Old Forgotten Artists Artists live a short time. What they produce belongs to the time in which they create their best work. But, what is their best work? Why is it their best work? Does their best work gain a life of its own? I am in a building, in northern Paris where is stored an ocean of documents these papers do not attempt to answer questions of quality, popularity, endurance of cultural or social value, or immortality of the artist or artwork. It is simply a pile of contracts and letters between the individual artists who have received a commission to produce an artwork and the bureaucrat who made payment. It makes clear how much the artist was paid in total and how much time passed between installments. Almost always the artist has to plead for payment, even when payment is due. Countless artists are documented. Their names might otherwise be lost, as many of the artworks have joined their creators in oblivion. We are each such invisible figures w...

Bright Sunny Colors My brushes dip themselves into brighter pools of paint and splash like they are having fun Bristles glued to the ends of sticks do the business of picking up and setting down color They have no concept of fun That heart that sends the hand to grasp and dip is the engine of happiness visit Sandy Kinnee.com

On the Naming of Paintings You would think that that guy who writes poems would want to name each of his paintings (which are in fact visual poetry) with individual and interesting titles. Certainly Erato, the muse of erotic poetry might whisper a whole string of suggestions as she licks his ear but he has more or less silenced her except for that tiny bit about her tongue probing his ear. He has a particular muse in mind to assist in the naming of paintings She has yet to figure out how this might work visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Looking for Needles It helps to know what a needle looks like, even if you don't know shit about sewing. Knowing what hay doesn't look like is another way to go about it.

Eyeball Adventure I am on a plane heading off alone to look at paintings in a museum It's not my job or if it is no one is paying me. I look because I can. A number of Jackson Pollock's paintings are on exhibit and I will do what I do and look for those stray anomalous drips Whether or not I find drips it is an eyeball adventure

Slathering Pigment Without a Muse Creative people, painters especially, actually rarely claim to use that particular source of inspiration, known as a Muse. It just sounds either fanciful or sexual to claim to have a goddess poking or being poked. Historically, none of the Classical Muses were assigned the task of assisting painters, likely because painting was primarily representational and not abstract like music, dance, or poetry. Who would need inspiration to paint what is in front of ones eyes? How funny when the visual arts ventured away from rendering the three dimensional world and into abstract territory, the realm of music and poetry. New muses appeared, often in human form. One might list flesh and blood muses and the artists that they motivated. There are some who desire to stimulate creativity who willingly serve as muses. Others either resist or are not necessarily aware that they inspire. Yet, painting and writing and music do not necessitate the enga...

The Boy Who Painted Blue Elephants He was an optimistic and hopeful young artist with buckets and buckets of promise. But at age 24 an ancient Roman elephant fell on him, breaking his only left leg and radically altering the remaining seventy-six years of his artistic career. From that day forward the focus of his paintings was the depiction of Evil and aggressive Elephants. Between 1971 and 1980 the elephant paintings were all limited to shades of blue. Art critics and historians suggested a link to Picasso’s “Blue Period.” However, the sad truth is he never really fancied and therefore did not want to emulate Pablo Picasso. Instead, the leg broken by the elephant event caused him to limp so severely that he veered toward the left. In the art supply store, where he purchased his supplies, colors were arranged with reds on the right side of the display and blues on the extreme left. No matter how much he might have wanted to buy a tube of cadmium red or yellow ochre, his l...

The Turkey in the Basement It was the one thing that kept him alive, otherwise my grandmother would have chopped his head off yesterday. He was a smart turkey. He had discovered a hiding place, under the kitchen, in a space that was never dug out when the basement was excavated. It was now a crawl space littered with turkey droppings, barely enough space for an escaped turkey, not enough for a grown man to slither into to trap a turkey. The gobbler my grandmother had been raising, unbeknownst to her grandson, had fled the coop. He was evading capture in the basement. How he had gotten there, I never learned. As I tell this tale, you might be tempted to hope the bird will become a folk hero or befriend some spider with a bizarre talent and perfect spelling. But no. This will not end well for the turkey. Today is the third Wednesday in November. We all know that by some magical and fragrant means, a delicious celebratory feast is due tomorrow, and the centerpiece is a golden ...

Finding the Time to Make Art I used to feel sorry for my friends in NYC who didn't have what you might call real paying jobs and had to scramble and scrape every day. These were the people who failed to take Richard Serra's advice to learn a well paying trade. He warned against working as a waiter or taxi driver and trying to make art. Those jobs devour your time, pay poorly, and leave you exhausted rather than inspired. Yet, they persevere, staying up late painting or writing. His suggestion was to be an independent skilled craftsman: a carpenter, electrician, plumber, or tile setter. The pay is very good and lets you "buy back" your time for the real work you have to do. Yet, somehow, those friends struggled on and made what art they could, working barely at minimum wage, and keeping their dream alive: to live in New York City and have the identity of "artist". They scramble and struggle. Many spend more time writing grant applications th...

