before you know it, they've whipped up a fury of crazy ass winds, a Category 6 pounding. They barrel through the place making the weathermen cling to stop signs, and leave a trail of debris in their wake.
Hah -- mi like dat! Dem bring starm a true. Pure wind a blow true and mash up evry-TEENG. One come like a Gilbert, one come like a Ivan.
So, why do you still spar with some of them?
Cho! How yah mean? Mi no really spar wid dem. Wi no really fren'.
Well, you still chat with most of them on the phone, you take their calls or still play ball with some of them or such. You never really burn a bridge, no matter how nutso they've gone on us.
Well, a true but dem nah really know dem selves. Mi finally see dem fi real, but (shrugs) dat a fi dem bizness. Mi no need fi say dis or dat, mi just know fi miself dat dem nah really fren', jess let dem hold dem carnah.
I think you have trouble with boundaries. You don't really put any fences up with these kooks. They still think you're best friends. Maybe after an initial dust-up you put them out for a hot minute, but then it's right back to normal, as if nothing happened.
A so yuh tink. Cho. Nah mon, mi know dem and how far mi cyan tek dem. Mi have borderline wid dem, but dem just nah see it. Mi seh, dem NAH know dem SELVES, so how dem a know mi?
Let's run through a few - shall we?
(Smiling) Ah how many wi haff?
Quite a few, sweetie, quite a few. And they all seem to follow a similar path, a pattern.
How yuh mean, pah-ton?
Well, I see a lot of similarities in the path to full-scale crazy. First, they all think you are their Best Friend, within a very short time of knowing you. You're very agreeable and likable, people instantly think they are close to you.
Ah true, dem teenk we a bes fren' but dem nah even really know mi. Sometime mi cyan even remembah dem name. Mi sit wid dem fi two ow-ah and mi nah know dem name.
See what I'm sayin'? And they are clueless. Here's what else is usually the case with the psychos:
1. S/he is a loner with few friends OR recently dumped by the only friend(s) or significant other they had.
Ah true, dat, dem nah have much fren'.
2. S/he is a college drop out, if they were lucky enough to even get into a college.
Mi cyan believe how dem have so much opportunity, nah like fi wi, and dem still a phuck up dem life.
3. S/he is a drug user of some kind and to to varying degree. But each has an intoxicant of choice. Which is used to excess.
Yah mon, dem like fi bun weed or tek acid or bun rock or sintin'.
4. S/he is unemployed and able to sit in front of the Sci Fi channel for hours on end. Or surf the internet until their eyes bleed. Or run up our phone bill.
Ahhhh, true dat. Dem nah werk, dem nah haff no responsibility, like a mi.
Which brings me to number 5: S/he is on the dole of some kind -- either public, such as welfare/social security/veterans benefits, or private such as a trust fund, distracted wealthy parents, or lottery winnings - seriously.
Seen, suh? Dem nah haffi werk, dem haff munny! NUFF! Dem free fi jess sit an chat and bun. See wha mi seh? Dem nah know dem selves.
Let's start with "J".
Ah, mi remembah "J".
Yeah, so do I. Troubled "J", who thought a nice little trip to Jamaica, to get life sorted out and, being your Best Friend, would also get an original Rasta Tour. See the Real Jamaica. Got a whole heap of money from Mommy to pay for the trip.
Yeah man, mi a teenk mi a gwan and get a whole heapah munny fi do sintin' in Jamaica. Mi teenk mi gwan gi' one tour and cash out. Dat a mash up fas' {kisssss teeeeth}. Pure prob-LEM.
Yeah, seems "J" tooted all of Mommy's money right up the nose before stepping on the plane to Mobay. I remember when you went to the airport for the pick up and "J" couldn't even put a dollar of gas in the car. Idiot "J" thought Jamaica was just one tropical paradise where you can just roll out your sleeping bag on the beach and live for free. Fool.
What a phuckery. Mi haffi put "J" up in Perseverance fi live fi nuttin. Pure cost. Cho.
