True Colors

"True Colors", 15.5"x12" ink and watercolor on paper

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A familiar subject

Just a few sketches, studies. A finished product tomorrow.......

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The New Yorker

I submitted an entry to The New Yorker's 2009 Eustace Tilley Contest. From their website:

Eustace Tilley appeared on our first cover, in 1925, and has returned for nearly every anniversary issue since. Create your own version of our iconic dandy by January 15, 2009, for a chance to win and be featured in a slide show curated by The New Yorker’s art editor, Françoise Mouly.

Here's the original cover:




And here's my spin -- a dreadlocked "Rasta U-Stayce" Tilley:



See the rest of the entries and make comments here.

Twelve winners will be selected and then featured in an online slideshow. No fortune, just glory. Very stiff competition -- win or lose, it was fun to come up with this portrait.

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The Flight Attendant

"The view of the sea is simply beautiful," she said, "Where are we again?"

Negril. Jamaica.

"Oh, right. Just beautiful, the turquoise sea and the white powder beach. Calm, peaceful, warm. Just a wonderful way to begin each morning, a view like this."

Eleanor had criss-crossed the United States more times than she could count, spent short turn-around visits in Copenhagen, Paris, Madrid, throwing her body clock into a tailspin. But she had never been to the Caribbean and it took a while to adjust to the slow pace. No, wait, she'd been to Puerto Rico a while back -- does that count? Not sure, but certainly never to Jamaica before now.

"So, tell me," I said, "Coffee, tea or me? Is that really the life of a flight attendant?"

She just smiled and shook her head, a little embarrassed. "No," she said, "my job is to calm passengers, make certain they are comfortable during their flight, particularly the first-time flyers. Be a calm, soothing presence, and assist in the event of an emergency." She glanced over at her husband and turned back to me. "No, no passenger could ever distract me from the man I chose." She smiled again.

But she wasn't typical of the sort of flight attendant I'd gotten used to over the years. You know the type -- the career airline employee, a bit irritated that the public saw them as glorified waitresses or waiters who tended to our request for a pillow or a gin and tonic. They gave you the impression that you were 20th on the list of more important obligations but yes, they would take care of you. They struck me as no-nonsense gophers with a chip on their shoulder. Their training is not in the finer points of serving cocktails but in managing a hoard of anxious travelers in the event of an emergency.

A task that they are, thankfully, rarely called upon to do.

It must be frustrating for the most important aspect of your job to occur only in the event of a disaster, no? Eleanor saw even the more benign responsibilities to be a pleasure. She liked patting the hand of a fretful flyer, steadying others through the stomach-churning bouts of turbulence, giving her passengers a warm, genuine and reassuring smile.

It was as if she were from a by-gone era.

Eleanor and her husband would sleep late each day in Negril, eat breakfast at a beach-front table and then relax on the chaise lounges. Occasionally she would play a game of solitaire while her husband would read an action-adventure novel at her side. He would chide her when she cheated -- "NO, you can't shuffle the cards each time before turning them over, Eleanor" -- but, seriously, it's not as if this were Las Vegas. She'd glance at me with a questioning look -- I'd smile back at her, and whisper, go ahead and shuffle. Who cares if you win or lose, cheat or not? It's called Solitaire, after all, not Couple-a-Taire.

Win if you want to win. You're on vacation. She'd turn towards me and quietly shuffle the cards.

One afternoon Eleanor sat alone on a bench at the water's edge. It was an old varnished wooden bench that used to occupy a space in the beach front bar. The staff had dragged it out to the water's edge, under a sagging old palm tree, to sit atop some chunks of concrete in the sand. With the bench in place, no one would stumble or hurt themselves on the half-buried concrete and it provided a nice shady spot to sit under the palm while the sea lapped at your toes. Eleanor watched as her son splashed around in the sea.

A young shirtless Jamaican dreadlock approached Eleanor at the bench and began his lyrics. A bit of local small talk. Eleanor, of course, was polite and smiled. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a long, thick dried "bud" of local produce and handed it to Eleanor, a "gift for milady". Not quite sure what to do with it, Eleanor tucked it into the top of her swimsuit, said thank you, and looked back out to her son in the sea.

The young dreadlock then began his sales pitch, demanding money from Eleanor for his "gift."

"A high-grade bud, milady, yuh haffi give me a munny fi dat. Gimme a grand nuh," he demanded.

