Cigarettes

Back in Jacksonville, I whipped together an art show called Cigarettes, my first solo show which was to debut at my friends coffee shop, called Brew, in under a week. I became a shut-in, putting paint down and mounting paintings and drawings. As the show date came nearer, I found myself out on the town a fair amount, determined to not let the show stress me, it felt appropriate to put up some flyers and to talk with friends about the opening. Truth be told, most of the work was done in the three months prior to going to Miami. I went into the park downtown where I got a coffee from my friend Will's coffee stand. He caught me up on goings on in Jacksonville (didn't seem like I missed much), including a successful winter holiday market, which I'd made a beautiful gouache painted flyer for. A young man walking by asked if I liked hip hop. I replied with a yes, and he offered me one of his hip hop albums. I had no money to give him and offered that we walk together around the corner to a bank where I could withdraw some cash for him. I let him do most of the talking. He was wonderful- very passionate about his craft, and full of life. I asked if he'd played shows. He said yes, he'd emceed at group shows before. I asked if he would like to play a show tomorrow. He was smart and asked specifics. His name was Jumu. We exchanged information and agreed to stay in touch through the night and following day. I felt determined to have him play. I got in my car and put his cd in the player. It was good!
I talked with Jumu via text about equipment- he had none of his own equipment. I need to get him a PA system if he was to play. In addition to the equipment limitations, Brew as a venue had its own set of limitations. A theater next door meant that we could not play music at the same time as a scheduled movie. I talked with Tim at the theater and he offered that he could start one movie early, and another movie late, giving us a 45 minute gap in which Jumu could be as loud as we wanted to go.
Now to get a PA system. Like divinity, while talking with the Brew crew, Liz Russell walked through the door who was there to talk with Summer Wood about lending her PA system to Summer for a show at CoRK the next night. Summer and Liz's deal went through and I piggy-backed. It worked out wonderfully. Liz and I got right into her car and made the drive to her parents warehouse where tons and tons of fabrics are processed for paint companies and thrift stores. In the back storage section of the warehouse, we dug out the PA system, then drove it back to Brew. All was a go for Jumu!

One of the two artists, Mark George, who was hanging in the previous show at Brew came in to take down his work. He patched up his holes and I agreed to sand and paint. I got the key to the business and took off for the big sprint to the finish.

That night at CoRK studio, I went into production mode. Finishing the paintings, which I could manage to finish and putting the rest in a corner. Shaun came by to take photos of some of his drawings. We set up a camera and lighting and took some photos. I mixed two colors for the borders of every panel in the show, creating a feeling of unity throughout the body of work, though the mediums used in the show were varied. I installed hardware on the backs of some of the paintings, loaded them in my car, and drove the work to Brew in two or three trips. In Brew, I laid the work in front of the interior wall on which I was to install, and moved all of the chairs from one side of the room to the other to get a better view. To my great fortune, my first layout of the show looked great. I took out a pen and paper, and did all of my 60-center math (which I learned from working in the Museum of Contemporary Art Downtown), and hung the show. I finished around 6 in the morning, then went to bed. I arrived back at Brew in the early afternoon to touch base and learn about the show. The crew seemed to enjoy it thoroughly. I'd hung paintings which I understood to be unfinished ( I thought I would come back through with ink and a brush and give it a once-over), but those were the very paintings which upon sitting at the counter and talking with the Brew crew about, that garnered the most positive response. I felt relieved and also trapped in my decision to leave the paintings where they were. I think there is something very powerful about leaving the painting alone as soon as it says what it needs to say. If you treat your audience with respect, they will show respect. They get it, no need to over explain. That afternoon, I went to my friend Stephanie's house who agreed to prepare vegetables that I'd purchased  for the night and a great deal of hummus. As the show time grew near I spent time with the crew (Amanda, Jeremy, Cali, and Jack) making the space look great. We moved around condiments, took down all of the flyers in the window, set out food, and set up the PA out in the front room. Jumu showed up right on time and checked his levels. Eight O'clock rolled around and no one was in the bar for the show. There was a definite calm before the storm feeling. Friends began trickling in and it became a real event by and by. Jumu's performance window opened up. I asked for the attention of the bar through the mic (I have next to zero command through a mic). A friend helped out by yelling through the bar, "QUIET!"- thank you.
"Hello, I'm Kemeys, this is my art show. I would like to introduce my friend Jumu who will rhyme over some beats. Thank you."
I handed the mic to Jumu. He pressed play on his phone, which was plugged in to the PA system. The beats began, and Jumu started to come to life. He sounded awful, but I thought if nothing else, it added some character to the show. It sounded bad. I took a short walk around the corner. Was I mistaken about Jumu? Coming back in to Brew from my walk, I felt the solution was very obvious. I went up to the PA and turned Jumu's soundtrack way up. His beats were killer and the increase in volume sent a wave of inspiration through he and I. At once, it sounded fantastic! Together we danced in the front room, and he looked great through the glass storefront windows. My enthusiasm for Jumu rekindled, I turned my attention to conversing with friends in the adjacent room. It was a wonderful night. There was a lot of talk about each of the paintings in the show selling. It seemed like everyone wanted a different piece and I felt that I may have a sold-out show. The night went on and I'd traded numbers with interested potential buyers. As the show came to a close, I began to re-install the flyers in the front window, and package the left-over food. I returned the borrowed sound equipment and began the load-out. I felt light. I thanked Jumu and paid him (we'd agreed on two hundred and fifty dollars- because artists not getting paid is bullshit). The night ended with a round of high fives basically and I went back to CoRK to clean up the art-mess that I'd made. I thought to myself, 'no rest for the weary'- What does that mean?

