Sarasota

I landed in Sarasota in the late evening. I had only a backpack by this point and that was mostly art supplies. I checked into the Golden Host Resort, the best little hotel I've ever stayed at. In the morning, I walked to Ringling College of Art and Design Campus, where I checked in, had my photo taken, was issued an ID and given a key to my room, where I dropped off my bag, put my gouache and watercolor paints in the top drawer, and where I set to educating myself.

Detroit

I landed in Detroit in the late evening. I took a city-bus toward Dearborn, where I'd booked a cheap motel. I walked a long ways and went into a tobacco shop. "Things are really spread out here". I said, or something like that. 

"Yeah, where you trying to go?" was the reply. 

"Just down the street a ways", then I said the name of the complex where the hotel was. He didn't know it. I bought a black-and-mild and some rolling papers, thanked him, and went out-front of the store to wait on a city-bus. The sun set, and the tobacco store closed. My friend locked up, and rolled down his car window as he was pulling out of the parking lot. "Hey! Get in, I'll give you a ride."

He was from Lebanon I think. We listened to the radio. He drove me all the way there, into the carport in front of the automatic-sliding-glass doors. I offered him money, but he turned it down. 

I was happy to have a bed again, I watched cable tv for the first time in a few months and slept. 

I ate some hotel breakfast the next morning, and tried to extend my stay with no luck. I had to transfer hotels which took a few hours, but ultimately worked out. After unpacking etc. I took a walk to a bus station, and rode into Downtown Detroit via Michigan Avenue. I saw stretches of abandoned buildings and 'urban prairie' landscapes. I saw graffiti and delinquent factories. It was a beautiful trip, which I was to enjoy daily as a commuter. I'll try to be brief now about my time in Detroit, I documented architecture in my sketchbook, and had some good conversations with local street-goers which were informative and more than half the time ended in a money request. I was happy to give. The air was clean, and the town carried a whole-grain-America-feel. I guess the new mayor is doing a good job fixing the place up, is the word on the street, but I got the creeps when I saw vinyl banners, proclaiming the cities creative resilience and the freshly cut-out-of-the-cement park benches- replaced by 'urban ambassadors' or whatever they're called, who move foldable chairs around. I think actually I may be coming around to the park chairs idea- I mean, it makes sense that you have more control over your landscape by having movable parts, but cutting the benches out of the ground seems wasteful and potentially (in a recession when one cannot afford ambassadors) able to leave one without a seat. 

So the downtown seemed very corporate. The motor companies had a large showing throughout, as well as Quicken Loans, whose Dan Gilbert, it is my understanding, owns a substantial amount of Detroit property- 2010-forth acquisitions. There were many homeless people in the parks, cramping the style of the well-offs and looky-rounds. 

I met Cheri when I was drawing a building outside of the GM showroom downtown. She asked if she could watch and I happily obliged. We talked while I drew. She was on her way to a 'Soul-n'-ribs Festival'. I told her I was too and we took a walk. Cheri was in town for her 40-year high school reunion. She'd run from home with a fervor and hadn't been back since. It was interesting to walk through the park with her and to see her trip-out about what was different and what had remained the same. She gave me the rest of her food from earlier that day, as we drove to a friend-of-her's firework show. We met with some of her former classmates- one was a military ER nurse who lived in the mountains and made organic dog-foods for distribution. Another, whom Cheri worked at a photo-store with, was a local wedding-photographer. Cheri, I'll say, was another mountain-gal, wild about dogs. She now runs a doggie boarding and foster home. The common denominator that night was dog health and we made plans there to meet in the morning to visit Watergait- a hydro-therapy clinic for canines. 

Watergate it turns out was relatively close to my hotel. I had an American breakfast at a corner-diner, and walked to the clinic, where I met Daisy, a thirteen year old pug-dog with inward facing legs and a hanging-out tongue. Cheri and her friend made it to the clinic too, where we chatted up the lab technician and watched Daisy strut her little crooked dog-legs while donning a sporty life-jacket on what can be described as a bathtub with a treadmill at the bottom. The increased buoyancy combined with the energizing 78 degree water inspired Daisy to dog-jog for forty-five minutes.

