between us

between us a train rushes through the city. between us a stream runs next to the train. they keep our worlds apart. sometimes i see you on the porch rocking in your chair. on cool mornings i can smell the cinnamon cakes you bake. i wonder if you see me over here on my side. i would invite you over for sweet tea, or coffee, if only you could get here.
paper quilt number 8. water soluble oil stick on archival paper.


collages and constructs

we recycle. i prime scraps of canvas and paint them. all summer i've been making a stack of squares for  5 new works. on the tables in my studio the assembly of the backgrounds are taking form. laying out the pieces takes days. i write numbers on the backs, put them together, walk away and then change my mind. it feels more like a jig saw puzzle that sits in one's living room all summer long, waiting for the next connecting piece to make itself visible. it's been enjoyable. eventually they will be paint collages, with strategically placed small drawings in black lead and water wash, minimal stitching and pins. each one will be combined into a 24" long canvas mounted on stretchers. there will be figures, washes of black, minimal additions of paint, and most likely,  trace lines and small marks i have not thought of yet. 

while working in the studio and other places around my house, my children have been making things all summer too. lots of things. today they are busy making a boat. 


summer books

In 1996, and my friend took me to lunch in the Lower East Side in NYC. We were meeting up with her friend, Arthur. Arthur is a writer. He gave me a copy of his first book - The Fuck Up, and then quickly asked us if I we wanted to go hang out with the members of the band, Girls Against Boys. We hadn't sat down yet to eat. I said,  No thanks, I had to go back to the office.  Arthur was interesting and quirky. He talked in broad streams of thought, leaping from one conversation to the next. It was a fascinating hour. When he handed me a copy of his first, self published book, it felt sturdy, solid, just the right size. After lunch I slipped it in my bag and said good-bye. On the way back to the office on Spring Street I read the first page, and knew I had just been handed something great: The book opens like this:

"Perhaps the price of comfort is that life passes more rapidly. But for anyone who has lived in uneasiness, even for a short, memorable duration, it's a trade-off that will gladly be made."

It seems, that in my life, I have been blessed enough to stumble upon imperfect greatness, by accident many, many times. Sometimes one of these graces gently places a gem in my hands: this is New York to me. This is life outside of New York to me. Tonight I looked through our shelves of books, and noticed my original copy, now out of print, is not to be found. I have a thing about books. I don't lend them often, and for some reason I needed this book today. There are new editions in print. Perhaps I'll pick it up, and pay for it this time.

If you are short on summer reading, and can handle a wild, sad, hilarious ride set in the gritty, destitute East Village of the 1980's then The Fuck Up is your adult Catcher in the Rye.

A terrific novel....The charm and grit of Nersesian's voice is immediately enveloping, as the down-and-out but oddly up narrator... slinks through Alphabet City and guttural utterances of love.
-The Village Voice


july 4th photo-essay

photo pairings


swell space


working in the studio on many pieces. enjoying the summer, and the freedom to work. camera always in my pocket. notebook around in case a story pops up.