Morrison proposed a show at CoRK called Tickets- because he and I and Overstreet all got parking tickets while down in Miami. Morrison has a way of bolstering excitement from seemingly nowhere. Soon the showcase was big, with a lineup I couldn't have dreamed of being a part of. The flyer read Thursto, Southworth, Goethe, Luque, Overstreet, Pierce. Dream team. I began preparing every finished painting that I had.

Miami

Late the next day, and through the following morning I took the drive to Miami. I arrived in the late afternoon. I took a driving lap around Wynwood. It felt unnatural to see it from the window of a car, but such is the nature of experiencing new things. I parked a few blocks out from the center of the action, where I would later return to a parking ticket. I took a walk wearing a backpack with drawing supplies in it, dawning a polo shirt that my grandmother gave me at Thanksgiving. I saw many mural artists in various stages of painting. I recognized the difference between walls that were freshly painted and walls that had been around since the year prior. Among the surviving walls was one on 27th street that Johnny and I had painted collaboratively. As I walked by I saw two young women with their photographer-for-a-day friend posing in front of the wall. In passing I said, "My friend and I painted that".  - "O wow, really!? COOL!" - A muralists payment- underage fans posing in front of your work.  I felt bitterness growing within, which I quieted before continuing on to visit galleries. I walked into one with a number of expensive paintings. The gallery receptionist asked me if I was an artist. I replied yes. "Good luck this year."
"Thank you." I said. I felt like a racehorse.
The battery on my phone was dwindling. I had a bit of communication with Johnny (Blues) before the screen went black. He had come to Wynwood to meet me, but we couldn't find each other. I slept in my car that night on a street near the water off of Biscayne Boulevard.

I made a mission the following morning (after a Cuban breakfast and a phone charge) to find a skate shop where I could buy some hardware for a skateboard deck that was donated to me by my friend Morrison in Jacksonville. I made it out to MIA Skate shop in Miami Beach where I bought trucks, wheels, and bearings. This investment paid dividends through the following week plus. I drew that day. In the evening, in Wynwood, I came to a wall that was being painted with graffiti by a group of young adults. The wall, I should explain was the front facade of a stucco-coated warehouse. it had a beautiful pebble texture but the elegance did not go much further from there. I imagine it was built in the early 2000's. It's curious that with all of our advancements in technology and access to information, that we still build such gaudy structures. has the information age left us better off? Are we information rich and culturally poor? Has sophistication yielded to efficiency? Is there a difference between the two? I digress.
 I asked what was going on up top, pointing to a section of wall, which at that point was unaccounted for. They said nothing yet, and asked if I wanted to do a piece. They explained that the production was themed from a 90's cartoon called Courage The Cowardly Dog and that all of the artists thus far were working within a palette. I agreed to do a top piece and went around the corner to get the matching colors at the paint store. I laid down an outline and everyone present seemed impressed and excited. The painting involved a great deal of gymnastics, as there was no ladder- to paint I had to climb a metal gate fifteen feet up (the gate enclosing an aluminum roll door), with one hand and anchoring my feet in between bars of the gate, or in other cases behind metal tube housing for electrical wiring and painting with the other. I got the sketch and some colors blocked in on the wall before calling it a night. I went back to the car (parked still off of Biscayne) and drew under streetlight before nodding off.

Another Cuban breakfast, this time I met Steve and his girlfriend who's name escapes me. They called me over from my table to sit with them. He recognized from the paint all over my clothes and person that I was an artist. As we talked, it seemed to me that Steve was a hunter of talent, and a photographer as far as he had a camera and pointed it at things which he thought interesting or marketable and pushed the picture button. He passed me a pipe with ganja in it, a pen, and a small sketchbook and asked me if I would do a drawing. Steve knows how to milk an artist. He talked a great deal. He jovially explained that he and his friend were divorced, in between mouthfuls of food and self-aware misogynistic statements about who he bangs et cetera. I found myself glancing across the table at his ex-wife, (whom I saw ride in with Steve on the back of his motorbike) when he made remarks like this. She seemed at once strong and weak, though it may have all been a projection on my part. Certainly there were many voices to address in her head, processing the string of ideas presented by someone as self-assured as Steve the outgoing misogynist photographer, took much focus to wade through- or maybe none at all- he was transparent. When I commented on how good they looked riding in together on their motorcycle (which is what flushed the ex-wife fact). The response was a thank you from Steve and a deferment from the woman. She proposed that Steve looked good enough for the both of them, maybe I only saw Steve. I liked her, she was quick witted and introspective at the right times, but damn if I didn't wish to see her and Steve in full debate. I bet she kicked ass. We parted ways, but not before Steve gave me his business card and his tag-word sticker, 'keif catcher'. He was the marketing side of art. It left a bad taste in my mouth.

