Random, Abstract Poetry - 1/4/09

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page, but it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.

The concept of taking something that already exists and turning it into something new was inspired by a Richard Prince exhibition I visited at the Guggenheim - 2008. His re-photography, nurse paintings, and deKooning woman, collage paintings were my favorites.


Who Remain Largely Unknown
The sun rises,
In the early morning,
On a cold, icy day.
Bright spots mark the time.
The colors become obvious.
It's the day before Thanksgiving.

Go to the second floor.
You go, because it's warm.
Nobody there.
Where are they going?

Sitting in the cold,
Embracing and chanting.
We are all part of the fabric.
A fabric of no color.
The reality is,
You might not exist.

You can sleep now.


As They Sing
Because it's not safe,
Take chances because.
It sounds a lot like folk.

Addiction.
Meandering into the ether.
Plants and animals describe math.

Loosely translated.
Like here and there.
Talented, but occasionally open.
To say you got up.
You're doing well.


Throughout
Somewhat ridiculous.
This guy pays a fine.
If you're looking,
This could be the guy.

That brings to mind.
I'm spilling out my heart.
Lonely, depressing.

Start sparsely, then slowly build.
This is my last song.
A theme continued.

The good news is,
Imagery is beautiful.
And you will have,
No trouble remembering.


Original Elevator
That's a bad thing.
Channeling cowboys and angels.
I like their influence.

We all have secrets.
Don't tell.

Feeling alone.
There's a difference between,
Being influenced, and being.
Between recycling, and doing.

Start believing.
They have been shoveling even more.


Go No Further
Watching.
I had the uncontrollable urge.
Fond of adventurous souls.
Neither like the other.
Similarity with the king?
Yes, in fact, many.

You might hear noise,
When they listen.
That doesn't sound coherent.

You have heard it,
More than a few times.
Mechanical and emotional.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition 12/21/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.

The concept of taking something that already exists and turning it into something new has been on mind ever since I saw the Richard Prince exhibition at the Guggenheim - 2008. His re-photography, nurse paintings, and deKooning woman, collage paintings were especially inspiring.


The Love Song
It's familiar.
Conjuring, and recreating.
Engaged in a frenzied effort.
Defining the end points,
Between today and yesterday.

A loosely fictionalized account.
Introduced by people,
Powerful, corporate, non-democratic.
The tribe.

An intense revolution.
Global warming, war, financial collapse,
The government?
Corporate greed?

The tribe asks,
War for freedom, a moral choice?
Control, manipulate, pressure, persuade.
The system that controls us.

We should learn a thing or two.
History repeats itself.


Back In The Day
Honest working people.
Well meaning, sincere,
Mutual trust.
Feeling from virtue.
The countryside.

Poetry of the mundane.
Long periods of silence.
The simple story.
To simply be.

And that's the problem.
The other end.

Give less, say more.
A desperation for fame.
Insincerity, cynicism, self-righteousness.
Over abundant.
A climatic climax.

Deception, frustration, pressure
Feel the pressure.
The grinding pressure.
Try to figure out the problem.
It's their problem.

Consciousness overwhelmed.
Torn families.
Feeling all alone.
Tragedy, suicide, deadly violence.
The complex life.
When does it end?

The story continues forever.


The Situation Metastasizes
Trapped inside a bubble.
Mired in delusion.
Thinking of a nightmare.

Burn the dark poetry.
It's a lesser work.
A neatly crafted diversion.

Refer to the step-by-step conspiracy.
One revelation.
The game is literal.
Insist on French pronunciation.

This unfortunate pair of fantasies.
Obsessing about cartoon caricatures.
The caricatures complaining,
They're too one-dimensional.
A joke?
More tragic than real.

Give me 24 hours.
A cerebral force revolves around.
Insist on mysterious food.
Then draw the characters.
Deeper, more intelligent.

Burn one of the characters.
The small, paranoid one.
Sour laughter ensues.

Still believing.
The only sanity we have left.

Walking In A Winter Wonderland

There have been a few snow flurries over the past few weeks here in NYC, but today was the first real snowfall. A whole 3". WhoooHooo!!! It was barely cold enough to keep frozen, and by late afternoon, it was already turning slushy. But it was fun to walk around in it while it lasted.

Since I lived most of my life in California, the whole concept of seeing snow is still new and exciting to me. The best part of living in NYC is not having to deal with driving in it, or even shoveling it. I'm still hoping to experience a real blizzard one of these days. I am told it's a surreal experience being in the city with no traffic on the roads.

Here are a few photos from Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Yeah, we have real trees here. How about that.




I have seen little green aliens a number of times, but this is the first one I have seen making a snowman. The aliens with the pointy heads don't like being photographed. This one started throwing snowballs at me.

Random, Abstract Poetry - 12/17/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.

A Personal Cinema
They watch the silent film,
On a large, broken mirror.
A complex mosaic of images.
His family documentary?

People glued to fish.
Romance, marriage, and cynicism.
A boxing match.

The film answers a question.
The audience responds with painful emotion.
Jumping off of rooftops.

My face, facing down.
The moment becomes a dream.
Expectations exceeded.


A Marooned State of Orchestration
We are versed in the complexities of the mind.
A single image can recreate reality?
It can.

What lies beyond the mummified image?
Something so unusual and provocative,
We are obliged to marvel.

I no longer bother to imagine.
I am fine knowing,
I will never really understand.

He creates without any outside assistance.
A somewhat schizophrenic practice.
Painter, to camera man, to science experiment.
He should never have gotten involved.

Bringing the dead back to life.


Encapsulated In No-Mans-Land
The performance.
A snake eating it's tail.
Is anything more baffling?

A ritualistic task.
Constructed order within.
Very controlled.
Painting geometry?

Clues of actuality seem to exist.
Evoking sensations,
In the end, unobtainable.

The myth composed.
At the edge of disbelief.
Made by a jester.

No, it doesn't get any better.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.

Global Warnings
The last prophecy from Greek mythology,
The world is flat.

It is a revised thesis discovered.
Powerful forces.
My analysis became obvious.

The convergence of,
Hot, crowded,
Dynamic shaping.
Flattening the world.

The information,
Graphs and napkin drawings.
Written in simple language.
Calculated to a wide spectrum.

The frog is hot.


A Speech About
The process is broken.
Crushed or sabotaged.
I can't remember which.

There was singing and dancing.
Speeches about,
I don't remember exactly what.

I do remember.
We have this power.
A power to make something small.
It was real.

Transmitted from television and FM radio.
I had the experience.
I saw.


An Outside Signal
In the mucky waters,
A voice began to speak.

He couldn't finish a sentence.
So he began to speak.

Cautious optimism, drowning.
Spoken in paralyzing pain.

Consider the future.
Things will not get better.
There is little doubt.
The system, a signal to all.


Embattled and Aloof
There were a lot of interesting people.
I was there.
Tilted toward philosophy.
Difficult, to a large extent.

Compliant to literature,
And ways to escape the program.

I did not exist,
And I cannot imagine.

Time running out.
The activity planned,
And prepared.

The people, hung.
I think most of us were.
To survive, was very liberating.


A Kind of Visceral Interchange
The relationship between shapes.
Shapes you have investigated.
I'm wondering,
Is that coincidental?

