Thursday, November 7, 2013


I paint.
Because I have to.
I go to work.
Because I have to.
I brush my teeth.
Because I have to.
Not always do I feel like brushing my teeth.
Not always do I feel like going to work.
Not always do I feel like painting.
But I have to.

I create.
Moments of time encased in pigments, ink, canvas, and or paper.
These are things never before seen
And never will they be seen after they are gone.
Yes, they are similar to many seen before,
Similarities in style and technique,
But none like this.
Because this is me.

I write.
Inspired scenes of the life that passes around us.
I see that life, as an artist, in composition and value.
Hours spent in front of vases and nudes in an attempt to capture that which is most ephemeral has given me the ability to watch a crowd move like the ocean, to examine the tiny gestures people act and the play of light on a decayed surface.
The words come, descriptive, symbolic, wholly nonsensical,
And I write.
Because I have to.

I work.
Odd jobs like most of you have and will,
I have work with the mentally ill.
Both adults and children.
The kind of people that hear the voice of George W. Bush telling them that the funny taste in their mouth is the blood of Jesus. 
The kind of people who ask if the trees will eat us today, with a look so sincere, that you have to wonder, has this person seen a tree devour someone? 
The kind of people who have Superman and Aquaman as best friends, and they themselves are members of their own personal Justice League.
The kind of people who hear screams of such horror and contemplation, day in and day out, that they have no choice but to scream back at those voices, just to block out what is being said.

I see myself in these people.
I don’t question what they see or hear.
I graciously take the bouquet of flowers picked by the fifty seven year old woman who spent the afternoon with Katherine Hepburn.
I may even comment on how lovely the daffodils are this season.
And I cautiously take the Ray-Gun that was given to the thirty six year old man by the unnamed government agent or the fusion bomb built by the forty two year old man out of toilet paper rolls, Kleenex boxes and snack wrappers.
I promise to put these things in a safe place where they will be returned to their rightful owners upon being discharged from the facility.
They believe me because I believe them.

After eight, sixteen, thirty two, forty eight, one hundred twenty hours,
My people leave me ragged and skinless.
I draw.
The lines are nothing more than road maps and guides out of a place that can be both brilliant and dark.
I write.
Their voices, and experiences, memories and fantasies mix with my own and I learn who and how it is to be human.
I paint.
Because I have to.

Seeing the world through the eyes of an artist
Means to see the world as sacred.
It all speaks to you in the hope that you will tell its story,
Because Artists are the myth makers,
When asked, what in the world is a Snohzberry, a wise man responded,
We are the music makers

And we are the dreamers of dreams.