I made contact with Johnny at some point. Late in the night we drove into a poor neighborhood where dealings take place. We got out of the car to meet with Mastro and some other graffiti writers from New York and Montreal. Cars were parked in a semi-circle around a plastic fold out table, on top were rows of boxes with paint cans in them. Mastro, naturally, was the master of ceremonies. "Alright, here's how we're going to do this." Two hundred and fifty pounds of Bronx muscle under a tight, brightly colored tank top, flip flops, reflective sunglasses at night, Bermuda shorts and a sun-defying tan. "I pick four, you pick four, back and forth. That's it. I know it sounds simple, but trust me, I've seen cats mess this up and get ugly."
Mastro picked his four cans. Blues picked his four cans, and back and forth it went until the paint was distributed. We loaded up our car, then hung around for a while with a couple skateboards, talking graffiti and jumping over stacked paint cans. We had paint.

The following day John and I went to the wall. What I was envisioning.. didn't matter. The wall was better than I'd anticipated. It was located at 2nd Avenue and 36th Street, in Miami's design district. It belonged (for the time of the art fair at least) to The Kavachnina Contemporary Gallery. I was introduced to Alejandro, a gentleman younger than myself who'd just graduated from art school in Ohio and had committed himself (along with a few friends and classmates) to curating a showcase of "Wynwood Graffiti in the Age of Gentrification". It was a satirical art show, which aimed to gentrify while simultaneously acknowledging its devastating impacts. The show felt like a fun house of ideas. To criticize was to miss the art, which hit the target directly in the center, but it still felt so good to criticize, like a snake eating its own tail. I believe it was the best show at Basel. Alejandro's relationship with the gallery was a curious one to me, and I never quite figured it out, but he was treated like a little brother by everyone aboard the Kavachnina. In ship speak, he was the first mate. Beside him was Ryan, a painter and great guy who'd also graduated from that Ohio art school. When I first met him, he was in the middle of selling one of his paintings from a collector from Barcelona for a couple thousand dollars. He'd moved to Miami a few months prior to paint for this show using missed tints and cheap nylon brushes in a small apartment in little Haiti. Jesse James and Mike were from Philadelphia and were given a stipend to paint the front (courtyard) facade of the gallery. They drove a rented car, used good equipment and stayed in a hotel. I did not envy them. The paintings came out well, though seemed dry. Inside the gallery were a handful of beautiful oil paintings, portraits from an artist named Saulustiano. Upon meeting him, he had a Saint Nicholas air to him, he was beautiful and full of love. I felt kinship. I could sense deep loneliness, which comes with studio practice. I was compared to him and had a round of photographs under his arm to the delight of the room of grown ups, comparing our likeness.
Gala. Gala was the captain of the ship. A spirit. I heard her described as a nihilist several times. She had style and class. She was the type of leader that signed the papers at the end of the week, but did not worry about much else. I loved her.
In the second stage of the gallery, beyond the foyer where Saulustiano's show was installed, was Alejandro's street-art show. It was loaded with work. The space, divided between two rooms was hung salon style (though not really salon style as there was wall showing around all of the pieces) throughout. More than a dozen artists were featured and the ties between them, at least to me as a groundling, seemed loose if that. Few of the paintings captivated me, though one of Ryan's paintings felt interesting. I recognized a couple of artists who were displayed among them Atomiko- a Miami staple competing from the ground up with Britto for visual real estate. It was somewhat validating to have an affiliation (though Atomiko did not come by at any time during the showcase or events surrounding, likely because his work was featured in what seemed to me once every other block in this show or that- he was in a fully expanded production mode. I imagine he had one thousand paintings of the same Florida orange character floating around the art fair that week) to such established artists blah blah.
Johnny and I sized up our wall. There was a sign that read 'Design Studio' across the top of one half of the wall, our allocated half. I proposed that we paint a mural below it as a cropped rectangle so that we wouldn't have to fuss with painting around it or taping. Johnny agreed and with a level and a tape measure, I drew us a nice big long rectangular box on the wall. We set to painting. Perhaps due to my ample time in a studio setting, or no doubt my experiences painting with Shaun in Jacksonville, I directed the mural process. We started in monochrome grays, painting on a white background in light values. We refined the sketch using progressively darker tones, until we made it to black. To conserve paint, we indicated shading using hatching and stippling. the sketch had good rhythm, and balance. I advised now that we paint simultaneously from dark to light and cool to warm, so that our process would remain linear. The world of color is certainly a different animal and there were a few layers of paint applied in some areas to achieve the balance that seemed to come so easily in the monochrome sketch. Regardless after hours of back and forth within the palette, and some 'bonus colors', (from our personal stock) added in, we achieved a balanced feeling once again. The mural looked wonderful, it was like a window into another world, complete with surreal landscapes, vignettes, symmetry, impasto applications, abstraction. It was really singing. As John and I were talking about the painting, a woman driving in a car on 36th street pulled into a bus lane to get out and yell at us in Spanish. Johnny, being fluent, translated that we were painting the wrong wall (this has been a theme for me in Miami), or rather, we were painting the wall wrong. Instead of the mural being one panoramic rectangle as we had done, the owner of the building envisioned two vertically oriented murals, capping in the 'Design Studio' sign. This was the first time that John or I had heard this. We packed up our things and decided that we would talk to the Kavachnina crew about it the following day. We considered ourselves more than half finished with the mural.
I moved my car to the gallery courtyard that night and slept inside of it.

