CONTEMPORARY EXPLORER

  To often we quickly pass through small places without stopping to enjoy the notes of their  (Studebaker door and hood)

  How rich life can be. All you need sometimes is a small corner, a chair, a few things you love. Memories sometimes, others dreams. A light to read by, objects to ponder. Yes you say, there will be a tomorrow, different than today, places to wonder, new things to bring home for your corner of dreams...

  Kiosk man, kiosk man, what do you sell? There you are on center stage at the mall. Started with great hope. Each passerby a critic. Long hours spent hocking items, hoping for a few people to stop, look, buy.  Just a few words, like “nice items,” keep you going. Rarely a day when sales sizzle, spirits soar. You still believe. Long hours though, soon you get a chair, holding back despair. Hoping for those great rewards, the critics passing by…

  Sometimes you come upon random things that just seem to fit together. Different shapes, color and sizes, with no reason or pattern. Still they draw you in. Artists will tell you that “nature adores uniformity” and that like the forests of nature, harmony is found in the range of differences. Ones that play out in the world’s wind, rain and sun. The same can be said for people I think. Differences abound, but life can if allowed provide a canvas for harmony, a gathering if you will.

  Almost like an art piece it rested from the road. Never idle for long, wearing the long miles traveled proudly, it avoided the end of other trailers. Their numbers and markings all washed away, bay empty. "No portfolio, scraps, dead heads" they called them. To tractor rigs passing, this one still shouted out trailer 53101 ready. Still needed in commerce, that's all it ask...

  I was recently reminded of the importance of color in our lives. Allen Reamer, an art instructor, once told me you should always consider color first in your painting. This thought was echoed by Steve Martin of all people. Besides being a great actor and comedian, he is a noted art collector. Enough so that MOMA ask him to select two favorite paintings from their collection for display. He chose two by early century abstract artists Stanton McDonald Wright and Morgan Russell, both considered ones who were first to understood the importance of color in abstract paintings.  Martin used the term synchronism to describe their work, feeling it lent harmony to the human experience where color was so important. As important as music to movies and life experiences.  He's right, of course, mastering the mixes of color on canvas remains a constant challenge though. There is color theory, your sense of things, the subject, meaning, and nature itself to all consider. Not to mention how it is

“When old tech dies, it usually stays dead” - C. Platt. Or so it seems. Having acquired most of the Apple products available and traveled to what seems the end of the internet, I surprisingly found myself bored with it all. Even worse, I was actually considering purchasing a Chromebook just to have something different to play with. Tech had seemingly taken the brightness from my life. I needed an escape, a reason for getting out and doing something again. Somehow I longed for the old digital world. You know the one where you actually had to move dials to find results and sometimes even get a hard copy in the process. In sorting through this, somehow having a pocket transistor radio became an obsession, but finding one proved a challenge. Truly old things do go away. The young turk at Best Buy looked at me strangely when I asked if they had one. I knew from his look that I would never work there. So it was back to the wired pages of Walmart and Amazon.  There, under pocket radios, I fou

  You find them in off beat local places, ones that have been adorned inside with walls of graffiti, torn posters and other memorabilia. In slang language called “wall bombing.” It’s all about transporting you to a place of craziness, apart from where you are now, freeing you up to enjoy. There is so much that your mind fails to grasp it all, let alone make sense out of it. The message like “on air” standing apart from the other product tags and hand written comment. It’s all for fun of course, engaging you to like the place and come back, to drink another beer. Overtime though, the walls begin to loose their luster. As with all impermanent things, they fade and deteriorate. The wall still pulls at your mind. You think, what a “funky ” place and absorb past memories of being there. The word "funky” attributed to being abstract, unique, in the vibe. A closer reading of the meaning though is a sense of sadness, as in “I was in a funky mood.” Bombed walls take on a certain sadness w

  It always caught my eye. Even years later reviewing my album library, the photo stood out. I was never sure if someone attempted to make it an art object or if time had done so, but it was. Boxcar AN 2256. So much it told about the city. How things were used and used, then just put on the side to languish on the edge of the city. You could see it in the distance, the pillars of profit. Far from where the boxcar rested against a worn warehouse of the same fate.  I could only guess how many miles its travels entailed, how it got all its marks and scraps. Reminding me somehow, everything has it time, to spend it well.