We all had an appetite after watching Daisy, and drove to Hamtramck for a bowl of pickle soup at a Polish Cafe. It began to rain. Cheri and I split off and drove downtown. She sang Gordon Lightfoot's Canadian Railroad Trilogy at the top of her lungs on the way. I wish the time would make that memory more endearing, but alas.. 

We went into a chocolates shop and I bought one box for my mother, and another for my sister. From there, we took a walk to a downtown community garden. I saw few edibles in the garden, and there was a large gated fence around the perimeter. We were given a tour by a nice man who works there. It looked heavily funded, but I didn't ask by whom. Cheri by that time, was phone-filming her dogmatic documentary, who's slant was "Detroit's Comeback", which in a way was what I was there to speculate and assess myself, but in a more subtle way I think. We were feeling our growing apart, and went our separate ways from the garden. She gave me a jar with a big dill pickle and its pickle juices as a road-blessing and parting gift. I thanked her and set off. 

I went to the Contemporary Art Center. They were closed for another month for the summer, but were in-house for a de-install of a series of paintings of Obama (a cheap trick from an artist who claims to have painted one portrait of Obama for each day of his presidency- which is not so, his assistants painted most if not all of the portraits, and did so much in advance of the tentative completion of his term). Speaking later to a perturbed art-installer of the aforementioned establishment, I learned this information. Anyway, I met Augusta, who is an education coordinator therein. She invited me that night to an art opening at a place called The Playground. She also gave me a good list of spots to eat, cafe's and bookstores- what a gal!

So I went on my way an visited the Detroit Institute of the Arts, just down the road, where I had a few good hours of drawing before their close. I walked and bussed across town to where the art show was going to be. I was early, so I went to a craft brewery and had a beer and a pretzel for twelve dollars- so much for sustainability. Form there I took a walk to the space, The Playground, which was a Brooklyn trust-fund flipped warehouse space. I could paint it in a more romantic light, truly, but the air was stale with stagnant pretension, Augusta excluded- what a gem. I thought to myself, "maybe it's the beer", or "maybe the.. " I couldn't figure it out. There seemed many skeptics, ready to trip, and I heard disconcerting conversation. I did meet some lovely people, especially later-on as I was leaving. I met Dan and Stephanie, who were on their way out to a bar-b-que. I tagged along and found myself in a beautiful old house west of downtown, in a parlor-room with beautiful young european women- giving one another henna tattoos. A young man named Julian, hammered tunes on an old organ in the corner. After good conversation and cigarettes, and my friends filled with bar-b-qua, we said our goodbyes and drove back toward our terminus for the night, back to the neighborhood of The Playground. 

I walked to a bus stop, and waited for a long time. The sun was set. It took a while to get back to Dearborn that night. 

The next day, I went back to the Detroit Institute, to finish up a study of a sculpture by Paul Manship from his Moods of Time series. 

My time in Detroit was coming to a fast close. For a souvenir and a token of commitment to my impending art school career, I up-and-bought a wrist-watch. It cost half-a-grand, but it still ticks. 

I was playing with fire, concerning making my flight to from Detroit to Sarasota that afternoon. I stopped by the Contemporary Art Center to say goodbye to Augusta. She was not in, but other friends from that night were, and that took some time. I was relying on three or four city-busses to run as smoothly as my new wrist-watch, which again, was risky, so I took a cab. My cabbie was Darryl Lee Cherry, whom I documented in my book as 'Detroit's Best Cabbie'. He was friendly and accommodating to my budget, now feeling broke after the watch. 

I made the flight on time and was off to sunny Sarasota to go to art school. 