Eleanor was confused. It appeared to her that this young man had handed her a dried-out old plant and then wanted "a thousand dollars" in exchange. "What? What do you mean?" she stammered. "I, I don't have any money. I don't understand..." Her smile faded. She became anxious and scanned the beach behind her for her husband.

The dread became more aggressive, more demanding and raised his voice. He wanted his money. Eleanor's son came to her rescue.

Her son, David, now in his 40s, knew that bringing his aging mother to Jamaica would be both a gift to her but also a labor of love. Her short-term memory had almost completely evaporated. Each day she asked, "where are we again?" She greeted me each morning with a warm smile but never remembered my name. She could never remember the rules of solitaire.

David spoke quietly but firmly to the dread, warning him that if he ever approached his mother again, he would "drop him to the sand". How dare he try to take advantage of an 80-year-old woman whose mind was failing? Were their no limits to the Jamaican beach hustle?

Eleanor smiled at David as the dread quickly skipped up the beach, the uncomfortable encounter already forgotten.

"The view is so lovely, David. Where are we again?"

"Negril, mom. Negril, Jamaica."


The Flight Attendant's Palm
Ink and watercolor on paper
Print available here.

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Where have all the stories gone?

Good question.

Been asking myself the same thing. It's not as if the oddball characters have stopped appearing on our stage. Not bloody likely. From the con-artist tourists to the rasta groupies, from the ganja-baked teenagers to the befuddled senior citizen on vacation, from the motorcycle that wants BLOOD to the screw-face bartender who extorts cash for pool time -- there certainly is enough material.

I just need time to distance myself from the proceedings before I share the details. Meditate, if you will.

So here's a portrait from my imagination, a meditative face. Waiting for the stories to marinate and soon come.......

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Painting in a paradise?

Paradise is exactly like where you are right now... only much, much better.

Laurie Anderson, Language Is A Virus


"Paradise Palm #1", 12"x16" ink and watercolor on paper SOLD

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Upstate Reggae on the River ECO Festival

Hello blog readers -- I'm still here!

I know I've been absent from the blog a great deal these past few months but I've been busy holed up in my studio painting items to sell at this upcoming music festival. In addition to my usual array of paintings, I'm also going to be selling hand-painted garments such as tee shirts and sun dresses.

Many have a tropical theme while many others are geared to the reggae audience for the festival. Here's a sampling of what I've been working on and will have on hand to sell at the festival this coming Saturday, August 23, 2008.

Each item is individually HAND-DRAWN and/or PAINTED -- no two are exactly alike, none are silk-screened/printed or in any way mass produced. Each is a one-of-a-kind original.The tees are all a nice heavy-weight gauge, 100% cotton. I have sundresses in cotton jersey and also some in linen. The men's khaki shirts are a cotton/poly blend.


Lion of Judah/Rastafari -- Adult: $75 Youth: $45




Lion of Judah/Star -- Adult: $75 Youth: $45


detail:




Emperor Haile Selassie -- Adult: $80 Youth: $55




Dreadlocks -- Adult: $45 Youth: $35




Star of David/rasta colors - All sizes: $35




Bamboo -- Adult: $75 Youth: $45







Lion of Judah on KHAKI Men's Shirt -- Adult: $100




Foliage Sundress 1 -- Adult One Size Fits All: $125



Foliage Sundress 2 -- Adult One Size Fits All: $125



Barbed Wire Sundress 3 -- Adult One Size Fits All: $125





Kids' Flip Flop Tees -- $45



And several more............

The festival is an all-day event, 10a-8pm, and will be held at a beautiful state park on the Hudson River, approximately 40 miles north of NYC. Click on the link above to find out more about the festival and come check out our booth.

Prices for the hand-painted garments range from $40 to $125, depending on the design and the garment. I'll be back shortly to update this post with more precise pricing information for each design. I presently only have a few of each design on hand but please email me if you see something you like and would like to request a custom order at no extra charge.

We will also have a huge basket full of brightly-colored Red-Gold-&-Green tie-dyed tees on hand, to be sold by our youngest daughter -- she dyed them, she'll sell them, she'll earn the cash.

Big thanks to my dear friend and mentor, Zan, who has advised me extensively on how to work on the shirts and shared many ideas and designs with me. Without her help, these would not have been possible.............

Hope to see you all at the Festival.

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Oranges & Sardines -- Published!