  There is a haunting feeling when you see a string of sidetracked railcars.  They served commerce well, but now they sit alone. Their future uncertain. Not unlike places we all find ourselves at times. We struggle though and eventually find a way to get back to the mix of life. You remember these things,  as we pass by the sidetracked cars…

  Many small Southern town heydays were during the textile and manufacturing years of the past. When those days ended, their downtown core became vacant of small business and life. Leaving in the wake, the forgotten classic architecture and faded colors of the South. Even in their waning state, they are often lovely places, ones that attract the curiosity and sometimes even movie sets. They surprise you with the depth of their beauty, making you want to take them in your arms and make things right. Walking on Main Street in Chester SC, the sun hit a window in front of me just right reflecting the buildings across the street. The reflection showed that beauty of the past, but when I turned, only the empty store fronts greeted me. I turned again, looking at the reflection and hoped the glory I saw would return one day…

  I never used libraries as much as I should, but loved them just the same. They have changed over time and now seem to reside in a middle state given all the online media. Even with these pressures, the library offers much in their many corners that cannot be found elsewhere. The larger ones have full departments such as music, art and even research. Each with a department head. The smaller ones are presided over by just a few general staff, each armed with the knowledge of the whole of the place. Their caring evident, scurrying about to keep order, answering questions, tending all the corners. At one time, libraries even had apartments on top for the librarian to reside. Sometimes you see librarians sitting at their desk, making special notations in the books. The marks always consistent are known as librarian scribe, keeping uniformity within the library.  The corners of these places draw you in. A place of quiet in an unquiet world. Where you can be at peace with a book, you though

  Forgotten shapes gathered and protected, apart from the real world. Used to hide behind, to surprise, corner and capture. All put there by a wandering mind, waiting to delight…

  It was long ago, but I remember it as yesterday, the joy that deep. I once had a gallery and art office in an old converted hotel. All types of artists were there. The building just had one elevator. Few of us paid much attention, its darkness lit by a dim light,  it just transported us from one floor to another. The painters liked floor 3, the light and all. Besides they always thought they were the best artists. Colorful to the one. Photographers took floor 2, the in-between one. Perhaps never sure of their status in the art world. The writers were scattered mostly in the basement and corners of floor 1. Like the painters they had an air about them, tearing off the numeral 1 on elevator keyboard and replacing it with an A, just so everyone would know. We all flourished there, sharing ideas and dreams. All the time being transported back and forth on a forgotten elevator between worlds...

  The theory of color. There are books and books written on this, all geared to improve your art painting. Alas, though, when you look at the canvas, the thing you want to paint, color always lingers in your mind. The mind sees one thing, the tubes of paint another. So you spread out each color on a pallet, mixing until things look just right. The painting done, you look at the pallet again, sometimes finding it more pleasing than the painting.  You think about it, do you toss out the pallet or consider it a part of the art. There your wild strokes run, unbound by thoughts you might have, just the beauty of your soul…

  Wandering the city of Portland on foot rewards your soul. The city is full of low profile historic buildings, ones you can relate to, giving a human feel to the place. There are many walks you can take, the Eastside warehouse district, the Northwest neighborhood district, Washington or Waterfront Park.  Perhaps though, no district defines Portland more than the Pearl. Here trendy shops and restaurants rub shoulders with small manufacturing and service buildings. The district is changing fast, with the trendy out bidding the older tenants for space. Here you find buildings in transition, a kind of limbo where owners weigh the potential of the property. These buildings show the patina of time and emptiness. A broken window here and there.  Such it was when I passed an idle warehouse building with three windows marked by street art, the wear of time, a few panes broken. The evening was bringing darkness quickly. The windows already colorful, reflected the glitz and brightness of a chang

What can you say of late winter, January blue, February not really a month, March with all its promises both real and not. The year just started, but not set. You wonder where the red penguin walked this winter. You find solace in your studio, brush in hand, looking at paint colors, imagining about the year…

  Are they just wanderings of the mind or do they mean anything? Surrealistic paintings are perhaps the most difficult art to understand. It’s not realistic, abstract, or fine art. They occupy a unique place in the art world. Sometimes as controversial as the artist who did them, Salvador Dali, Man Ray, Joan Miro, Andre Breton and others. Abstract paintings were rebellions against an age of realistic art, using color, shape and gesture to replace known scenes. Fine art grew from the artists defined view of the world, they sought out scenes that reflected those views. Surrealism is a clear departure from both of these. Here the artist takes their inspiration from the world of dreams, attempting to recreate them on canvas.They often defy logic, order or understanding. Who among us fully understands our own dreams, let alone the ones of others. Surrealism is a fanciful wandering apart from the real world. The true stuff of dreams… “The Stuff of Dreams”