The tribe.
A group of painters.
Creating a kind of abstraction.

The art.
Very drawn to it.
Experimenting with shapes.
Very large rectangles.
In a way, Greek.

I was intrigued.
A complex experience with color.


They Became Negligible
An incapacity to locate.
He made a point not to.

For fear of not being able to,
To find his way back.

The successful approach.
Engaged to the present.

Dwellers for time.
Rather than the near.

Death itself is sophisticated.
The termination, successful.

A pretty girl plays the tuba.



We Are All Americans
It's sort of extending into the absurd.
We are all unified?
Everybody is adopted?
I wondered.

Our vision of reality.
It makes sense.
The equation is clearly revealed.
What was the impulse?

Two pieces,
Fractured and broken.
People talked about being,
Split into parts.
The pieces all the same.

The idea of many people.
So many people.
It's a brilliant idea.
Very efficient.


Your Personal Suburb
A mysterious row of trees.
What is hidden behind?

Let's go back.
I remember.

The beginning of visual accumulation.
Images of suburbs,
Dominate the world.
That fascinates you.

I try to figure out why.
So immersed in thinking.
It got me thinking.

Everything has to do with you.
Mowing your lawn.
The absurdity of the whole thing.


A Concrete Thought
Blacked out names.
I collect them.

I know you.
You think logically.

A different kind of thinking.
Like a Vietnamese proverb.
Live long, be thin.
Live round, be dead.

A vision of reality.
Real facts on index cards.
I'm flattered that you think.


Gleeful Spaniel?
Do you speak?
Or do I not?
I do not.
Nor I cannot.

You and I.
For you the more.
I am you.
And my the more.

You, me, I.
But you will see.
Unworthy I am.
To follow, than be.

To love and respect.
I beg in you.
To be your dog.
I speak in truth.

Random, Abstract Poetry - 12/10/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.


A Game of Hot Potato
My head questions inside me.
What did I do?

Every afternoon,
I write a letter,
Describing what had happened.

I decline to write anything.
How to explain this?

I felt what had happened.
A sense of articulate realizations.


Even A Single Instance
A moment forever separated.
They hardly belonged.

A different generation.
A generation of people,
With little connection.

Culture, an arbitrary experience.
Paradigms in a world beginning.

Feel the tension,
Rushing sideways.
A sense we were all part of one.
The suffering was most serene.


Drawing Into A Person
It's black and white.
Disturbing values,
Found in ourselves.

Dark subjects.
Reflections of culture.

Antidotes offer dignity.
The definition incomplete.

Stories, a narrative of the parallel.
A line drawing reiterates.

The power to dream and fantasize.
How does it feel?


Contours of Souls
The souls of folk.
Interactions between other worlds.
Unasked questions.
A cloud that hung.

Encounters with those moved.
Circles question sense.

The dissonance of strange feeling,
Through the eyes of others.
How does it feel?

Question and explore what it means.
The lives of seven.
Follow them through.
All the while,
Sketching out a portrait.


Shift Exterior to Interior
It was a form of animation.
A very strange landscape.
I felt the curvature of the earth.
The experience, stuck together with tape.
I could see.

I began making drawings in the mind.
Cutting shapes.
Putting them together.
These drawings led to shapes.

I became aware.
Your drawings,
Looking from the outside.
Very complex.
Could you elaborate?

Drawing.
A different kind of focus.
I draw when I'm dreaming.
Unedited.

The place didn't allow for drawing.
They unraveled.
The drawing,
Very different.
I wanted to change nature.

Aside From Common
The only connection is loose.
For reasons never revealed.

Pursuing his subjects,
Shifting, altering,
What it means to be opposite of reverse.

Life in a way human.
This is depressing.


A Real Introspection
On the following Tuesday,
Question the beginning of philosophy.
Over the weekend,
Read our discussion.

Present one idea,
Which exemplifies the idea.
This approach is pervasive.

The connection between one is reality.
Concepts, the book rarely offers.

Interactions with reality.
Examine the real.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My darker, semi-schizophrenic alter ego creates the poetry.


A Wise Passiveness
The right to be never noticed.
Virtually blind?
Who became blind?

I had a memory.
Memory less prodigious.

The science to integrate form and matter.
Losing control,
Under psychotropic control.

He witnessed clearly.
The objects,
They might be rare animals.
Exquisite, for their own sake.

He recognized that.


Get Some Arms and Legs
Their experiments unsuccessful.
The dead ones,
They burn up?
Yes, you have to burn them.
Ten or twenty.

People might complain.
You tie them to a pole,
Then freeze them?
The fridge is full.

The professor a professor.
A French professor.

Open the fridge.
Arms and legs piled high.
Close the fridge.

Need I even ask?
Silence prevailed.

Academically sanctioned,
Forever.
The professor,
He went his own way.


He Might See Marginally
The visionary one.
Under the influence.

Seeing something.
Deeply inter-fused.

It might have been Venus.
Or the opiated skull of wisdom.

I'm guessing it was prophecy,
Or I would see nothing at all.


Heavy Bee Mode
Half asleep,
On the telephone.
Discussing the deal.

Killer bees.
I need some.
I will pay.
You must be careful.

Six hours later,
Expired.
An inversion of psychics,
Not physics.

It is winter.
The bees move fast.



Variations of This
Improvise every visit,
Not yet constructed.
Fact is not a factor.

Once controversial,
Now weirdly comfortable.
Neither is French.

Gather the delicate.
Ears, a lavender rose.
Hair, a red heart.

A Geisha lit a cigarette.
Outside it was pouring,
Gold glittered rain.



Not Thinking of Anything In Particular
An idiot-savant.
Walking aimlessly,
Collecting impressions.
Meticulously collected,
Strictly to be admired.

With a keen eye,
Always for the non-useful.
He collected hundreds.

Walking delirious.
Medicated by hashish,
Contemplating whatever.


Strangers Together
Art without art.
It is an exercise,
Of others creating.

Read, look, photograph,
Organize, enact.
One must participate.

I turn to surrender.
Sinister thoughts entered my head.

People hovered.
I soon become oppressive.

Watching the act,
I couldn't contain curiosity.

What are we doing?
My mind connecting with strangers.
This is different.
I didn't mind.

I felt a strange attachment.
As thought we shared something unique.

Physically found.
Relevance and meaning.
A rare experience.


Unforgettably Alienated
I think about alienation.
Go off to Canada.
No one to understand.
Sometimes murky is always clear.

Screaming poetically.
So much emotion inside.

Dissonant elements,
Complement one another.

Red, black and white.
Red and black.
Captivating simultaneously.


Divine Punishment For God
The young and seductive Chinese executioner.
She communicated pain.
Seeking, not to take pleasure,
But to dehumanize.

Obscenely erotic,
Unconventional pleasure.

Tormented, dehumanized.
Perhaps excessive.
Impossibly joyous and reckless.

Then, she called him God.


Shackled of Addiction
Loving his enemy,
Depressed, beneath the tie.
Beneath the stiff exterior.

An enemy,
Infinitely wrathful.
A damp, moldy cigarette.



What Does The Thread Mean?
I dreamt my own work.
I made it afterwards.

Cannibalism.
A human being.
A moral entity?