Yeah, Perseverance, an aptly named dump. The place for those with nothing left to lose. If I recall, "J" ended up selling an expensive camera and even the last pair of shoes in order to pay the room fee. And I was on the phone with "J's" Mommy over and over again, trying to get a return trip all sorted out.
Man, mi haffi borrow one shoes so "J" could fly home 'pon de plane.See wha' mi seh? Dem nah know dem selves.
Yeah, and so much for making money on the Original Rasta Tour. Let's talk about "E". Now "E" was a different story.
Mi all-wess say "E" gonna start some mischief. Mi know it. Mi mine seh "E" a chobble.
Yeah, but still you did business with "E." Now "E" also thought you were Best Friends, when really you were just loose business associates. Right?
Gwan, chat now, lemme hear wha yuh seh?
Well, once "E" realized that getting burned in the business department, to the tune of around a thousand bucks, was just the cost of friendship, well then all hell broke loose. Thank god for the District Attorney's office and one speedy Restraining Order. Need I say more? What a nightmare.
(Shaking head) a dat mi seh, "E" jess chobble.
Let's chat about "D". Also one Best Friend for the longest while. Until things started going missing from our house. First it was little things from the bathroom - soap, toothpaste, fancy lotions.
And den mi nice gold watch GONE. Mi know seh "D" tek dat watch. Mi put "D" 'pon probation for lang time.
Yeah and then you let the probation lapse and before you know it, "D" was back in the house and stole a pile of checks! No more "D" in the house, ok?
Mi know seh mi haffi watch "D" close, mi know seh mi cyant let "D" alone in I house.
Like I said, I think you have trouble setting up boundaries with these kooks. Someone steals from you and me, just for starters, they should be banished. Others have done a lot worse. Banish and done, I say.
S'alright, mi jess know seh "D" is one teef. Mi have my boun-dree in my mine.
A boundary in your mind? Ok. How about "T", who we took in, fed, gave a place to stay for the longest time. "T" would have been living out of a car if it weren't for us. Then after a month passes and we're going to Jamaica, "T" expects to stay on, for free, while we are gone.
A true, we haff uddah people come fi stay and rent wi place, mi tell "T" he haffi go. An "T" no like dat.
Yeah, then "T" starts bad mouthing us to our friends and neighbors because we tell "T" it is Time To Go. No good deed goes unpunished. Do you still talk to "T"?
Mi no really spar wid "T". If "T" call mi a chat, if mi pass "T" 'pon de street, mi jess hail up, but dats it.
That's more than enough. Ok, let's chat about "K". Yet another misguided nut who mistakes a business arrangement for being Best Friends. Yet another sad soul who decides a first timer's trip to Jamaica for one Original Rasta Tour would be just the thing to get "K"s life on track.
What a ting. Mi sarry mi evah look 'pon "K." A true dat.
Yep, yet another one who soaked Mommy and Daddy for cash to see The Real Jamaica. Except that Mommy and Daddy didn't know Jamaica was the plan. A stolen credit card, forged checks and a switcheroo with an airline ticket -- the whole nine yards, what a scammer! -- and "K" ends up in Jamaica alright, but eventually with NO CASH. Not at least as soon as Mommy and Daddy figure out they've been scammed by their own offspring.
Pure disappointment. Mi teenk "K" haff munny fi bun, mi seh, munny a flow. Cho. Pure phuckery a gwan wid "K". Eediat bizness. Mi really teenk dat mi gwan finish Miss Una's house 'pon dat trip (shakes head).
Oh, you finished something alright, but not Miss Una's house. Yet another loser on our hands who had to spend some time at Perseverance once the forged check gravy train came to a grinding halt. They all end up at Perseverance, don't they? There have been a few more in years past if we really want to dig up ALL the history.
What a ting. Mi sorry dat evah happen. "K" a pure phuckery bizness, pure teef an' lie.
You see what I mean about a pattern? And each and every one of these folks could call you on the phone today and you'd still chat with them, right?
So (shrugging again), what I dif-rence? Ah true, mi gi' dem one chat but dat no mean wi a fren'. MI SEH, dem nah know dem selves. Dat a fi dem problem.
But mi know dem now fi true. And dem nah know mi at-tall.
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