I like to start with the story and then let the pieces move off in whatever direction the painting needs to go, it has the effect of deepening the context and making it more mysterious.
Other recent paintings include the titlework “Into Shadow,”
The four paintings beyond the column are my “Magic Animals” set,
Parts Per Million
There were so many people in the world. Over six billion souls on this rain filled day in South Africa, with millions more being made each week, hundreds of thousands each day, and here she was. Mish knew it had to be some sort of search for meaning that always made her leave. It was Mark this time. Before that Eddie, before that Jonathan. She found her vision reach longingly to probe the growing group of pedestrians who were emerging after the rain let up, searching each passing face for someone who looked more like him, like any of her former lovers.
On the sidewalk ahead an ancient homeless person was still holding cardboard over his head, although it had stopped raining. He raised a bent shoulder, bent elbow, crooked wrist and hand imploringly to the sky. “Reënboog.” Mish reached to her pocket, wondering how much she should give. Then she looked. The street and the buildings opened to the same downhill view as she had seen from the apartment. Only now color was everywhere. It was a sweep of spectrum so broad and brilliant that it seemed to be a part of the air.
“Oh…Rainbow!” she said, getting it. She looked back at the man. He was not as old as she had first thought, but he was pitifully thin, with dirty, starved skin, his smiling mouth studded with broken teeth. “Ja. Jaah!” he said, and the two of them laughed as they shared the revelation of the mutual translation.
Bereavement
A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in a place called Old Country Kitchen outside of Wichita Heights. I don't mean to be disrespectful to any other restaurants, but the best all-you-can-eat buffets are the ones you find in the mid-west. Most of our people come from the red states.
I like to work backwards from the soft-serv machine. A long time ago when I worked in the drive-in back home I learned how to do it--the key is not having to turn the cone completely around, just swiveling it in a shallow figure eight so the vanilla or chocolate or strawberry forms a base to build on, keeping your other hand on the lever with the black ball on it to control the speed. There were a couple of kids watching the process, a boy of four or five, blond, with dark ringed eyes, eyebrows joined together in the center. His sister, a few years older, wearing school clothes and a white sweater, looked at me with suspicion as I handed over the piled-high cone.
Honestly, this is what it's all about. Right outside the restaurant a man was pushing an older lady in a wheelchair up the concrete handicapped entry ramp, his wife holding open the door. Out in the parking lot another family climbed down from a blue Ford Excursion and headed up a sidewalk toward the Cineplex, chattering happily.
"Ever been in the service?" I asked a fat man and woman who were sitting at the next table, tapping my finger on the newspaper I had picked up from the rack outside to show the guy what I was talking about. The headline read, "Bomb Blast kills 6 GIs in Bagdhad." I've never been to Iraq per se, though the company does have me traveling quite a bit. Back when I was in the Army there was talk that they might send us over to Bosnia, but that didn't happen either.
"Marines, yeah," the man said, still chewing on a plate of pork spareribs. People like me, and I can read them pretty good. I never have any trouble striking up a conversation. I guess that's part of why I'm in the job. He was about the same age as me, maybe a little older, big shoulders tight in a blue striped polo shirt. "Four year enlistment. Yeah. Getting tough over there."
"Yeah," I said, shaking my head sadly. "Kinda seems like things never really change, doesn't it? Is that strawberry pie any good?"
I looked back at the dessert island longingly, but Jenny and her two kids had finished their ice cream and were leaving the Old Country Kitchen into the other side of the parking lot. Oh, well. In my job you meet a lot of people. Most of them you meet once and then never see again.
880 North
It was hard to tell what happened because it happened too suddenly. This other driver failed to get out of Ray’s way in time and as they cut in front of him on the downhill curve near Fruitvale, the Ninja Car took a bite out of his left front. "Shit!" Ray screamed. He wrapped the steering around as they skidded ten feet to the side, then straightened out again. Behind them, the other vehicle turned like a toy car with its wheel stuck and slammed head-on into the center divider.
"Stay here! Stay with the vehicle," Ray ordered a little later, as if he was reading from some DMV manual. To Gail it didn’t make any sense. She got out of the car and looked around. There was only a few feet of shoulder along 880 here, the Ninja car pulled into the shadow of an overpass with its lights still off, perfect to be rear-ended. Behind them, a hundred yards back and on the far side, the other vehicle sat crumpled and motionless, tipped against the concrete barrier.
She was aware of the roaring lights and the flickering sound of the cars that still were going by, nothing else. Except that they needed to get out of there. But now Ray had begun to run back, dancing in a sideways motion and waving his arms. Gail sobbed and put her head down, following as fast as she could. "Wait, Ray!" He was going to try to get across.
Ray’s image was pinned before Gail by sweeping headlights, thrown back into shadow as the cars swept dangerously past. A sudden receding horn-blast registered a driver’s late reaction.
"They’re all right, Ray!" she screamed at him. She could see something moving in the car ahead. But Ray kept leaping stupidly out into the lanes.
We got to get out of here!"
My Cassandra Moment
all week on Facebook I had been alerting my friends to my status:* Steve is ... preparing to herd cats
* Steve is ... actively herding cats
* Steve is ... writhing in delirium from cat-scratch fever
Cassandra was cursed with prophecy and no one believed her
I have been doomed to read my own future yet remain oblivious to it
an explanation for these bites and scratches, the blood that flowed
as I seized the young kitten to steal her fertility
her alarm fully justified, her response successful
a sensation much like the second time I stopped a dogfight
by inserting my hand into a fanged mouth
a sense of destiny fulfilled and profound chagrin
not to mention making matters worse
We have two kittens available for adoption, contact the management.
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