An artist of the word.
Part of a strategy.
A provocative metaphor,
Of consumption.

Describe relationships,
Power and influence.
Connect psychoanalytic theories,
To counter culture.

Re-enact what one might ask.
A group of ten.
Six on the floor.
Form a tight circle.
Thread their mouths and eyes closed.



Dead While Alive
Anti-social feelings,
And discontent.

He saw unhappiness as,
Limited happiness.
A perception tragically estimated.

Found dead in the asylum.
The cause of death was technical.
An autopsy disclosed:
Foot holding shoe.
A lethal dose.


Counterfeit Lucidity
Your interest in my lack of interest.
The diagnosis fascinates you.

You suggest I attempt lucidity.
The verses present my diagnosis.

Poetry and the literary world,
Mean nothing to me.
Nothing which compels me.

The verses I know.
Suicidal because of humanistic concern.
To remain undead and dream.
But not to have been born.

It is in the verse,
Listen.


Exactly As It Stands
The offer you extend,
Printing and fictionalizing my name.

Why revise?
My unholy brain.
The poems imperfect,
Disordered lines.

I paint to paint.
Every brushstroke imperfect.
I refuse to normalize.


Couldn't Identify The Scent
Her name was God.
My name is God.
You like that,
I can see.

Lick there now.
Swallowed,
A gram of cocaine.

The compulsion to,
Every day.
Sinuses congested.

To Go Or Not To Gogh

If you are contemplating whether or not to see the Van Gogh exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, my suggestion is to Gogh. Yes, the exhibition is timed entry due to very large crowds, but it's well worth the wait.

I went during the free Friday evening hours (4-8pm), when lines are the longest. The line to get into the museum extended from 53rd street all the way around the block onto 54th street. However, at 4:00pm the line moves steadily, and it took about 30 minutes. I was probably a quarter mile back in the line, so don't let the length of the line deter you from going. Along with your museum entrance ticket, you get a separate ticket for the Van Gogh exhibition with an entry time. Mine was 6:30pm, so figure 2 hours later from the time you enter the museum. You can see the rest of the museum and just show up at the exhibition entrance when it's your time to go in. I even arrived 15 minutes early and went straight in.

It's probably a once in a life time opportunity to see this collection of artwork. The exhibition is titled "The Colors of The Night", and is a compilation of paintings done during the evening hours. Some are day scene paintings, so he was doing them partly by memory rather than entirely en plein air.

"The Starry Night" might be his most famous painting, but the largest crowd was around "The Starry Night Over the Rhone". It's the highlight of the show.

"The Starry Night" - 1889



"The Starry Night Over The Rhone" - 1888



While you are waiting for Van Gogh, visit the Joan Miro - Painting and Anti-Painting exhibition on the top floor. It's a collection of experimental works from 1927 - 1937. The series includes paintings on unprimed canvas, paintings on cardboard, collage & sculpture, small paintings on masonite & copper, pastel works on paper, and many more.



Museum Info:
Museum of Modern Art - www.moma.org
Free Fridays: Every Friday from 4:00 - 8:00pm


Van Gogh Exhibition - Thru January 5, 2009
Joan Miro Exhibition - Thru January 12, 2009

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My semi-schizophrenic, alter ego creates the poetry.

The Pale Male Earlier Converted
There was no end.
The surrealist, a moralist.
Professed to detest.

Opium ingested,
Mistress thrashing in his bed.

Consumption, abuse,
A wish to die.
Reckless expenditure.


Just Contemplating
The infamous photo.
Mutilated, librarian corpse.
Stiff, bound wrists.

Blood on the moldy dungeon floor.
Rain in the distance.

Mad, enraged savage art.
Anything to say about it?


You Can Never Say That There's Only One
I get a lot of calls.
Strange people,
The government.
Who's watching?

He didn't say.
This is a common theme.

I'm on the radio.
I wrote a book?
Now that's very strange.

This man who they worshipped.
Deeply unpopular.
No one stands up.
It's doesn't make sense.

You hear people say,
There's no difference.
There is a difference.
That's not different.

One is perfect,
And one is the myth.

Images of one.
If one does something wrong.

The guilty is a myth.
A myth made necessary,
By the myth.
And you can't defy this.


The Book
I wrote it.
The whole thing.
It all came together.
The book.

I was conscious of what we were doing.
Near the street where I live.
Three or four people.
Questioned.

What you think, they feel.
I took out the book.

They started laughing,
And thought it was wonderful.
They loved it.
A great pleasure.

They accused me of soliciting the book.
It was absurd.
I was a pimp supposedly.
How ridiculous.

I considered it poetry.
Poetry not recognized.


Repeat The Cycle
Oversized, useless legs.
A pair of stockings.
Plenty of free time.
There was always something of interest.

A particular favorite.
Moby Dick's epilog.
Warm breezes, beaches, a beach chair.

A victim of infantile paralysis.
A tongue sandwich.
Lying in an iron lung.
The sun must have died.

A decade later,
His sense of smell became open.
The rain.
Not ordinary rain.


Civil Disorder
Sitting at a table.
The cat drinking plum juice.
Reminded of his last visit to Katmandu.

The only real excitement every morning.
The diabolical, raging battle,
Between street dogs and crows.
Over the possession of the garbage.
Listen to that.


Drinking Jean Paul
To understand Greek,
Call the Polish composer.
They called.

Yes, what have you got?
I have a painful procedure to do.
You will like it.

Buy red wine at outrageous prices.
If you say so.

Milky, alcoholic, rotten fruit.
Give me the whole bottle.

Let me ask you a question,
It is French?


Talent To Fish
Just put it aside.
To be paid and spend all your money on books?
You're crazy.

I'm describing a kind of ossification.
What's happening?
These are changes.
And it's affected me.

An addictive sociologist and heaven.
Find it interesting?

Disappear without a trace.
And spend a lot of money.

You can't do that,
Can't you?

We have to say,
This person is "X",
And take that kind of analysis seriously.


A Casual Sunday Conversation
Black and white footage.
A male figure with female parts.
How hazy the line forms.

Investigate declaration throughout.
Do not trust faith.
The words, a string of lies.

Rhyming words in personal narrative.
Scenes of orating language.

Language that intrigues.
That compels.
It sounds strange.
Like, "chop a duck head."


No, I Don't
Do you think books should be banned?
That puzzles me.

Is grammar not suitable?
A guy suckling on breasts.
Starving?
Absolutely, I'm sure.

I know it's being discussed.
What is considered normal.
I'd say,
No.


So, In Other Words
Thinking for a purpose.
I remember.

I became communist.
I was.

I thought it was impossible.
It was boring.
I couldn't accomplish one ideology.

I thought censorship.
But I didn't.

I belonged to nothing because,
I think I was,
I felt that,
I


The Village And The Beats
You ask a lot about the idea.
What do you think of is?

A creative outbreak.
To look back and say,
That was.
You're saying it.

People will say,
It was.
Because at least,
It was.

Compared to now,
Which I notice now.
You cannot, not notice.
It is the fact,
That is was so.

It's not good.
And if it isn't,
You know, the culture is.

There are technical things,
Which basically comes to people.
Not worried about was,
When was would never go.


It Seems I Think
Do you have confidence?
Did you ever think?