The following morning, a big hastily painted gray rectangle stood in place of where our mural-in-progress had just been the night before- the buff. We talked to Gala. She said it was the neighbors and with a sly grin explained that we were now at war with them. Further, we learned that the wall next-door (the bigger of the two spots) had just opened up for our use too. Allegedly the artists who were scheduled to come in and paint it dropped out of the deal (with the neighbors), and the spot was now liberated for our use. John and I were pawns in a petty territory dispute. We were not being paid and we now had a new mural to paint. We talked about what to do, and decided that it would be funny to paint the word 'MURAL' across the buff patch. We took a can of black paint and handed it back-and-forth M, U, R, A, L. The letters got sillier and sillier from left to right. Satisfied, we mapped out a new rectangle on the adjacent wall and buffed a big, black, oil-based patch where we could start painting anew. During the buff session, several photographers came by to take photos and hand us business cards, also a promotional coconut water van drove up to hand us samples and to take a round of pictures for their social media campaign. The streets were filled with bar-goers and yuppies. It must have been a Saturday. Johnny left to go work on another mural project that he had across the street. During his absence, an activist march pertaining to murders of Eric Garner and Mike Brown by police marched down 36th street. I set up our ladder in the middle of the road to provide a perch for photographers. A news crew came by and asked to use it. "Of course, it's for you." I said. They got their shot and asked to interview me. I agreed. I'd just smoked weed with our gallery crew so I was feeling inspired. The interviewer asked how I felt about the protest. I said it is important because the majority feel a lack of representation among those who control power. They asked me what I thought about Basel and I said it's a total crock. "Why?", "Because it's corporate". That was the end of the interview. They asked me my name and I replied Kemeys. They inquired, "Is that it? Do you have a last name?" They were missing the point, but I told them Goethe. They filmed me folding up the ladder, moving it back to the wall, unfolding it, moving it into place, sorting through a few cans, choosing a color, shaking a can, climbing the ladder, and looking back at them to check what the fuck they were still doing filming me. I asked if they had enough. "Yup, we got it."
Johnny returned and I explained that I was done painting. The spot was blown as far as I could tell and the black rectangle looked good on its own. We talked about it for a while before deciding that yes, the black rectangle looked great next to the gray buff which read 'MURAL'. Before we called it a night, Johnny wrote in black across it 'Don't Shoot', which was a theme within the protest march. I spent the rest of the evening at the Courage the Cowardly Dog Wall, painting the top-spot.

I met Willy Rose the year prior while painting a graffiti wall in the design district. He taught me how to weave his Charleston Palmetto Rose, on which he has carved himself a living one-dollar at a time over the years. It was a joyous reunion. Willy is a true friend with which time is obsolete. He handed me a bunch of fresh green fronds to weave for the night. He said he was turning in. I rode the skateboard to Wynwood and sat on the sidewalk, weaving roses and handing them silently to passers by. Mostly, I received thank yous, but I also got a good little pile of money, especially as the bars let out. I made eye contact with one young woman who found a miracle in me. She was torn to leave me and asked where I would be in an hour, or maybe two. I said I didn't know. She asked for my phone number and I obliged. I finished weaving roses and helped a gallery bring paint inside from a mural that had been painted that day by Nychos (I was not-so-secretly waiting him out by posting up by his supplies, while simultaneously watching the paint in case anyone came by with sticky fingers). This is the same artist whom I traveled to Vienna to visit, only to realize upon arriving that he was away in Rio at the time. I rode my skateboard to a corner store and got a veggie empanada.  On my way back to my car, I saw a young man, face down on the sidewalk, bicycle beside him, looking dead. I approached him and asked if he was all right. It took a short while, but he came to and sat up. He was very drunk. He explained that he'd just been fired and that he needed to ride to 181st street or something ridiculous. I thought he would surely crash his bike again or be hit by a car. An ambulance drove up to us. They'd received a call for him. I told him that we were fine and the ambulance drove off. We stood up and began walking north. We came to a hotel. I asked if he would like to stay at a hotel, and he agreed. I checked in to a double. I asked that he make himself at home, and I took a shower, my first in over a week. I slept very well. My friend’s departure in the morning was unceremonious.