Durham to Atlanta

I finished my final days, Body-Mind Centering. Meghan and I enjoyed what was to be our last weekend together (for the summer at least). The plan was the I stay for her final week of classes, minding the homestead and hearth, keeping her company in the evenings, but things rarely go as planned and the day before her classes began, she gave me the (soft) boot. She drove me to the bus station. We shared a small cry and I boarded a bus to Atlanta, because it was one of the few departing that night, and I like like the High Museum therein. It was a real red-eye, with a transfer at 4:30AM in South Carolina or somewhere terrible. When I got to Atlanta, the sun was rising and the bums began to re-animate. I was pretty loaded with expendable gear, and lightened my load considerably on the walk across town to the High by being suggestion-robbed of pens, lighters, road-foods, rolling papers, I saw it as a positive thing- my departure was sudden and I didn't have much time to prioritize and pare-down my gear. Later, I would ditch my unicycle (no joke, I was traveling with a unicycle) and my hiker's backpack after the rusty buckles began to break. After walking for hours, I found a quiet spot downtown where an artist (or team of) had built a series of beautiful rope pavilions, with soft rope benches for weary walkers. I was a weary, sleep deprived walker if nothing else, and the pavilions took a likeness to a desert mirage. I slept until the rantings from a homeless man ramped me back into the waking state. The High was just around the corner, and now open. I did my museum thing, documenting paintings and sculptures into a small sketchbook. I was drawing well because I had made a commitment now to Ringling College, and knew these could be of the last of my undisciplined type. I had lunch in the cafe and found a flight to Detroit on my phone. I bought a ticket and was off to Motor City that afternoon.

Sorry

It has been brought to my attention that content in this blog has been offensive. I'm sorry if I have offended you.

Today I woke with a slight hangover from drinking sugary wine and beer and bourbon in the same night. Today is my day-off from classes at BMC. I am in the middle of (three days left to go) of embodying the fluids system. I saw a show last night. The girl fronting the band was doing a bunch of played out stuff like she's seen from those who she aspires to. I guess that's to be expected. Actually, I've got little steam in me now to write this, I feel tired, and I guess all I do on here is be snarky and negative.

I've made some plein aire paintings in chalk pastel. In other news, I love Meghan and I'm going to take a walk now.

Over easy

I wrapped up the four commissioned abalone shell paintings for my mother. I hope she likes them.
I packed my hiking backpack full of mostly books, and loaded my friend Overstreet's car with the wrapped up commissions. He drove me to a FedEx store, where I shipped two of the boxes to theri respective destinations. The third box, a homemeade box, did not make the cut in terms of box excellencerequired by the fed ex corpotation. I offered to make another box out of some cardboard stock that the had lying in the back, but to no avail; our cashier at some point had put her foot down and decided that she was not going to ship the homemade box no matter what. (unless SHE re-boxxed it in a wardrobe box for 24$. Street and I walked out and took our package to the post office, where we had no problem shipping it. Back at the spot, I had a glass of rum and coke with Patrick before getting another ride with Overstreet, this time to the Amtrak station.

My train left at 11:13. I'd bought a ticket for the wrong date digitally, but the kind man at the reception desk changed the ticket for me for a small (relatively), fee. I slept through the night, despite amtrak haveing the most uncomfortable seats in the world. In the morning, I went to the cafe' car. In line before me was a woman who I learned to be Dana. I ordered my food, and coffe, "I'll have what she's having". She was having a terrible muffin and a coffee. We sat near each other and made light introductions on the account of relating to one another about the poor quality of the muffins served on Amtrak. She invited me to sit across from her at a table at some point and talked with me about my education, and her experiences with working for Make a Wish Foundation, and her experiences as a healer (though she didn't use the word, I believe that is one way of describing her work) and caretaker to clients with mental disorders. She was kind and patient. Her business card says, 'Compassionate Home Care & Companionship'. She explained having to flip one of her clients over in bed and how she took a drive with the same client during a time of extreme mental discomfort. She drove him to where she grew up, near a country club pool somewhere in North Carolina. It was snowing and very beautiful. "I'm dying." he said. 
Sometime during conversation, I missed my stop, and upon returning to my seat was enlightened to the fact by a frustrated railcar worker. "Yer on yer own boss", he said.
I got off at the next stop, in a town called Rocky Mountain. I checked my large hiking backpack in the station and went for a unicycle ride with my daypack to find the library, from which I write to you now. On the way I stopped into a little diner that served everything on styrofoam. I ordered and ate two eggs over easy, grits, and toast with a water. The interior of the diner was light with American Gothic wooden booths with tall backs. Light shown in through the window to my right. I lifted a fork from the set of white plastic cutlery from a white napkin, and stuck it into the center of a white egg beside white grits. I loved seeing the golden yolk, and mixing in the red hot sauce too. I left a five dollar bill and thanked the kind server. 