No, I mean, I thought.
But I don't think.

Got some papers.
The government told them,
That I didn't.
That I never thought.
I was shocked.

Of course, the thought.
I would have thought.


A Backward Step Puzzles Me
Life is the influential culture.
Autobiography books with obscenity laws.
A literary canon?

What is going on?
It seems to have gotten sharper.
I think it's sort of difficult.

What is going on, I remember.
A really bad situation,
The situation seems.

Dangerous, I don't know.
People saying the same thing.
The system
It can fall apart.


Moment of Change
The thought had never occurred.
A whole new idea.

They trust each other.
Talking just because.

A social interchange.
Kind of laid back.
Probably good.

Random, Abstract Poetry - 11/25/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork. My semi-schizophrenic, alter ego creates the poetry.

Sketched In Cadmium Red
The suggestion of fishy humor,
Offbeat.

The burning of the painting,
An abstract human quality.
Nature's way?

Allow the text to transition.
Weigh with judgement, not chaos.

Examine paintings of clouds.
Then, look at the sky,
Without desire.

Induce ambition.
Paint the question.
Who deserves?


Textural Renderings
Unamplified noise whispers.
Two performers project waves.
Short visual poems and symbols.
The page can grow hair.

A tidal wave,
It's own nature.
Existing in certainty.
The symbol and waves constant.


Translations
Scientific instruments.
Nuclear fission.
Things you imagine.

A laboratory of paint.
Tonality and color.
Mesmerizing and strange.

Paint a material vision.
Transform into substance.

Combine image and text,
As a strange occult.

Combine images with found text.
He was keenly interested.


Experimental Poetry
A performance with sound.
Respond to one another.

Deliberate, but primal.
Oscillate between.

Calm yet attentive intrigue.
It was a s'eance,
Existing between words and sound.

Enthusiasm clinching guilt.
Experimental association.
The odd personality to become.

The performance ended.


Art As A Model
His work was art.
Painting.
Concluding.
Including.

His paintings imaginary.
Translations that define painting.

The imagination.
The real.
Be transformed.

A romantic who rejects rational progress.
Denying egocentric gesture.
Understanding the artist,
Becomes all which were derived.


Spiraling In And Out
The silent place.
A kind of green light.

Truth stretches.
Dialogue silent.
It makes me wonder.

A native language.
Non-verbal.
But not French.


Or Re-Invented
Re-invention of the other thing.
Something referred to as the number.

You know they didn't think.
They got rid of non-fiction.

Imprint the analog.
Free of random form.
Were all shut down?

Beautiful Is
Multiple personality.
The presence of good.

Conscientious methods,
Lack dissenting intentions,
They argue.

The very presence of glass.
How beautiful it is.

Writing invokes tension.
Beauty, the profound aesthetic.

The hallmark of beauty,
Brokenness.


Mind of Hell
Torture, disorder.
A troubling question.

Interrogations critical?
Interrogators will.

Mentally ill psychologists.
Dubious psychologists.
Interrogations.


Broken
It is and,
It can be broken.
A piece of glass.

Resonate throughout.
Anxiety and instinct,
Constitutes what?

Tragedy.
How beautiful it is.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork. I create the artwork, and my semi-schizophrenic, alter ego creates the poetry.

World Based On Principles
You get one kind of object.
Think about what must be going on.
It all ties together.

A scientific project.
Sea urchins and advanced mathematics.
Hyperbolic geometry,
The easiest way to describe.

The inverse of a sphere.
Crinkled edges.
Take those shapes,
And imagine infinity.

In actuality, it is impossible.
Realize nature.
Nature's imperfections.
You are a mathematician.
You may discover.


The Purpose Of
Futuristic structures.
Designed to cure all.
Censorship of the media.
The fact remains.

Never mind the critics.
Be more vocal.
Question ethics,
The regime,
The government.


Aesthetic In A Nut
You can find beauty in things.
The connections drift.

Treasures recovered,
Or maybe jarred loose.

An organism admiring color.
Color otherwise white.

Disposable fish.
Popular in Japan.


New Genera Of The Thread
A textile zoologist.
Her exceptional discovery in a pile of weed.
A plastic bag, I've been searching for.

A skeleton made from fiber.
Further analysis will confirm.
Fragments of thread,
Hypothetical.

A wire,
She considers.
Investigation into evolution.


Shocking Sensibilities
A project that is planned.
It is evident that it isn't.

An endemic problem.
All over the world.

Regimes of grandeur.
But one reality,
A crisis.
I don't think anything.


Call Them Units
Make a colony.
Thousands of tiny units.
Similar to a beehive.

Call them cells.
Why not?

Grow art in the structures.
Very cellular, it seems.
Follow the progression.


Mass Hypnosis
Reinforce the cult.
Then, in February,
Back out and support Sudan.
Genocidal?

That won't work.
Months later,
Echo the same.


In The Simplest Definition
Decorative green wool.
Fluffy wool.
Superfluous kitsch.

Experimenting,
Far less than perfect.

Mathematical models of,
Barnacles, wool, and plastic.
We got the purely mathematical stage.

Methodically categorize thousands of items.
Photos of plastic.
Begin with one.
Build upon another.
Tying together hundreds.


Society For The Art
They don't understand culture.
Of culture banned.

Focus on surrealism,
And postmodern revolution.

Open an anonymous museum.
All the more obvious,
By people the revolution is sensitive to.

Access private, totalitarian regimes.
Fill in the gap.


Made For TV
The grave of a KGB ruler.
His death, odd.
Designed to highest international standards.

An integral role in protocol.
A dictator telling them what not to report.
There were few examples.

A moral quagmire and politics.
It is no coincidence.
Invented propaganda.
The cinematic masterpiece.


Art In Nature
Knitting bones.
It's perfect for complex shapes.
The ideal circumstances,
Minimum shapes.

A visual thesis.
Prove evolution.
It was aesthetically beautiful.

Art is science.
Who's to say they are separate?


An Unfinished Painting
To sense how much he was haunted,
I cannot learn.
I am certain.

Painting innocence.
A collage of junk.
The time tells us which.
Damaged or rejected?

Bring together images.
The paint, which he copied in paint,
Stopped painting.
Failure fills in.


Stimuli Was Twofold
Fatal jagged lines,
And infectious color.

Atmosphere dissolved.
Personally, we realize.

Painful alienation.
Theatrical associations feel real.

The strain of laughter,
Intense.

Vampires began to mark out the shadows.
Deeply influenced by life without tomorrow.


A Tricky Little Caper
Make it appear imminently plausible.
First look at development.

The new white wall.
The window was beautiful,
As beautiful was.

Who realized in the past,
Modern was still folk?
The idea had to resemble fact.
Though strictly speculative.

Not what could be,
But what has been done.

Pedagogy has always been odd.
Evangelism, it's different.

Observe what they show.
Don't put up evidence.

Draw beneath the gap.
The mission is challenging.


A New Race
A kind of revenge.
Emerging from the past.

These myths, we have lost.
Our efficacy of nature,
A stable sense of ourselves.

Rattus Maximus

Rattus Maximus
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood.
(Not For Sale)
www.ErikVP.com

This is the third and final painting from my Year of The Rat series. Rat and Moon and Year of The Rat were the first two.