 Another day, perhaps the following day, Willy and I took a walk to harvest more materials for roses. We stopped by several trees, which Willy knew would be ready for harvest and got a fair amount of fronds. We took a seat on a pair of landscaping rocks in Wynwood and set to cleaning fronds and weaving roses. Willy did all of the talking, which I was grateful for. We made twenty dollars each in under an hour, which was enough for Willy to go and get his daily bread. I stayed and made more roses, but not much more money. I sat out like this once-per-day since, either drawing or weaving roses, and always made surplus of my food costs.

I stayed up through the night and drew outside of the supermarket while the sun rose. I met a new friend, Somn, from Philadelphia who'd just been released from prison for graffiti the night before. We had some mutual friends and exchanged drawings. I returned to my car and slept.

The Kavachnina crew proposed that I paint a shipping box of one of Saulustiano's paintings. I agreed though had no supplies. Ryan drove me to his home/studio in little Haiti where we picked up some colors and brushes for me to use. It rained that night. In fact, it flooded that night, but seeing that we were working on a deadline, and that I had a sense of humor about the ordeal, I took off my shoes and made the painting during the downpour in four inches of water. During the painting, I could kick water onto the wooden box/panel to create wash effects within the composition. I was pleased with the results. The box was a five foot by five foot square and seeing that none of the paintings in the show (in my opinion) fully captured the idea of 'Wynwood graffiti in the age of gentrification', I set to creating what I saw to be an illustration of the show's intent- the 'cover illustration' if you will. I drew a vanishing point front and center then some industrial warehouses depicting the feel of Wynwood past. The warehouses also took on the appearance of moving boxes with their folding tops agape in different angles, creating movement cues. A graffiti-style bubble letter phrase in the upper third of the painting read "Wynwood Moving Sale", then in tag-style, "Everything must go!"  Then, on the facades of the depicted buildings, I painted store names and implied signage. One said grocery. Another had the word 'Shoestrings' superimposed onto it, following the perspective grid. The 'Shoes' in 'Shoestrings' lined up with a building/box (box store), while the 'trings' bled over the illustrated alleyway and building/box adjacent. Trings, a non-word, served as a nod to dada, a verbal ready-made. Further, the word 'Shoestring' shares an association with 'Budget', again referring to the gentrification cash cow in Wynwood. Closer to the foreground, between two of these 'box/stores' is a thin structure, which looks in one regard as a narrow architectural phenomenon and in another as a book, the spine of which reads 'Appraisals'.
In the gap of an alleyway, sits a dog, painted in the fashion of the highway men, an allegiance to the tradition of the Florida painter (and just a charming bonus). In the background of the painting, like a god or like T.J. Ekelburg over the Valley of Ashes was depicted a figure holding a spray paint can, poised to vandalize, or to paint a mural perhaps, or to improve, seeking fame or fortune at the behest of the haves. The hero and villain incarnate, the artist.
Behind the scenes: the depicted artist silhouette was modeled from my backlit shadow as it was cast by streetlight onto the surface of the painting. I held a can in my right hand and painted the figure in with my left, (actually accurate to my preferred dexterity). A few washes, some liberal applications of color implying light hitting the scene and the painting was complete. A masterpiece if ever there was one.

The Kavachnina crew was pleased with the painting and we moved it out onto the sidewalk as a call-in for the work inside of the gallery. It sat next to the sign of the show- "Rob-Wynhood", it read.
It became clear that Alejandro had done a lot of leg work for the show. One day after watching the sunrise on the back-end of a sleep schedule, I sought to take a nap in the sculpture garden in front of the gallery. While circling the garden like a dog looking for the ideal place to rest, a man came by in a nice car to drop off a pillow for me in the form of a stack of magazines. The publication was titled Art Districts of Florida, No. 33. He referred me to the article about the 'Rob-Wynhood' show then set out to deliver the rest presumably. I flipped through the magazine and saw an advertisement for the show, and among the billed artists, there I was. Twenty or thirty pages later, was an article written by Alejandro about the show. It was well written and again, my name appeared. I was written into the show, like a shoe-in. There was no accompanying description, as I don't believe that anyone with exception of Johnny knew what my paintings looked like. I'll take it, I thought, and went to sleep in the early morning light, head propped up by a stack of magazines with my name in them.
Alejandro and Ryan came by the gallery a few hours later and took photos of me reclining by the front door of the gallery I was not short of basking with a permanent grin across my face. The photo went viral amongst the Kavachnina crew, referred to as the Kavachnina artist-in-residency program.