Jacksonville/ Sucksonville

SO here I am again back in Jacksonville. It feels almost embarrassing to be back. I only said goodbye two weeks ago and each time is like another round of "see you on the other side's". I am working on a commission from my mother of four abalone shell paintings. One of them is a triptych to go above her bed and the fourth is a three by four footer to go above a couch in a beach condo. I have been instructed to hold the purple on the beach condo painting, but to let 'er rip on the triptych. Four days or so into the paintings, I was ready to call it done on the couch painting and destroy the triptych. I painted over the triptych with exception to a vertical element that I though was working well. The idea is to blend the elements together now. I stayed up all night last night. I felt very restless come bedtime, in part from the fireworks. It was the fourth of July, and the riverside neighborhood seemed dangerous. I took a walk to see if I could festive up, but walking out of the door of the warehouse where I was making the paintings was like landing on an alien planet. As a human, raised American, I had pretext to the 'celebration', but did not feel any benefits. Walking through neighborhood streets, I would round a corner to witness a firestorm.
I felt sad. Back at the studio, I hunkered down and read through The Catcher in the Rye, and a little bit of Night.

I feel that in this commission I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire. That is, I have liberated myself from responsibility and then... God, my writing is terrible today. I can't help but think of J. D. Salinger's cadence while I write now.

I don't like the feeling particularly of being away from Meghan right now. I think it is silly to put this commission from my mother ahead of my connection to this wonderful woman that I feel. I think about how this falls into another string of occurrences of my mother getting in between not only my love life, but also my spiritual path. I'm not trying to project this, it's just that it's on my mind. I'm in love. It's a miracle. But I have this commission for a bedroom triptych for my mother that's holding me to Jacksonville I feel. I don't know or care what goes on in my parents bedroom, though once I heard them doing their thing the night we moved into a house in Tallahassee. I had school the next day. I felt happy for them in a way. At one time, I thought they were going to get a divorce. Maybe they should have. Here I am, their son saying these things. But there's a perpetually unacknowledged thing between them I feel. Like on the first date I imagine it was there. This I think it what is called 'chemistry', 'our chemistry', 'their chemistry'. Its a dynamic, perpetually in check but unmoving.  The light at the end of the tunnel is a train departing tomorrow night, after I postmark the paintings, in whatever state they are in, to my parents house.

Right now I am thinking to not go to school at Ringling. Reading Catcher in the Rye last night was enlightening but like all great arcs of thought, in my experience, left me with the same problems in the end. Does Ringling represent the school in which Holden Caufiled came from, or that which he writes from? The alternative plan (or the placeholder plan for now) is to learn German in Berlin, then apply for a visa to attend German art school on staat money. I have been reading German for the past couple months and starting to tooth in. Mostly, somehow, I want to be anonymous. Actually, the Catcher in the Rye book was dangerously close to how I feel about, everything. Maybe I'm just easily influenced. But his running into the woods plan sounds right to me.

I talked with Shaun today. We went out to lunch. He's funny because he will tell you that art is useless, or in the long run, not necessary. I agree. Here I am making couch matching paintings, though mostly complaining about it. Library's closing. Long story short, art is a product of excess. It is beautiful, like religion, but calorie for calorie, a waste.

Love y'all.



So simultaneously, I want to just pay off Ringling, just to have someone else holding on to my college money. But there, in the middle of the sentence, though I finished it for continuity's sake, is where I get hung up. Ringling, it feels like an arranged marriage, and I the dowry holder. I am unsure of what I am paying for. But to go would be to know.