I like watching the rats running around the subway tracks, and I always take the F-Train. The painting is dated 4706 for the Chinese New Year. There's some random poetry on the Brooklyn Rail newspaper collage below, but not related to the rat.

The title is in reference to the misconception that rats living in New York are super-sized.

I Know
There was a moment.
Out the window.

Now and again.
Turned around.
I was trying to find.
You musn't trouble yourself.

Disabled
The war on terror.
Couldn't do it's job.
Spending millions a day.
Our infrastructure crumbling.
Responsibility.

In The Pudding
You can have a vision.
A vision.
I see the proof.

The Neighborhood
If nothing else,
People should put themelves,
In a position to save themselves.

New Orleans,
A financial disadvantage.
Courtesy of the government.
Pushing and providing.

That Was Deep
This is how I think.
The greatest moral failure.
And that's how it will.

Thoughts Crossed
I am far from people.
I had foolishly imagined.

I looked at my watch.
I decided.

The next day,
At 11:10pm, in the morning,
The idea seemed ridiculous.

They Were Black
Twice in a row,
Across the blue sky.
So quickly they seemed.

A straight line,
In the late afternoon.

I waited a bit.
I opened the door.
I went out.
I shall always remember.

Random, Abstract Poetry - 11/20/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.


Insightful Examination
Unaware, I pause.
Phonetic instructions were followed.

Early urban portraits.
Outbreak of war.
Expressive brushwork.

A feverish blank face.
A ticking time bomb.

Being symbolic can easily turn to consequences.
Transformed into a glow,
And immune to what might come.

Reminded of emotional detachment.
The unconscious art is urgent.


No Attempt To Blend
Catch up with the mind.
The world is detonating.
Plutonium, a devastating weapon.

Reproductions of Egyptian wall paintings,
and cartoons.
The paintings awkward.

Who seems to grasp?
The difference is in the color.
A mosaic to fulfill order.

The use of found images.
A few, coherent images.
Concoction never becomes unified.
Exploding pieces patiently joined.


This Particular Portrayal
In the anonymity of his surroundings.
Bring together seven.
Six to offer.
The first, of an apocalyptic history.

Notorious retrospect.
Crimes of the collective consciousness.


How To Draw
When he decided to.
He would say that.

My mind wanted to see.
I could not.
Images that had already been.

A deficiency ingenious.
Paintings, the final version.


That One Usually Applies
To have money.
You have money.
The thesis is likely.

As I said earlier.
We would have to have,
A lot of money.

Tell us about the pamphlets.
This idea of pamphlets.


Blue Flashes
Shatter a plate.
Unfazed to break.
This brings chaos.
Normally erratic or disruptive.

It seems that others choreographed chaos.
He admits.

The film cuts to the artist.
Telling transitions.

A filmmaker acutely aware.
The complexities an artist wants.
To uncover organically.

In order to allow,
Reveal.


Grammatological Terrain
Restricted of it's form.
Pedigree lying.
Somewhere found,
The system of not.

The visuality of the faded.
Repeated secondary vacuums
Loosely translated.

Production of myths.
Dark shadows,
A test of his imagination.
The painting, a hallucination.


Something Foolish
The distribution of color,
I have never seen.

There were a few ways.
Get up at dawn.
Pretend you were a mushroom sprouted.
Wait till the weekend.
Get drunk.


Being Butchered and Served
A madhouse.
Lurid, hallucinatory colors.
Graphic.
Overwhelmed by existential paralysis.
Sexual compulsion.

Response,
Over-stimulating.
Connection might be a pop song.

Self-conscious beauty enveloped me.
Still drowning.


Reason To Exist
A little boutique publisher.
No connection with it's past.
A couple of refugees.
Twenty-five, brought to Europe.
Publishing sensibility.
They published.
Very serious.
And made what?

Dreams Of

Dreams Of
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood.
www.ErikVP.com

Dreams Of
Life is always ulgy,
On the other side.
Neither true nor real.

Sometimes when I look.
There's no wind.
What are they tilting toward?

Speak To Me of Death
The trees lived.
I am in the sun, living.

Gaze at my smile.
Whenever I smile.
It was the end of everything.

This started off as happy, bright-colored painting. I looked through the newspaper collage and created the two poems above. You can see parts of both poems in the photo below. "Dreams Of" is by the pink house. "Speak To Me of Death" is vertical across the top of the painting and wraps around the edge. The first phrase, "The trees lived." was partially painted over with the black M&M tree.

Both poems have a darker feel and I didn't think they fit the painting at all. I kept thinking about a dream I had many years ago where I died in my dream. I revised the painting, replacing much of the color with black and white, and also some detail behind the black giraffe. I really like how the poems ended up influencing the artwork. This is another example of what comes out of the experimentation process, and will get incorporated into future artwork.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.

More Sophisticated
Running through an impulse.
My impression composed.

A group of ravens explain,
"Keep expanding connections,
Moment to moment,
Communicate reflections."

"When you want proof,
Remember the musicians."
"Tonight is like that."


The Path That Encircles
The Hospital.
A smallpox hospital.
We would get in.

We tried out best to act like seagulls.
Posing.

We reached the fence.
There were spotlights.
The warning against trespassing.
We ignored the signs and jumped.


Life Aside From When
We thought it.
Have to change it.
So polite.

A heart condition.
One leg.

I think I belong.
More time.


The Back Door
I walked through it.
Could not have been.

A jungle of bamboo trees.
A miniature desert.
There is water.
A pond.


Outside
Those secret spaces.
You taking photos?

Transfixed by the images.
On the day, the sun rose.

That day.
Already belonging.


Expect To Find
It's moment to moment.
Comprehensive energy flowing.

Going over what?
Disorganization, leaving, changing.

This world.
I imagine romance.
There's sex.


On Her Back
She was on glycerine.
More and more.

She ended up dead.
Her faith in men.

She had devoted herself to danger,
Luxuries, never had.

This world to that.
To die.


They Look So Slender
Sand placed on a vibrating plate.
Open to chaotic feeling.
He relates.

A phenomena from his shoe.
Parabolas of darkness.

I speak obliquely.
I marvel at the peach tree,
With surrealist insight.

Prone to sudden chaos.
Their impulses circulating.


A Kind Of
People remember what?
What's unformed.

I'm trying to stabilize what.
The words are turbulent.

His thoughts dissolve.
Suffering becomes.


It's All About
I asked him how.
I learned what you will find.

A beautiful, shrunken box,
In camouglage,
Filled with weeds, trash, old tires,
And people.

He is unabashed.
He does no ask,
And he doesn't have to.


Stopping Often To Compose
People in the screen.
I arrange to meet.

10:00am
The mercury calling.

My apartment looked typical.
The same width.

"Two filters open."
"infinitely easier,"
He said in German.

Asylum
You
And that.
Of and.
The is.

To and.
It's of.
Of the.
There are.

The and.
To The.


Getting Up Early
The limbic nerve.
I become acute.

A man waving.
He works there?

This time,
There was a trial.


Beers From The Store
The recruiting officer wished me luck.
I was hand-washing paper towels.

The obligatory crazy guy.
I could see them looking at me.

An item in the paper.
People could get free meals.
Opportunities I discovered.