All at once the day came for the opening at the Kavachnina Gallery. There was plenty of wine. Johnny and I decided that our black rectangle was too enticing to not paint on it. We broke out the paint and began going in. I hadn't much experience painting from a black background so much of the initial scratching was done by John. We began to bury the black, which I was not fond of. The mural began to look like an unrooted space scene. John and I stepped back and I convinced him that it was a good idea that I go in with roller paint and do some flat, two-color illustration on top of the layers of misting. I applied the paint in blotchy sections creating a sense of depth and motion. I became inspired to paint a tree house suspended in an oak on one end and on the other a tall cypress-type tree. Patches of grasses styled like those from Bill Waterson line drawings echoed from the bases of the trees. A dialogue was formed between the background and foreground and I felt much better about the wall. Johnny was ready to accept my moves as improvements and move on too. We packed up the paint. I went inside the gallery with the party-goers. It was quite an international crowd. There seemed to be a lot of money in the room, but it felt static. I became bored, so I snatched up my red dress that I'd found in a pile of books and clothing left out in front of a thrift store, ran into a gallery across the street where I let down my hair and changed garb. My second entrance to the Kavachnina gallery, now in a dress, felt much better. I became a touchstone for the party, hearing my name called by one person or another. I took many pictures with women that night, and gained an admirer or two among the artists. A couple of bands played, they were both great though as it goes, the first one was better.

I met a beautiful woman the following day. Her name was Heather. We took a walk through Wynwood together exploring galleries. I'd planned to leave, but things were going smoothly between us so I didn't rush it. I really enjoyed the way she picked apart paintings- she was very objective about the production of the work, and critical about the shortcomings of the artist meeting his/her statements. Together we talked about the misogyny in a series of photographic nudes which aimed to 'explore our spiritual nature blah blah', and we found some bad abstraction to boot. We did come across some wonderful photography of musicians, paired with lyrics from songs they'd written from Brooklyn in a large industrious space. It was my favorite gallery at Basel. We walked into a junk emporium on 27th street where I felt inspired to draw an African head sculpture. I asked a man working at the store who seemed like the owner if I could draw it. "Be my guest." he said. I noticed a pen and notepad next to the sculpture and asked if I could use a pen and paper. "You want to draw it, but you don't bring your own supplies huh?" he asked rhetorically. Under my arm, I had a large poster of a photograph that I'd picked up on the street just ten minutes prior, and in my pocket, a large marker. "I've got it." I said, as I unrolled the large sheet of paper and spread it across the floor. I began to draw and a small crowd gathered around to watch. I achieved a likeness after some time and bid the gentleman goodbye. Later that night, I walked Heather back to her car. I gave her the poster and we exchanged information, that I might visit her if I make a trip to DC.
I stopped by the spot where I thought I might see Willy before I left town. He was there and in good spirits. He gave me some material to weave roses with and gave me a big hug. Melissa, a friend from my trip to Miami in the year prior came by the spot to say goodbye as well. I painted a little graffiti piece on a nearby wall where Johnny and his friends were going in on a production, then left town for Jacksonville.

Jacksonville

After Thanksgiving and dropping off my grandmother back at her house, I thought I might go to Miami to begin my Art Basel Miami festivities. This year I was understood to have an arranged mural-wall collaborating with my friend and painting partner, Blues. I had no luck getting though to his phone, so I made the trip back up to Jacksonville to bide some time before going so far south.
I felt great back in Jacksonville, largely because I was most of the way finished with a good looking show on cigarettes. I opened my studio door, set up a few paintings, and binge-worked for a few hours. I got a call from my friend Mark, notifying me that one of the buildings that Shaun and I had painted in the late spring of 2014 was in the middle of burning down. I grabbed my camera and rushed downtown to catch some of the destruction. I felt giddy watching our paint-job crumble, burn, and get blasted with water from diligent fire fighters. After taking several pictures, a surreal sense of perversion began to set in. I knew fairly little about this building, but how I enjoyed seeing it burn. Among the spectators that night, myself, Mark, Weird (an artist friend), curious denizens, and cameramen, there was a sense of community in the still night. Back in the studio, I worked for a few more hours before resting.

Thanksgiving

I met my grandmother at her house as planned and drove the rest of the way with her to Vero Beach where we met my mother, father, sister (baby girl in utero), her husband/my brother-in-law, and my mother's parents. Thanksgiving went well, considering all that comes with family.

Woof

I took off towards Titusville to meet my father's mother in her home, where we planned to carpool to Vero Beach to meet the rest of the nuclear family for Thanksgiving dinner. I was on an inverted sleep schedule. I drove a few hours south from Jacksonville and stopped in to a Waffle House in Port Orange for my 'mid-day' meal. I took a seat at the bar and got the look down from a couple guys who gave off the cop vibe. I took out a sketchbook and the waitress, who's name I believe was K... something, well I can't remember, but she was a beautiful light-skinned (that is, mostly black) young woman of 19 who upon seeing me pull out a pen and paper requested that I draw her portrait. I surprised her and myself with a not-half-bad portrait of her likeness in between her taking orders and me seasoning my sunny-side ups. A shuttle vehicle with handicap decals pulled up outside of the door and out came a man of the road, a southerner. Perhaps writing this so long after the event took place gives me that advantage of glorifying his entrance, but I do think there was something about his coming in to the Waffle House that night, like how a wet seagull finds a dry perch after a hurricane. He'd just come from the hospital, I imagined him as the type to rip the IV's out from his arms when he felt he'd been there long enough. He sat down and ordered an all American breakfast, no sooner did he start talking to the waitress, K... "You ever heard of Lynard Skynard?"