  Handwriting and letters lost to time, forgotten by the mind. They is so much treasure there. Movement of a love one turning ink to print, words written, thoughts frozen. All the art of life.  Caches of letters and covers found, read over and over, then pictures in the mind painted as to what it all means…. Acrylic on paper letters, various sizes, some collages

  Walking to the ends of a mall tells you a lot about its health. Past the glitz storefronts, the busy food court, down the hallways which are supposed to funnel people into the center of the mall, clues abound.   The healthy ones usually have anchor stores at each end, the unhealthy ones no stores, entry ways closed off, the remaining stores pushed toward the mall center to make things look better than they are. They keep the lights on at mall ends even in declining ones, but there is little other life. The food court way in the distance only casts shadows of diners, some storefronts still bare the names of the once aspiring owner, others are just blank closed doors. These areas often are the last stand for mall odds and ends like vending and amusement machines. The once mall entrance now blocked. You still see a flash of color here and there, but warn floors and peeling ceiling paint are more the norm. There is uneasy quiet in these places, but if you listen hard enough you can still

  A small church on a byway in the South caught my eye. Nothing really special, but the peace you find in such places. A cemetery just beyond reminding you of your impermanence, the church reminding you to find your salvation before it was too late. Things you thought about as you drove away on a small church road….

  I walked down the purple hall each day, past the door with no name. I wondered what it hid, what opening it might mean. Maybe the color put me off, as so many other opportunities that passed me by. Purple they say occurs rarely in nature. The mixture of deep blue and fiery reds different from the other more gentle blends of everyday colors. Its meaning associated with ambition, power, and mystery, sometimes worn by winners, nobles, and royalty.  I guess I felt that way about so many things, sensing the opportunity they might represent, but questioning myself, was I up to taking the risk and finding a winning way. So I walked by each day, until one, when I reached for the handle of the door with no name…

  They say that when you find a town that has level crossings, you know it’s been left behind. These street level RR crossings are notorious for accidents. Trains never stop for them. Railroad companies have decided an area does not have enough promise to build an overpass. Level crossings tie up commerce, relegating residents to wait for trains to pass before moving around. Where once a hub of business existed, level crossings can backwater a place. Still these towns hold on, trying to race the train, to survive. All against the rumble of trains passing through…

  All gold does not glitter or it seems so in Kershaw SC. There’s a quiet about this place, even with the busy 521 route running through the middle. The town situated just a few miles from the largest gold mine in the Appalachian region has never experienced the growth or prosperity you would expect. The promise of these things are found in every corner of Kershaw. Corners that were partially developed after Benjamin Haile discovered gold flakes on his farm in 1827. Soon the rush was on, the Southern Railroad followed in 1887. Only a local line still exists. There are reasons for all this, but no clear ones. Maybe it was when the Haile Gold Mine was purchased by owners far away who only saw the town as a place to provision its workers. Maybe it was that Kershaw edged in on two counties but never had enough sway to attract the county seat from either. Maybe the town simply became a place left in limbo. Still glimmers of brighter times can be found on the corners of Kershaw. Large buildi

  The parking swirled with activity. A young man loaded his groceries into the back of his car. He turned and glanced at the older worn car pulling into the handicap space just down from him. The paint faded, it needed a wash. Just curiosity I guess, everyone cheated and he wanted to see if this driver was really handicapped. Abe reached in front of Ruth, trying to find the handicap placard in the glove compartment, then gave up the effort, thinking that once people saw him and his walk, there would never be a question. The young man drove off. Abe slowly turned his legs out of the car, holding on to the door top for leverage. He looked back at Ruth, as if to ask “do you want to come?” She motioned him on. Abe straightened himself, his thin gray hair blown by the wind. He still wore a long sleeve shirt and khakis, but steps were measured out carefully now, always wary of a fall. Most onlookers wondered if he was going to make it to wherever he was going. The grocery store seeming like

  Standish CA is just a spec on the road now, most noted as a gateway to the high desert. Once though ideas of Utopia were here. You can almost sense this in the untended fields, broken fences, and remaining buildings. The colors of long grass in the fields play with your mind.  The place flourished in the late 1800’s. Laid out by a religious group from the East and named after the colonizer Miles Standish, it was thought to have everything. Fertile land, settlers willing to follow a dream, and importantly an abundance of water from nearby Honey Lake.  Perhaps a harbinger of the West of the future, times changed. Water rights became an issue with already established ranchers. Finally, the State had to step in carving up the rights between different factions. Standish could no longer survive on the portion allocated. Dreams of Utopia faded, the town slowly giving way back to the high desert. I had stopped at the only business in town, a small liquor store. Mabel, the clerk, explained th