Today's Mural

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Baltimore!

Spent several days in Baltimore working a conference. Some scenes and sketches:





sitting in the lobby, sketching the bar folk.




eating candy and doodling.




beautiful public art at the Inner




the bain of my past few days.




pretty sight.




conference attendees.




sun is setting bright pink outside the windows of Baltimore's Penn Station.

Oil Painting Class

Tonight was oil class at the Torpedo Factory. We've been painting a beautiful model. This week's painting (which still needs some work)




We've been painting her for a couple weeks. Here is the one I came up with last week; same pose. She is one of those models that is just fun to paint.

Walking/Sketching/Writing

My friend f-oxymoron and I took walk this gorgeous Sunday afternoon, meandering the sidewalks of Eastern Market. He with his notepad, me with a sketch book. Every once in a while, we’d pick something - a building, a person, whatever - and give ourselves 5 minutes. I would sketch away, sharpie in hand. He would develop monologues and stories. And then we’d compare notes.

A good way to spend the afternoon, perfectly complemented by a cold beer and babaganoush at Cafe 8 afterwards!

First stop? The corner of 9th and North Carolina, SE.

The sun shines, waves its hand at the tower - THE TOWER of North Carolina & 9th streets. If you look closely you’ll see braided hair hanging down from the third floor window. A window washing, brick painting errant knight is scaling these walls to resotre her humble abode.

Or maybe there lurks a darker mystery inside this facade? Peep smuggler. International peeps dealer. Nuevo peep. You know the neuvo peep like to hide their braids, pull up their braids, shutter their blinds.

Our Shepard Church, 801 North Carolina Ave SE

“I’m humbled,” he said.

The old woman smiled and gently patted the young man’s upper arm. A moment of silence was observed. It dragged. The silence was molasses floating in the wind. Potential conversation was stuck in the air between them. Finally the young man spoke.

“I’m not sure I can do that,” he said. The old woman smiled.

“He will understand,” she said.

The young man shuffled his feet. He placed his hands inside his khaki pants. Then he removed them.

“I don’t know,” the young main said.

“Why don’t you think about it over the weekend and tell me next Sunday,” the old lady said.

“Ok, I’ll do that,” he said.

The young man turned to walk away. As he turned he felt a hand grab his ass and squeeze. He stopped and turned around.

“Think long and hard about it,” the old woman said.

Third Stop: corner of 7th and C SE

Hear those rocks and stones shuffle across the ground? Yeah? Hundreds of people are kicking up thoughts, scattering solid evidence of capitalistic transgressions, sullying minds swept of poverty.

They move. Oh yeah, and they really move.

“Now I’d like to sell them a thing or two.”

“Man, you too damn old to be messing with that!”

“Shhhhit… you talking about me?”

“Who else would I be talking about?”

“She don’t even know what she missing.”

“Yeah, you the shit. Uh huh. I’m sure she don’t even know.”

Music dots that the background. Strollers roll. Sales troll.

Fourth Stop: Eastern Market Metro Station

Where are they?

I’m always waiting!

I’m too generous. People stomp over my generosity as if I were a track. Circles. Always circles. Almost circles.

Where are they! If they don’t show up in five minutes I’m leaving. That’s it.

It’s been five minutes and they still aren’t here. A few military military men hit on me. They love blond women. Who am I kidding? They love anything with tits and ass. I just happen to be blond.

Where are they? I’ll give them another five minutes.

Fifth Stop: Another few minutes at the metro station, watching people go down the escalator

I’m the hat man! I’m the hat man, you hear me? Forget the suits, I’m all about individuality. Displaced individuality. And…

Sixth Stop: At a table at Cafe 8 on 8th St SE

There is a blanket of sound surrounding you, but not me. See, this is something you can’t understand, but I’ll try to help.

My hands - they weave a blanket too. It is infinitely varied, generous and capricious. My arthritic fingers occasionally dabble in the youthful spontaneity of ecstatic conversation, but for the most part, I’m too old to waste time describing useless sounds. Yep, my hands weave sound with silence. Choose your words? My threads are thoughts spelled out in the flashing and dancing of my fingers.