"Yeah."

"You like 'em?"

"Hell no. What do they sing again?"

Singing, "Sweet Home Alabama..."

"..Oh yeah, no."

"Well, you're looking at him."

He rolled up his sleeves of his flannel shirt to show his symmetrical tattooed forearms; Eagles triumphantly grasping an American flag on one forearm and the other grasping a 'rebel' flag. 

Woof was the harmonica player for Lynard Skynard. He'd been around the world but most recently, in surgery rooms of three different hospitals, undergoing a cardiovascular bypass, which cost the rock star well over a million dollars (a great deal presumably in helicopter fuel, as he was airlifted from Knoxville to Chattanooga, then again to Port Orange to finish the surgery). Woof was looking to meet his son in Sarasota later that day so he too could spend Thanksgiving with his family. I told him I'm not going to Sarasota, but I am going to Titusville and offered him my passenger's seat. He said, paraphrasing, "Sure, anything that gets me closer". We buckled up and took off. He seemed like he was on the same wacky sleep pattern as I and we talked and listened to radio together as we drove south on 95, watching the sun rise and burn off morning fog from the swampland of central Florida. In our blissful conversation ( I was quite pleased, we seemed to get along swimmingly, and we maintained exchanging stories for hours) we overlooked the fact that Sarasota was in fact on the west coast of Florida. It began to near my proposed arrival time for /to pick up my grandma. Woof and I had to come to an agreement as to where I was to drop him off and how soon. He asked how the beaches were in Titusville. Nice, I replied. "Well, I'd really like to go to the beach today, let's just go there." In Titusville, we found ourselves with some extra time, so we went into a Village Inn for a cup of coffee. Woof asked the waitress if she ever heard of Lynard Skynard... 

Woof had every colored hair, which poured out of the bottom of a black sun-soaked cowboy hat belonging at one point to a band-mate of his who'd since died in a tragic plane crash. He carried two harmonicas in his jean vest pocket. While listening to classic rock stations he would explain the songs to me (I was very curious) and in what ways the musician(s) or lyrics related to Lynard Skynard. It was fascinating. 

After coffee, we took a drive towards Titusville beach. We felt a kinship, and upon turning onto a high causeway connecting the mainland from the barrier island of Cape Canaveral, 'Sweet Home Alabama' came on the radio. The sun gave off its first pure light of the day as we crested the Atlantic landscape. As romantic as it would have been to leave Woof there at the beach, we recognized somewhere along the way that he would have no way back to the mainland. He thought for a minute and we drove back into town to check out his gigging spots. Everything was closed for the holidays, so as the hour grew near that I was to meet my grandma, we decided on a McDonald's by the interstate. He said that his son would call soon and make the drive from Sarasota to come pick him up. I bought the two of us breakfast, then we parted ways. 

Road, rails, and home again.

Bar Harbor with family. My sister had big news to share that she was carrying her first child, what a miracle when life is created from seemingly nowhere- where do babies come from? We rented bicycles one day and hiked another. We stayed in a home with a beautiful garden and a local population of deer.
I traveled to Machias to visit friends, stayed for a short while.
Bus back to Bangor.
Quick transfer to Portland.
Train to Boston, transfer to DC bound train.
Layover in DC. Early Morning-Evening. Slept in a park, quick visit to the National Portrait Gallery where I saw presidential portraits. Chuck Close did Clinton like a boss. A quick peek at an over-advertised Andrew Wyeth show.
Took an evening departing train to Jacksonville. Gave a studio tour to visitors of CoRK.
Drove to Crystal River to visit mom and dad for a few days.
Back to Jacksonville-Working on a show of cigarettes and a few commissions. Working on an installation for TEDX with Shaun and Mark.

Maine

I left for Maine with Jacksonville brains. I felt a sort of self-loathing , which came in part from being shouted at and called an orangutan at a comedy performance. 
I broke things off with my girlfriend. 
I took a taxi to the Amtrak station and left Jacksonville at 9:30 or so. It was a rainy night. 
On the train, I took to drawing. It seemed like the best thing to do with my racing mind and restless hands. I made several good illustrations, Even flushing out some illustrations that I'd put on the mental back burner for a special occasion. 
The train itinerary featured a six hour layover in DC. I went to a few museums and sculpture gardens and made a charming drawing from life. I gave away two drawings before I left town, undocumented. It felt exciting and dangerous. 
I had a few hours in New York, to walk around Chelsea. I twas the middle of the night. I got a felafel wrap from a street cart. 

I had a transfer in Boston which allotted me enough time to grab a coffee and a bagel- it was early in the morning. I enjoyed this transfer. I found the coffee shop just outside of the train terminal. It was a fair trade, organic free exchange, etc. etc. place that was in the location of where a Starbuck might be. (side note, at the time of the publishing of The Starbucks Experience, Starbucks was opening 5 new store per day). Anyway, this placed was slammed. The fair trade market in coffee now has drastically expanded from my vantage point. But how green can you really be when you bring fair trade coffee from Central America to the northeast (or any great distance) and sell high volumes to go-go-goer's in to-go cups. Hundreds of to-go cups. To-go is an environmental nightmare. Convenience is a real killer. 