Previously Known As Blackwell
A small section.
A tall fence.
A paved road.
A second fence.

A smallpox hospital
A trip to explore.


She Was
An unrosy person.
Who's not going?
Ogling our new walnut.

Random, Abstract Poetry - 11/12/08

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.

The previous post for "Ice Fishing" is an example of how I incorporate poetry into my artwork.


As Few Words As Possible
It's such a poetic language.
Words go down on paper.
I hear it very clearly.
I'm not hearning.
It's pretty clear.

Extreme language.
Experimentation.
Someone who speaks Norwegian.
Can you talk about the experiment?

I think his experiment is kind of simple.
People say, he uses.
And then sometimes he's using.


The Jails of Delhi
Read a passage.
Are there bars?

They left the villages.
What is Balram?

Servants are slaves?
It does get like that.


Pacing About
As they trade positions,
In incomplete ways.
The line followed.

Talking about things.
Chicken soup, cigarettes.
And no consequences.

Hanging from the rafters.
No hands.


Lounging On The Top Edges
The white box.
Three female dancers inside.
Sitting, standing, and lying.

Instrumental music.
Beautifully jagged.
The choreography pure.


It Was Used As The Title
Somewhat poetic.
Sa Ka La
It sounds good.

All my secret text.
Laid out in verse.
How do you approach that?

I'm very loyal to clues.
Translating lowercase letter.
The line breaks, you know.

If he has something,
He writes.


Minor Shifts
I'm interested in why you think.
Titles kind of revolve.
I want the audience to decide,
So I can't.

One or two words.
A line, broken.

I think because I think.
So follow the rhythm.
The rhythm of the line.
That tells you a lot.


A Stunning Polemic
Engendered by imaginative, postmodern dance.
Epic in July.
Brought to center stage.

Through time and space.
Structure offers pleasures,
And failures of story.

The spareness of.
The original.


Silver White Light
Desire.
Dancing with Cupid.
Rewriting as they go.
Reference lies.
As you see fit.

In the middle.
Begin a brief intermission.
Dance without props,
Or any expressive body.


On A Throne
The 70's.
The defection of 1974.
The arrival of radical voices.

Fusion and analysis,
And the dancing of leaves.

Offer up a vision.
A giant chess board.
Alternative art.
Dancing in costumes.

Powerful and wise.
She is Catherine the Great.


Paris Then
Pale blue that alternates.
Stop walking.

Hands waiting to take.
I remember the hands.
Fingers snapping.

The sense of venom.
So vigorous,
So enthralling.

After a second,
I take to primitivism,
And the avante garde.

A ritualistic circle.
The final scene.


In Norweigian
What does Sa Ka La mean?
It's an unusual title.
It's title, is it true?

Sounds that come out.
Of lang.
Of speaking.
Lost ability.
Lost language.

Sa Ka La
It's very open.
I have my specific theory.

Ice Fishing

Ice Fishing
2008 - 11"x12', Mixed media on wood.
(Sold)
www.ErikVP.com

Polar bear and pengiun are ice fishing, but feeling dazed and confused by the changes going on around them. The glaciers are melting. The cold winters are no more. Strange new animals are moving into the neighborhood. A capybara from South America. A lizard in an igloo. Most disturbing of all is the dinner they are fishing for. What's this, a fish with legs? How they miss the good old days.

If you have been following my previous experimental artwork, you know I am playing around with abstract poetry. I use the Brooklyn Rail newspaper as collage. I underline words and phrases that catch my attention, and create a poem. The title is a circled word or phrase. I was reading through the random bits of text and found a poem that fit well with the artwork. The poem is to the right of the penguin. The poem is open to interpretation, especially since I didn't actually "write" it, but I've included my comments below if interested.

They Are Not Used?
The extent of the country,
Of land planted.
Radical anti-pollution factories.
Morning before long,
The horizon is black.

Most of the world is made of industrialized countries where land is covered by man-made things. Global warming is a fact, it's just a question of how much time we have left. Extreme measures will be necessary to prevent further damage. It may already be too late. The title, is in reference to the animals and nature scenes you see in the oil company ads and commercials.

Random, Abstract Poetry - The Sunday Edition

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.

Translated From French
I prefer English.
Is it English?

On a hot day,
I was strolling.
It was noon.
The sun was not.

The sky I could see it.
Without my head by my eyes.

The morning hours are whole.
Those evening thoughts have vanished.
The joys of the day never last.
I was happy.


They Have Surmised
Then, that is.
Out of the of.
Out my head.
This gaze weighing on.

Still, I continue.
As close as possible.
Come close.
Show us, and trust anyone.

The stranger still looking,
Spoke to the birds.
One of them to take my fingertip.


Forth From Nature
I listened to the singing.
This chirping, very slowly.

I was looking for an out,
In the center of the park.

All around me,
The sky was blue.

A few insects were hopping.
Intense life, the buzzing.


Well Dressed
He was telling himself this.
I had a small piece of bread.
Of crumbs.

Don't be angry.
Only observe.

He was wearing rubber boots.
With so much kindness.


Them Crumbs
It's a sign, commendable.
Like most, gracefulness.
I pulled the pie from my pocket.
A lie, I am sure.


None of Them
It's not that order.
I like, waterfalls, secret moments, open terraces, those birds, the garden.

Unfortunately, I appear very interested,
In what I was doing.

Stop thinking about watching me.
Some people are odd.

A poor man is sharing with the birds.
I've never seen this.


I matched My Step
We moved away, walking slowly.
He stopped and looked at the sky.
A great love of simple things.

Someone who doesn't think.
This is what makes a friendship.
The sign of great wisdom is not asking.

I know this.
I am wise.
I ask only to take.
But this is denied.


A Slice of
Who could hear every noise?
The garden was deserted.

We see someone going by.
The stranger, we didn't know.
Eating a piece of meat.
One always wonders.


Crumbs
To the birds:
I do it because I'm nothing.
I am fond of independence,
But not contentment.

The bread I brought.
Birds, a few yards away.

That woman.
I saw him.


I Was Jealous
People who eat outside,
Looked at him with pity.
It was great to see that.
In spite of everything,
There on earth.

For the others,
I was not jealous.
Those who desire nothing,
Don't notice someone eating.

Not even a look with the stranger.
He was truly poor.

We walk without saying.
It's so pleasant to walk.


One Evening
Lure him to an alley.
With a station wagon.
The cops put it together.
As a very L.A. crime.

Neither had a restaurant.
The other a big house.

Daily accounts of the eyes.
They had some horrible soup.

What would it be like to go to prison?
Listening to jazz records.

They had an opportunity.
And maybe, they had money.
We can't know.


Think So?
Not knowing exactly where.
Of being lost.
Most look at you.

Any more bread?
For not having any,
He should run out.
I wanted some,
So I could go on giving.

I am intelligent right?
I had enough for today.


Two Days Later
Son of a famous cowboy.
High above the flatlands.
The cowboy wasn't there.

There was a lot of talk about,
Mysteriously obtained income.
There had to be a way.
The Ruscha painting on the wall.

I wondered.
They're all so stoned.


And Yet These Were Not
I was likable.
I could speak to animals.
Without really thinking.
Something to do.
The birds had said.

