"Erin & Craig." Acrylic on wood, 36" x 48".

A woman named Erin commissioned this painting as a Christmas present for her and her husband. She invited me into her home and showed me the spot where it would hang. She had a dark windowless corner over her fireplace. I was talking to her for the first time and found her to be sunny, positive and reaching for the sun. So I extrapolated how her and her husband must tower over their two small children, aged 3 and 1. I placed their reaching growing yellow heads against the watery blue sky that is Portland. Erin said she liked the picture. I was glad.

"The Man Behind the Bindi."

Watercolor over ink on paper, 12" x 9".

I call the Third Eye the Bindi.

This is a portrait of my friend Tony, who is blind, but who's third eye is incredibly insightful.

I actually saw it beaming from his forehead.

Wikipedia says: "The area between the eyebrows (where the bindi is placed) is said to be the sixth chakra, ajna, the seat of "concealed wisdom". According to followers of Hinduism, this chakra is the exit point for kundalini energy. The bindi is said to retain energy and strengthen concentration."

Some sources say that in the ancient traditions of India and Nepal, only women can wear the bindi. I bend traditions.

Stephen Spyrit

Stephen Spyrit, Watercolor on paper, 12" x 9". 2010

My good friend Stephen Spyrit died yesterday, November 11, 2010. I met Steve in 1986, when I was adrift and feeling friendless. He welcomed me into his newly opened tavern, called the Stadium Inn, at 20th and West Burnside in Portland, Oregon. He gave me a job there. Stephen and I hosted a rollicking open mike night every Sunday, inviting all of the neighborhood denizens, young and old. We believed everybody deserved their say. It was a successful artistic endeavor, but a financial burden for Steve.

By the time the Stadium Inn closed down in 1988, Stephen had established himself as a poet and organizer in Portland's Underground Music scene. He started an experimental musical group called "Hitting Birth", which amazed and inspired thousands of creative people in Portland, playing for huge crowds in elaborate costumes, playing outrageou instruments like and electrified shopping cart. I believe this was primarily a vehicle for Steve's humanistic poetry.

Stephen was a great humanist. Steve knew and remembered hundreds and hundreds of people. He was politically outspoken, advocating for the common people. HE was almost always strong, positive - and humorous in his extemporaneous orations both on and off the microphone.

Stephen was a yoga teacher, and organic farmer, and a world traveller. He went to India several times in his quest for enlightenment and fellowship.

I did not see him for several years, but we rekindled our friendship in 2005. He encouraged my art way back in 1986, and continued to encourage my efforts for as long as he knew me. I will miss you, Steve.

Marble Flag

I am inspired by poetry: strings of images and symbols. These strings may be used as stepping stones, leading one across a chaotic world into a place of some understanding.

I collect things. I surround myself with fragments of images, art materials and collage parts. My art is a string of thoughts I condense into one single composition.

When I collage I reach for whatever my eye catches, collect and move these pieces around until they please my eye, then glue them and paint them. Later I am often surprised by what the assemblage reveals, as if it is a strange map into the abyss of my emotions.

This piece started as a chunk of tile I found somewhere. It looked like a flag - a white field with blue lines. I restated what I saw.

I have always loved labels on bottles.

Sit Up Kitty.

This is a sticker stuck in a phonebooth in Mumbai, Maharashtra India. Peel it off. Stick in in your journal.

1966

Collage, 10" x 6".

When I was 4, we left Portland for the Arizona desert. We rolled through Southern California at the time of the Sunset Strip Rock and Roll Riots. When we opened the car trunk in Phoenix, all my sister's vinyl records were melted in half. She cried. Music was changing. TV was going from black and white to color.
When we came back to Portland in '67, the world was different. More beautiful. I was different. Within a month I was enrolled at Kennedy Elementary School, where little girls started wearing yellow print dresses with large lavender flowers. Full color consciousness was reaching the blue collar neighborhoods.

(Note the distressed "Phillips 66" gas station sticker in the center of this collage. A proud symbol of a brave new world.)

Change is a Pendulum Which Undoes Itself

Pencil and ink on paper, 9.5" x 7.5".

Sometimes I am afraid to draw.

I draw anyway. My reluctance creates wobbly distortion.

I began this drawing with no plan. A round head and small body. I thought of President Obama, and threw his face in there, surrounded by a broken halo. His body became a reaching hand with crippled feet. The halo became a clock. This president was inaugurated with such high hopes. Time has distorted him, as it distorts us all. The change he promised has changed.

This clock has a pendulum, swinging then negating that swing. This impermanence is the action of our pumping heart, pushing blood out and drawing it back again, the nature of life itself. Creation and destruction.