I arrived in Portland Maine at around 9am. I had no plans. I walked around town, sat down at a taco place and met a beautiful young woman named Sydney. She tried to set me up with a bicycle, as I expressed interest in riding to Bangor. No luck. I continued on, found my way to the art school, MECA, where I took a short tour of the illustration department. I enjoyed the school very much, especially the part about students having 24 hour access to the entire building- that is number one on my art school checklist. Everything seemed great about the place. I went to the public library and thumbed through a pile of books about Maine history in the public archives. I felt that this research has greatly enhanced my appreciation for the state henceforth. I walked towards a bike shop that Sydney had referred me to. I saw the Salvation Army serving dinner. I went in and asked if they needed help. They gave me some gloves and asked me to bus the dining room. They offered that I eat dinner first. It was a great dinner. I stayed after the meal to help with cleanup of the dinner hall, then went to a cafe nearby, where I talked with a  couple locals about the town, and where to stay that night. I was referred to a bus line to take me to a hotel, outside of town by a couple miles. I checked in- it was like a motel 6 (which there was one of just across the street). It was nice. I turned on the tv and indulged in a movie featuring Matthew McConaughey about HIV and drug dealing.
I got a late start the next morning, I walked in to town, took the tracks for a mile or so and saw some cool graffiti. I talked to a gentleman named Vic who's was opening a cafe about painting his sign. He was going for something cheap cheap cheap and quick quick quick, so I moved on. More cafe's, more drawing. I sat at the ends of a pier among lobster traps and seagulls (heavy fish smells from seafood processing plants) and watched the sunset. Sailboats dotted the harbor and a pair of seals lolligaged in the bay. Another great dinner. I had a Guinness afterward. Across the bar I saw a middle aged man look defeated when he saw me ordering a beer alone. He too had ordered a beer alone. We didn't talk (and maybe this is just me projecting) but I felt that I had let him ( as my future self) down. I resolved to wake up early the next morning at least. I met Hilary at the bus stop. We were waiting on different busses. We both enjoyed many of the same things, and conversation was fluid. She asked if I wanted to smoke. We smoked together. I caught my bus before hers arrived. I gave her a very clever little drawing. Back at the hotel, I tried to outline some drawings with ink, but this was a bad idea. There is an illustration expression, 'if you drink, don't ink', I believe this to be true.
I woke early as planned the next morning. I took a bus into town and had a nice breakfast, where I inked some drawings, successfully this time. I explored Portland more that day. I went back to MECA and talked about the next steps toward applying. I went to the art store, and bought some cans of spray paint to go paint the town legal wall. I spoke with Maxon, the store owner's son and to a local woman who'd attended the school about the college, good reviews. I walked across town and a couple miles down a trail on the water's edge to the graffiti wall, a retention wall to the town water treatment facility. I painted a large piece over some gaudy New York gang graffiti. I was thanked multiple times by passers by for painting. It was a beautiful scene to be painting right there on the ocean. I met a new friend, a homeless gentleman, who stopped by the wall to talk. He has been voluntarily homeless for 30 years. He told me stories about his adventures living in the woods in British Columbia and some techniques for catching and cooking fish. He also told me about a submarine that was sunken in the harbor there in Portland that was leaking mercury into the water and about the depleted cod population throughout the state of Maine. Of course, (especially in the  case of the submarine) this is not commonly known to the Maine tourist. I ran out of paint about three quarters the way through the piece, and went back to town to get more at the store. I arrived a bit late and did not get the paint. I hope I can get a chance to finish the painting after traveling to Bar harbor to visit with my family. As the sun set, I went back to my favorite local cafe and asked my friend for advice on sleeping at the bus station. He referred me to a coach line alternative to greyhound, which didn't open its doors until 8 or so in the morning. I left the cafe and went by MECA, where I found the doors open. I went into an illustration lab and worked on drawing for a few hours. I left at about the same time the bars were letting out and caught the late night dinner rush at a pizza joint. From there, the only place that was open was a Denny's, nearby the bus station. I took a taxi out to it. I sat down and had a milkshake and some fries. I stayed late into the night, and grew very tired. I walked outside, committing to at least being away from Denny's. The air was bitter cold. I went into a nearby hotel, though the lobby and into a stairwell, where I made a small bed on the top floor and took a few hour nap. I left the hotel as the sun rose, grabbed breakfast and went to the bus station which was now open. I checked in, then slept under the bench for a few hours before my bus took off. I slept on the bus.
In Bangor, I took a cab to the airport to wait on my family to fly in from NYC. Their plane was delayed, so I took a walk down the street to a nearby skatepark, where I smoked with some locals and shared stories. Aaron gave me a ride back to the airport, where I met up with my family upon their arrival. We rented a car and were off to Bar Harbor.