The editor of Oranges & Sardines, a new art and poetry quarterly, came across my work online and invited me to submit several pieces for inclusion in the Fall issue. I'm thrilled to invite you all to take a look at the issue, which includes 3 of my pieces and also a brief interview.

The magazine will be available as a free pdf download for a limited time here.

Click here, or visit amazon. com if you'd like to purchase a hard copy, which will be available shortly.

One of the 12 artists included, I can be found on page 50:

The first image at the top of this post is the cover of the debut, the Summer 2008 issue; the Fall issue features a painting by one of the quarterly's publishers....................

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Better than ever.............

Been busy with plans for the summer -- much to report! WIll upload more pics of new works, new mediums, new every THING this week!

Thanks for your patience.

Redlocks
Charcoal and watercolor on paper

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Painting of a Painter

When in Negril, seek out Ras Husmo. He walks the beach with his rolled up canvases and will gladly sit and chat, buying or not, to discuss the arts........yours or his.

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Monday Morning -- Monochrome

Time for a change............

This is Myrna, an ubiquitous figure on Negril Beach. Unmistakable in her 2-foot wide, floppy brimmed straw hat, Myrna motors up and down the 7-mile beach from morning until late afternoon, soliciting guests for a cruise upon the sea.......

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Monday Morning Mashup #9 - Dancehall Queen

Dancehall Queen
12"x15.5" Mixed Media Collage
SOLD



The fiery red and orange flames of her tattoo only partially obscured her stretch marks. I stared at her belly, trying to figure out which came first, the baby or the fire.

We'd spent the better part of the morning at Sangster International Airport, waiting for our daughter to arrive on a flight from JFK. She was flying alone, an unaccompanied minor at age 12, and the stress of the day had worn us out. We were tense, anxious and didn't speak much as we sat outside, sheltered from the sun but not the heat. Neither of us dared tempt fate by acknowledging what was in the back of our minds. We just waited, doing the mental calculus of arrival time plus baggage claim plus immigration time plus unforeseen delays plus, plus, plus. Where was she?

When she finally burst through the sliding doors, looking 5 years older than when we last saw her just 3 weeks ago, I started to cry. Delight, joy, relief. Her younger sister and I peppered her with questions -- about her new clothes, her new purse, the flight, the summer program and on and on and on. Her father gave her a silent but strong hug and picked up her bags. You'd think he'd just seen her at breakfast.

We piled into the car, her sister and I chattering away about our stay in Jamaica so far as my husband steered us away from the airport and toward Negril. We'd barely turned off the low road before he said, "Mi wan fi stop and give mi sistah one check. She nevah si di girls dem fram lang time." He made a sharp left off the road and pulled up quickly in front of a squat concrete structure, just yards from the main highway, lonely in the stark landscape of the roadways extending from the airport. The concrete blocks were not rendered, each block and the oozing mortar in between still visible. This tiny oven escaped the direct heat of the midday sun with only a few branches of a single sparse tree, stretching up from the roadside.

Damn. It looked hot in that little house.

"Which sister lives here?" I asked.

"Elaine, mi sista fram mi faddah."

I know that in Jamiaca there are no half-sisters or half-brothers, no "steps" of any kind; if you share a parent, you are sister and/or brother. Case closed. I have to admire the simplicity of that kinship. But I didn't remember ever stopping at this little block house before. I thought I'd met all the siblings on both sides of the family. Perhaps we had met before, another time, another place.

As we spilled out of the car, the girls were obviously not too keen about making a pit stop on the way to Negril and the beach. They glared at me. Before they could speak, a wirey 50-something woman in a flowered housedress, flipflops and a baseball cap quickly met us at the car. Big smiles and "greetings" and "come inside, mon" and "look how dem big!" as she poked and pinched the girls and beckoned us to come inside the house. The girls looked at me, pleading silently to stay in the car and just keep daddy on track. Nope. Not happening. After a long morning at the airport, I was happy to receive a little Jamaican hospitality and followed Sister into her house. "Come ON," I hissed. "This is Daddy's family. This is YOUR aunty. Aunty Elaine. Be polite." They fell in line and trooped inside behind us.

The first room was small, maybe 5x10, windowless and the walls covered from floor to ceiling with framed photographs and yellowing newspaper clippings. A small overstuffed chair and a tiny table were the only pieces of furniture. A large orange and white cooler took up a quarter of the room. Elaine quickly twirled open the combination lock and flipped open the cooler top, digging into the ice to retrieve a red stripe for me and an icy pepsi for each of the girls.