Sean Scully and Cats I have been watching SEAN SCULLY videos He really likes cats I think that this is true Artists are like cats Many identify with cats Artists do not seem to Identify with sheep or cattle Goats, maybe Alice Neal Said I reminded her of a cat

Remembered Magic Trick I used to know a magic trick: How to open things that cannot be opened In particular dried watercolor paint tubes Screw caps welded in place decades ago The interior contents Long turned to jolly stones of brilliant color The trick still works: you light a match And slowly rotate the cap end Like a chicken on a spit and in no time The heat loosens the cement that had Frozen the cap into a permanently sealed condition The cap spins free and the pigments see the light of day I dip a saturated brush into the opened vault and A flood of Rip Van Winkle color awakens Onto a new white sheet Old magic tricks can still amaze me Remember the vanishing birds? Let's see if the salt trick still works visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer, Robert Rauschenberg and Airports for Lights, Shadows, and [Dust] Particles To paint is to practice the activity of applying paint. Sometime past, long forgotten paint was applied to the interion walls of caves, on non-rectangular surfaces. It was not so much paint as we know it, yet it was pigment and a binder that kept the imagery from falling onto the cave floor. Perhaps we could call it proto-interior paint of a limited palate. Such marks were more magic than likeness, more story than illustration, predating text. If it was storytelling the audience was limited to those who might crawl into the non-right-angled cave gallery. Those marks in cave galleries applied paint left the cave, which as far as we know was the oldest surviving venue, due to the limited evidence, paint was applied to portable surfaces, some such as tanned skins. Samuel Clemmons helps Robert Rauschenberg to paint a canvas or More Tom Sawyer’s Fence Tale than Jon Cage’s Suggest...

Superfluous "N" "Oh, the moon is shinning in the dinning room. the moon is shinning in the dinning room. What can we do with this moon that is shinning in the dinning room?" One too many letters in a word kept me from putting my thoughts and stories onto paper for more than thirty five years. I was just a visual artist and had proof that I should not play around with words. When I was in Junior College I had the misfortune to submit my first poem to the "creative writing" magazine, a mimeographed publication folded and bound with a pair of tandem staples in the gutter. I had not previously written anything outside of class work. This long lost poem was doubtless just the trite feelings of a young person poorly put onto paper, my first writing attempt. I was too sensitive to take any criticism, even constructive. So, when the faculty adviser of the publication asked to speak with me about my submission and proceeded to shred my poem, ...

I was going to call this: The Tale of the Grey Moleskin If ashes could talk, would they want to? There is certainly a good reason that whatever color an object may have been, its ash is usually grey. Charcoal is still an object, consumed or depleted of its energy. All that remains are ashes. I purchased a fresh pack of moleskin notebooks, three the color of ashes. Grey, that ash color, which does not assert itself in any way; that sits back and does the uniting while red, orange, and yellow show off. This grey notebook is polite and inert. Unlike the red moleskin, this one does not reveal a story, only provides a place to record one. This grey notebook is not a muse, and when I ask it to try, it says something that makes me tremble: "Think for yourself" . "Think for yourself" is probably the most powerful statement a true muse can whisper. Trust your vision, remember that dream and listen to yourself; all are key muse invective directives. ...

The Former Studio in Ohio My first painting studio Was in an apartment With oak floors I protected the wood with Plastic sheeting and A layer of masonite My muse failed to Warn me What might happen Hardwood studio floor Stained blue and green By accident Warped here and there More by water Than color Young artists Are not taught about This in Art school This is a post MFA Surprise bonus A free lesson visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Surprises in a sheet of Paper, Happy and Unhappy What is Undesirable in a Sheet of Fine Paper (Translated from an olde French papermaking booke of apocryphal origin*) “After the hard, labor-intensive work one might be unhappily surprised by common flaws, imperfections, and otherwise unacceptable results in an otherwise marketable sheet of rag paper. Hastily formed, so-called wild sheets have no strength. Hold your paper to the light and you will see an uneven pattern of thick and thin. Long threads may be strong, but often form knots, which result in thick, random bumps that can spoil the evenness of the flat surface. You can feel these bumps with your fingers, but can easliy see them as darker spots when you examine against the daylight. Poor choice of fibers, with non-archival properties can make a nice looking piece of paper unsalable. Improperly sorted material of dubious origin is not always worth the low price. Unwashed fabric with foreign objects can be dangerous t...