Class

After my first day in Durham, things really busied up. Classes began at 8:30 am beginning on Monday and lasted for over a week. So let me here make some testimony to the school of Body-mind centering. The first day of class began with a seated circle. We were prompted to simply ‘be’ in the space. After a short time, our attention was swept up by an instructor, who’s next prompt was for each of us to get acclimated to the space. “Move however you like, explore all corners, perhaps you would like to stay in one place.” I quickly got the sense that I was in a room with a significant population of dancers, as the ‘however you like’ was interpreted by many as pirouettes, hip gyrations, and patterned arm flairs. I found myself exploring like a hedgehog the perimeters and small, cave-like spaces created by the furniture of the room. We were in the Center for Jewish Life on the Duke University campus, more acutely, in the chapel. The room was as deep as it was wide, with a ten foot perimeter ceiling with rope-light inlay, and a four-sided pyramid vaulted ceiling. At the back of the room (assuming the two glass door entrance from the lobby as the front) was a right-angle triangular two-stair height stage which dropped by the same depth, but only by the count of one in the back two sides. The triangle shape jutted out from the rest of the structure with two full walls of glass, about thirty feet from ground level, so that the view was like that of a museum for tree understories.  (The view was leaves and branches, I believe of a magnolia tree). The reflective quality of the (suspected) magnolia leaves in conjunction with the intensity of mid/afternoon Carolina sunlight meant that a glance out of the window might give you an unflattering glare. There were times however, in in-direct light, when the view provided respite for the eyes during the long class hours. So, exploring the space I recognized that my patterns rather than pirouettes and the like were standing upside-down on my shoulders and rolling into a fetal position in small spaces. I began to suspect that there may be a  breakthrough in personal discovery somewhere in this class. I’ll hold nothing from you, dear reader, that I am writing on the other side of the experience, far away, in a familiar place (the Jacksonville public library, as it were), and I can testify that I was changed by the experience… probably. I don’t know actually, maybe I’m not. I’ve been reading a lot of philosophy. Anyway, back to storytelling. So we (the class) all grab on to fun noodles, and flexi-bands and wooden rods, one object in either hand, and begin moving about the room, feeling the tensions between our limbs grow and diminish, finding homeostasis between our personal experiences and those of our adjoined (by the props) partners to either side of us. This, it was explained to us, is the sensitivity with which we must observe our ligaments and fascia. We sat again in a circle to discuss our observations. We played name-games to learn how to call each other and to get further integrated. This work, Bob said, is really just an excuse to get together. And how.

Explore, discuss, explore, discuss, bathroom break, slides of ligaments, lessons illustrated with props and skeletal models, explore, discuss, explore, discuss, lunch, more slides, more models, more exploration, more discussion, tea break, open questions, bathroom break, guided explorations of pre-natal development, maybe some other things that rhyme with exploring or discussing, aand class.

So we did five days of this. Sometimes in the mornings, we would open with mindfulness meditation which, have you ever had someone masturbate in the same bed as you?

All in all it was exhausting work. Stand up, sit down, stand up, move around; it was like a school for enlightened hokey pokey, whereby the whole body and mind could be engaged. Students, and there were about twenty of us, would periodically cover their faces, or lie prostrate on the floor once they had become saturated with experience. Each arch of exploration ended, however enthusiastically it began or jubilantly it peaked, (as sometimes someone would ‘catch the spirit’) on floor in exhaustion. Thus, the lessons imparted flowed from one into the next very naturally, and anyone could rest assured that their cat-nap would not read as anything other than needing time to absorb the material. I found this a liberating learning model. Likewise, if one needed to stand or roll around or allow their exhalations to activate the vibrations across their vocal chords, effectively producing rhythmic breath-hums, they could so do without judgment.
I took time to draw many times, as my mind was racing. Catching words from the lectures, I would design tags for them in my notebook, or draw bones or ligaments from the slides.