"Mi haffi keep dis cooler lock up," she explained, "or mi pickney dem drink off mi bizness." She swiftly slammed the cooler shut, snapping closed the lock and lead us into the next room. The house was surprisingly cool and dark and we quickly passed through into the dining room, with the small kitchenette visible just beyond.

Well, at least I thought it was the dining room.

Twice as large as the first room, and with both windows and an open door to the alley on the left, it was much brighter. And I saw a round wooden table and a few folding chairs across the far side, just before the entry way to the kitchenette. But as I entered this middle room, I noticed one single bed to my right, pushed up alongside the wall and another full-size bed along the wall to my left. Each bed was occupied. In the middle of the afternoon. Elaine seemed not to notice.

On the bed to my left, a young woman and a young man, both clothed but barely so, lay partially entwined on top of the covers, with a standing fan blowing a cool breeze over their glistening skin. They each looked to be about 17 or 18.

To my right, a young woman in a peach-colored nylon half slip and black lace bra lay alone, also on top of the covers but under the breeze of a second standing fan. She also appeared to be in her teens, her black lacquered hair piled high in wide looping curls and waves, or rather, piled horizontally northward from her forehead. Her huge brown eyes opened slowly and she gazed briefly at this procession of strangers entering her dining room-cum-boudoir. Then she turned over and went back to sleep.

"Wek up, wek up," shouted Elaine. "A your uncle dis, an unno cousins fram farrin. Cho! Wek up! Wek UP!"

The pair in the other bed, sat up abruptly, wiping the sleep from their eyes and giving us weak smiles, inaudible hellos. "Dis a mi likkle son, Norris an' 'im girlfren Tameekah," beamed Elaine, as she headed toward the stove in the kitchen. "Siddung, siddung," she smiled, pointing to the dining table. The girls and I each took a seat around the table and I found myself just inches away from the peach slip and the black bra.

That's when I noticed the tattoos.

A dozen crude, quivering orange flames crept up her belly, from beneath the elastic top of her slip, rising to tickle the bottom edge of her bra. And intersected with the stretch marks along the way. I'd never seen anything quite like it.

"A dat me big dawta, Cherine, " Elaine smiled, as she brought heaping plates of fried chicken over to our table. "Git up, git up Cherine! A yuh likkle cousins dis. Cousins fram New Yahrk. Git up, Cherine!" Cherine began to stir. "Watcha, see how dem pretty an tall! " Elaine smiled even wider as she touched my little daughter's hair. "Dem pretty an nice, " she clucked. And then, of course, the requisite question, "When yuh gwan have one bwoy?" My husband just smiled and stepped outside for a smoke.

To my left, Cherine slowly sat up, swinging her bare legs over the side of the bed. The flames collapsed slightly under the rolls of her flesh. She gave a glimmer of a smile as she glanced at me, and then broadened her grin as she saw her two cousins. She jutted her chin out and up toward them. "Dem sweet and pretty, eeeenh?" My girls didn't quite know what to say. They began to feign extreme interest in the chicken in front of them, trying not to look at the lady in her underwear staring at them.

Cherine was quite pretty, a browning with huge black eyes. She didn't much resemble Elaine, who had a very dark complexion, a broad nose and a cramped face. Cherine's face was a broad smooth oval, with full pale lips and a hint of India in her features. This effect was heightened by the prominent placement of a small brown beauty mark smack in the middle of her forehead, a permanent bindi. I introduced myself and the girls.

"Mi haff one dawta," said Cherine, reaching toward the headboard of her bed and retrieving a framed photograph of a little girl in a sundress. As I began to talk to Cherine, drawing her out, I learned that she was older than I thought, 24, her little girl was 8 and that she was a dancer. A professional dancer.

Well I know what that means when I hear it back home. A "professional dancer" typically does not dance on a stage but on a pole. I hoped that wasn't what Cherine did for a living but the lingerie and the tattoos gave me pause. And who was I to judge?

"Show dem, Cherine, show dem how you gwan an wine. Play dem one video," shouted Elaine from the kitchen. Cherine smiled broadly now and nodded. At the foot of her bed, a small table held a portable tv, a dvd player, a haphazard stack of dvds and what appeared to be a clump of hair on a small molded plastic hat stand. Cherine saw me staring at the peroxide-colored lump. It appeared to be a taxidermy project gone awry.