Should have remained one.
What others hear so often.
I had wanted.

Smaller and smaller.
This stranger surely was.


Vacant Study
It was an ordered space.
A polished woodplank desk.
Open to a blank page.

A quill pen and the desk,
Among usual knick-knacks.
A pendulum, a crystal framed photo,
Weathered in Tibet.

Partially eclipsed.
An antique I surmised.
That was something.
Something that wouldn't.
Or so I guessed.

Anything better?
Someone grabbed by elbow.


His Servant Is Rare
A month to transform.
The only transformation is crime.
Fantasies, dreams.
You have to be brutal.

Outbreak of crime.
The servant-master is the servant.
A servant has no possibility.

And secondly, the money.
The crime.
Three or four.
Paranoid about crime.
The reality is killed.


You Know
I had just enough time to see.
At almost the same moment,
The birds wouldn't look.
They'll come back.

But I don't have any more bread.
I have to confess.
I don't have any more bread.

Malicious tone.
No one is perfect.

Fly Across the Sky

Fly Across The Sky
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood.
www.ErikVP.com

Have you ever seen a purple shark,
fly across the sky?
No, says turtle.
Sharks aren't purple.

Have you ever seen a purple shark,
fly across the sky?
No, says giraffe, don't make me laugh.
Sharks swim, they don't fly.

Have you ever seen a purple shark,
fly across the sky?
Yes, says snake.
Look below you and say hi.

There is a squirrel in a tree.
He's looking right at me.
Turtles can fly too,
look behind me and you will see.

Squirrel lives on an island.
Where it's always warm and nice.
His friends all come to visit.
To escape the cold and winter ice.

Three turtles flying high.
Way up in the autumn sky.
It's time to migrate south,
From New York to squirrel's house.

Sharks and turtles swim.
But some can also fly.
You never know what you may see,
when you look into the sky.

I completed this shortly after "Green Eyes and Spam" where I took Cat In The Hat, "Green Eggs and Ham", and modified it into my own story inspired by the artwork. This one is a similar idea, except that I wrote the story based on the artwork.

Random Abstract Poetry - 11/07/08

Here is some more random abstract poetry to start off your Friday.

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a page of words and editing down to a poem or maybe several. It's kind of backwards from the traditional process of adding words to a blank page. But it works for me. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.


How It Changes
Limitations, imperfections.
Talking in your sleep.
They're connected to each other.

Forgetful, I can't lose it.
So the idea became more.
I saw progress.
A bizarre thing to witness.

Being forgetful.
False memories will fade over time.
A different kind of reality.


Time
How one could not remember?
Random over time.
I would close my eyes.
Try to remember.
And try again and again.

Loss of memory.
This thing that grew.
Something you could see.
It was everything.

Part of it was moving through.
We didn't know how.
Fragments of her mind.
Trying to connect.

The only way was through.
Give us an idea.
Her past was all mixed up.


From the 60's
Two parts coming together.
Like a certain color.

I find an idea.
And think it emerges as something visual.

Described in detail.
How does the idea develop?

I was curious.
I found a book of the future.
Most of them were wrong.

I like weather reports.
I love following time.


Psychedelic or Islamic?
Looking at Twombly.
Cut out and manipulate.
My hand drumming in ink.

What I do now.
Making myself dizzy.

What about phrenology?
You've got to believe that it's real.
But most of my patterns are.


A Book on Nostradamus
Pseudo-science.
Studying bumps on people's heads.
I'm drawn to pseudo-science.

There is no tangible proof.
That thing.
Your use of pattern are patterns?
I look at a lot of things as invented.


The drums
On a pad with a metronome.
Making circular scribbles.
The movement was similar.
The metronome my drum.

It was a personal mark.
From that moment on.

Charting memory.
The works are extensions.
Alone, when no one is watching.


Strategy
You're setting up a duel.
That's happening in real life.
My drawings more personal.

I feel an itch.
I mark it.
Then transfer it to paper.
Like drawing a map.

You're interested in games?
Actually, I stopped playing.


Experiment
I don't understand.
I use specific bits of information.
Sometimes it's uncomfortable.
But I want to.

I feel like something I didn't completely make.
Shifting as you go.
I'll set up some way to push two things together.
And see what comes from that.

Change it.
Combine it.
And over time, I'll lose track.

What I had.
A lot of it is set up.


These Are The Things
Let's get out of here.
Out a side door.

I thought about the watch, presenting itself.
I had no moral qualms.
That was obvious.

A fear of getting caught.
Most people do.

Recurring nightmares.
Fueled by grotesque stories.
Mostly stories, I prefer to think.


I Like To Let Things Happen
Sensation into language.
Like something I couldn't process.
I need to get lost.
It's difficult to make sense.


Outright Deception
Come up with something more.
Removed, intricate.
A financial maneuver, perhaps.

The actual event.
Running over homeless people
The idea will never live.

Years entirely gone.
I move forward like a shark.

A story in the paper, about blood-red walls.
Wrought iron railing.
A 70's tv movie.
The landscape of Los Angeles.
Intrigued by something long.

A cartoon of talking tools.
A little off the formula.
The tools have something to hide.

Some Random Abstract Poetry - 11/06/08

Some Random Abstract Poetry - 10/06/08
Category: Writing and Poetry

I take the Brooklyn Rail newspaper and underline words and phases in the articles that catch my attention. Then circle a word or phrase for the title. It's more of a subtractive process, taking a full page of words and editing down to a poem, rather than the tradition process of adding words to a blank page. The pieces of newspaper with these random abstract poems get used as collage material in my artwork.

Out of Control
You invent systems.
But then your systems, the drawings, get lost.
Drawings, charts, earthquakes and wars.
The absurdity.
A statistician of the absurd.

Literal connection.
Some sort of rhythm.
How much of your plan is predetermined?

I don't really plan.
One element, a shape maybe.
Sometimes I have , but it almost never goes.
I don't know.
The final work is small, recorded over time.


Non-Linguistic
Translate abstract thought and visual form.
The ambiguity to inject imagery.
How do you get such interesting shapes?

Drawing successful.
It has to end.
It has to take.
I feel that there's a lot I cannot understand.
It's confusing.
I have to have control.


Rare to See
A little market.
The inescapably sunny days.
Walk up and down the sidewalks.
Discovering night, as gentle floodlights.

The passes of the valley.
Velvet rope clip joint.
Pretty girls in miniskirts.
A dude in square-toed loafers, barfing chocolate martinis.
Unglamorous.

A menacing dwarf.
An aging pimp.
A middle-aged cowboy.
Those oddly relaxing cheap drinks.


Now?
When you see it, you see when.
The day before the storm.
You going?
You going?
I don't know.
Get some food, it was bad.
The government's never been there.
Why are you going?


Personal Decision
They were talking.
I looked at my wife.
I refused to go.
Thousands and thousands, and they weren't going.
I hear I'm very happy.


This In You
Like a death trap, there was no food.
The bathrooms and stuff.
Those people, I knew.


Here On Our Own
I want to say is.
This is.
Is that?

Been abandoned.
Looking for the people with money.
Class and privilege.
The government was never there.
We're not looking for the government.


Ain't Nothing to Feel
Naked as the truth.
Just naked, just naked.
They all got blood.
Everybody that died.
Four or five.
With all this murder, they are responsible.


Photos in Chinese
In a two-room apartment,
I gathered the looks of people.
I saw a waterbug.
A flashback to the Lower East Side.

Lunch

Lunch
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood.
www.ErikVP.com
(Sold)

Dinosaur is hungry and all the animals know it. What does dinosaur want for lunch today? Lizard kabob, bbq giraffe, fried anteater, or turtle soup. There is only one safe place to be and that's on top of dinosaur's head.

Many of the images in my artwork are seen within the painting and then I draw them. Newspaper collage painted black with some razor blade scratches makes this process work really well. The black paint creates a better contrast for bringing out lines in the surface.

Clean Teeth

Clean Teeth
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood
www.ErikVP.com
(Available - $100)

The animals never know if dinosaur is just visiting or looking for lunch. Dinosaur went to the dentist today and got his teeth cleaned. He's showing his shiny new teeth off to all his friends, but is making everyone very nervous. He's also giving his rainmaker friend and turtle a free ride.

I was working on this painting around the same time as "Lunch", so that's why dinosaur is featured in both. There were a bunch of random scribbles in the yellow mountain area. Each scribble evolved into a lizard or snake. The Brooklyn Rail was used for all the newspaper collage.

The two green trees on top of the mountain symbolizes Ventura, California. This is explained in greater detail in an earlier painting called "One Green Lizard"

Green Eyes Likes Spam

Green Eyes Likes Spam
2008 - 11"x12" - Mixed media on wood.
www.ErikVP.com
(Not For Sale)

Sam wonders if his pet green-eyed snake would like to eat something else besides rats and mice. He brings green-eyed snake a can of Spam and tells him it tastes really good fried in a pan with a bowl of rice. Green-eyed snake likes Spam in a can. It tastes like rats and mice and he doesn't even have to catch it.

Say!
I like Spam in a can.
I do. I like it Sam I am.
I would eat Spam on a bike
or have for lunch while on a hike.

I would eat Spam in the rain
or riding home on the F-train.
And in Central Park sitting in a tree.
And even while I watch TV.
Spam is so good and yummy you see!

I like Spam with a bowl of rice.
It tastes a lot like rats or mice.
I will eat Spam in a box.
And I will eat it instead of a fox.
I will eat Spam here or there.
Say! I will eat Spam ANYWHERE!

I really like my
Spam in a can.
Thank you!
Thank you,
Sam I Am!

It wasn't until after the drawing was complete that I added the Dr. Seuss, "Green Eggs and Ham" influences. I was thinking of a title and first though of "Green Eyes" since that's what I notice first when looking at the drawing. Green eyes, made me think of green eggs and ham. I like to eat Spam with a bowl of rice, so then the title became "Green Eyes Likes Spam". My wife saw the painting and I told her the title. She's a preshool teacher and knows the Green Eggs and Ham story well. She asked if the train was from the story. At that point, I decided to read the story and that's when I decided to mix my drawing with the story.

A few additions were then made to the drawing. I scribbled in the can of Spam with a rat and mouse in the pink section, added the rain drops over green-eyed snake's head, and the phrase "I am Sam" by the little guy on the bike. I referenced "Green Eggs and Ham" and made a few changes. I have an earlier painting called "Snake In The Garden" is also tied into the story where Sam is wondering if his pet snake would like to eat something else besides rats & mice.

Wiggle Your Feet

Wiggle Your Feet
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood
www.ErikVP.com

The two ostriches are observing the strange looking fish. They conclude that it must be a mudskipper hopping around on land. Fish tells them he is not a mudskipper. "Mudskippers have modified pectoral fins for walking on land, but I have legs and feet just like you", says fish. Yellow ostrich is skeptical and tells fish to wiggle his feet. Fish wiggles his feet.

There was a previous painting underneath this one that had some yellow. I didn't like it and started covering the painting with gesso (white primer). There was this little section of yellow in the middle that I liked so left it alone. The yellow turned into an ostrich. I drew the fish, cliff, and the second ostrich. It looked a little too plain for me, so I glued some newspaper along the top of the painting and did some random doodling on each piece.

If you look at a larger, detailed photo on my website, you will see the phrase "Wiggle your feet several times..." in the yellow newspaper section. I really liked the phrase and that inspired the short story and the title. I normally put feet on the walking fish, but the animals normally have legs & no feet. On the yellow ostrich, you can see that the feet were added in later since I used charcoal and it was a little darker that the pencil I used for the legs.

I went to Thailand years ago and saw some mudskippers (amphibious fish that hop around on land). They are one of the most fascinating creatures I have ever seen. I have a painting from earlier in 2008 called "UFO". The painting underneath UFO had a mudskipper in it, and I had mixed feelings about painting over it, but eventually did and it evolved into UFO.

An exacto knife was used to scratch up the surface, and there are a few traces of gold and red paint exposed from the previous painting. The newspaper also gets torn up a little, and I leave most of the loose pieces alone, but remove anything that's too fragile and about to come loose. You can't see this in the photo, but if you ever see my work in real life, you will see this in most paintings with newspaper.

Fire

Fire
2008 - 11"x12", Mixed media on wood
Price: $300US
www.ErikVP.com

Even after doing this summary, my thoughts about the meaning of this painting remain fragmented. I can explain some of the random thoughts that inspired the painting along with the symbolisms. When I am creating a painting, I just create. It's not until after the painting is done that I try to unravel what it's about.

- On 9/11/08, I walked by a fire station near my apartment and saw a bunch of firemen returning from the ceremony at ground zero. Some of the symbolisms related to 9/11 include, the red firehouse & ladder, arabic type graffiti on the mountains, fire, red smoke in the sky, the twin towers symbolized by the two trees on top of the pink mountain, with the right one beginning to fall, the four floating pyramids symbolizing the twin towers, Pentagon & United flight#93

- The walking fish has been in a few previous paintings, although this is the first fire breathing fish. There's sort of a life & death theme since both the walking fish and the ankh can represent life, yet the fire, floating ankhs & pyramids represent death.

- The white, black, blue, and red water drops falling from the sky onto the fire-breathing fish could represent the cycle of life and death. They could also be thought of as war and conflict, or "good" vs "evil" between the United States(red/white/blue) and Middle East (black).

- I recently read, "Basquiat - A Quick Killing In Art", and remember thinking a lot about the similarities between Jean-Michel Basquiat and Jimi Hendrix including how both died early in their careers due to their loosing struggles with drugs. The fire-breathing fish is my favorite part of the painting. "Fire" is one of my favorite Hendrix songs, so that inspired the title.

Many of my paintings include the sun, but it's a little less obvious in this painting. It's the black & white sun on a stick to the right of the yellow mountain. It's more of an American indian sun god than a traditional sun.

You will notice I have both colored pencil and pastel pencil listed in the ingredients. The M&M flowers at the base of the mountains are pastel pencil. The pastel pencils are softer and have more friction between the painted wood and the pencil lead, so you get a better buildup of color. I tried using the colored pencils first, but they looked dull. The outlines of the moutains are colored pencils, and this works because it's directly on unpainted wood. The pastel pencils are delicate and smear easily. A sprayed varnish needs to be applied very lightly.