"Dat a mi wig", explained Cherine, "fi when mi werk." I glanced at my girls, who hadn't said a word, their eyes wide. Cherine shuffled through the dvd's, consulting with her brother Norris in rapid fire patois before selecting a favorite and inserting it into the player. Norris pointed the remote at the player from across the room and a grainy image filled the screen. Despite the flashy cover on the dvd box, this hardly appeared to be a professional production. More like a home movie.

The scene appeared to be an outdoor night-time gathering, the dusty ground enclosed by broad 7-foot high swaths of rusty zinc, yellow bare bulbs throwing spots of light onto the small crowd. The muted bass beats of the music strained to be heard through the television's tinny speakers, a soft babble of conversations in the background. "A dance party, dat," smiled Cherine. "A dat where mi werk."

The camera panned a cluster of young women, slowly swinging their hips, staring down into the dirt, clutching their drinks and looking bored. One-by-one they seemed to take their turn as the star for the camera, stepping forward and stepping up their game. What little clothing they wore was tight and brightly hued, a variety of gem-colored halter tops, mini skirts, and vinyl boots. Their overly-styled hair was black, blue, pink and blonde, with manicures to match.

And then we saw Cherine. Compared to the rest of the crowd, she was modestly dressed in low-slung tight white bermuda shorts with a white mesh midriff top. Her peroxide wig was in place, looking much more like a regal headdress than it appeared on its stand in her bedroom. She wore knee-high gladiator-style sandals and began to prance and strut, pausing only to grind and wine as the camera tilted down toward her hips. Norris and Elaine hooted and clapped. Cherine looked at me and smiled broadly, nodding. I smiled back, saying "wow, that's amazing, you look fabulous."

I glanced again at my girls who looked bored and unbelieving. How could this possibly be someone's job? "Deh pay mi a munny fi dance, seen?" Cherine told me, clearly proud of her work. And within seconds, the camera had moved on to another young woman and Cherine stepped back into the cluster of other dancers.
A saucy dancer with long brown extensions, wearing a denim mini skirt and emerald metallic halter, filled the frame.

She shimmied fast and furiously and stared provocatively out of the TV. As the camera moved into her face, it slowly tilted down her body, closing in on the vibrating mini skirt which now filled the screen and and seemed to rise up with each shake of her hips. Suddenly, her legs widened and the skirt flew completely up. Uh oh, I thought, here comes the snapping of the thong, the flash of the silky panties.

Except that she wasn't wearing any.

Nuttin. Not a thong, not a g-string. Just the glorious body that god gave her. And completely shaved.

Norris hooted again, Elaine laughed loudly while Cherine scrambled for the remote, smiling but trying to fast-forward through the dvd. Now the bald punanny shimmied and shook at double-speed. I don't know which was more unsettling.

I looked quickly over at my previously-bored daughters. Horrified doesn't quite capture it. Now they simply stared at one another, speechless, afraid to look directly at the tv for another second. My youngest wouldn't make eye contact with anyone, only staring into the face of her older sister, looking for guidance on what to say and what to do. I smiled at my 12-year old when she looked over at me. She didn't look 5 years older any more; she looked much younger, pleading silently with me again to just "go".

I had to agree that perhaps it was time to make a move.

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Monday Morning Melancholy

This week's Mashup is still in progress but I promise it will be worth the wait.

Until then, here is a portrait gem to tide you over.................

Melancholy Baby
Watercolor and Graphite on paper

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Monday Morning Mashup #8

Kind of Blue
 4"x9.5" Mixed Media Collage

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Monday Morning Mashup #7

"It's totally paradise, dude. Awesome."

One People?
10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

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Monday Morning Mashup #6 - Rastafari Gothic

See more dreadlocks and other portraits here.

"Rastafari Gothic", 10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

Hmmm, no pitchfork? 

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Monday Morning Mashup #5

I said, "No. No. No."

I Don't Wanna Go To Rehab
10"x14" Mixed Media Collage

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Negril

As the sun begins to set......

Negril Nightfall
Ink and Watercolor on paper 

Purchase a PRINT of this painting  here.

Or after the rain falls.

Negril Rainfall
Ink and Watercolor on paper

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Monday Morning Mashup #4

"It is a curious thing to be a woman in the Caribbean after you have been a woman in these United States."

Zora Neal Hurston, 1938

A Curious Thing
10"x12" mixed media collage SOLD

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Monday Morning Mashup #3

Strange Fruit
9.5"x11" mixed media collage

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