A Celestial Ceiling of Rorschach Something in the wiring of our brains makes us look for patterns. We need to recognize our surroundings and identify experiences. Familiarity breeds comfort as well as contempt. But we seek comfort first. Comfort comes once we find our bearings. Contempt is a luxury. To find our place in the universe we examine and mark and lay claim to those things we can hold. Some of this claiming and marking is physical. Other knowledge is held in the eyes and mind. We impose patterns to reveal the rhythms beyond them. We look to the clouds, scan the stars, stare at paint stains, listen to repetitions, we look at random and fixed items and seek for reference points. We want the world to make sense to us. If something isn’t ordered if something isn’t clearly organized, we organize it. Intently searching the stars, we construct constellations. We gather colored sand and arrange it on a board, forming a mandela. We are organizers. What can be ...

Rock and Twig Poems What we once called a Used Book Store has become a BookStore simply by not belonging to a chain I search old storehouses for treasure Following the scent of old paper I found a skinny ass book of poetry hidden amongst thicker and much thicker books poetry is a journey and a mirror I slid the thin book from the shelf, simply from curiosity discovering a familiar name on the jacket red ink on paper caught my eye Here was a the name of a friend who had a life beyond the one I knew I had no idea she wrote poetry my lack of attention is surprising I paid for the name on the cover without looking inside then carried home the book in a non logo bag buying a book is not the same as reading it The book sat unopened near the television until a commercial break about some pharmaceutical product I had no need for redirected my vision I reached for the book ...

Zen Garden With Chewing Gum Out the waiting room window Is an unraked Zen Garden Cigarette filters and chewing gum compliment a small table The World waits here July 26, 2010 Emergency Room American Hospital, Paris visit Sandy Kinnee.com

That Particular Imperfection I look at the still wet black ink drawing I have just made. It will never be more beautiful than it is now and no more beautiful than when it has dried. The paper is puckered thanks to the moisture the wet ink imparts. A tension exists between clear expanses of dry paper and the black islands of fresh ink. The paper shows its beauty. That particular degree of imperfection is in a constant state of changing. Like your face held gently between the palms of someone who accepts who you have been and who you are and appreciates your ever interesting imperfections. You are the wet ink. You are the dry. visit Sandy Kinnee.com

This Quiet This is one of those moments when I am surprised at how peaceful the world can be How rare to not open my mouth and fill the air with the sound of my own voice I can spend these rare moments with my brain switched off, as it is when I am in the studio hovering over a blank sheet of paper begging to be touched Waiting patiently for those particular marks that may happen when The world hushes itself and I am looking down from a cloud The right kind of silence visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Going to Monet's Garden Too Soon I grew up with an ingrained sense that flowers must be grown. No matter where I lived I would plant what I knew best: marigolds, cosmos, bachelor buttons, and any of the various fall bulbs. Daffodils were my lifelong favorites. If I didn't have space, I'd go back to my parents house and plant something. In the late 70's I'd heard that Monet's garden at Giverny were being reclaimed. In 1979 I was working at Stanley Hayter's "Atelier 17" in Paris and decided to visit the garden with my wife, Gale Murray, and two Canadians. We found the location of the gardens and plotted our trip via the train to Vernon and received directions that Giverny was only 5 kilometers away. We had prepared the typical French d'jeunier: a baguette, a hunk of Caprice de Dieux, Jambon, tomats, vin, Volvic, some cornishons, and a selection of tartlettes. Our plan was to eat our lunch in the garden. The weather was hot and sunny;...

That which is here and is then gone Fleeting before you know Unholdable Transient Joy Incandescent visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Hitting That Proverbial Brick Wall You may have hit a brick wall in your painting There is a weak part of the wall only you can find That is where you will find your breakthrough Painting isn't easy No one said it was If all else fails Paint the wall Cover it with something unexpected Or knock it down visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Brew a Cup of Tea When the world is squashing your soul brew a cup of tea and in waiting for the tea to cool to a drinkable temperature has the sensation of the crushing changed? If not, it will when you pull the cup to your lips visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Ephemeral Matters My brushes dip Themselves into brighter Pools of paint Splash like they are having fun Bristles glued to the ends Of sticks Do the business of picking up Setting down color They have no concept of fun That heart that sends the Hand to grasp and dip There resides the engine of happiness visit Sandy Kinnee.com

The Rearview Mirror & The Front Windshield Looking both forward and backward one eye on the past The other on the present I celebrate the former while gasping at what is before me No one else will see this I will delete it after you tell me it made you smile visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Sufis said: "Nothing is ours but what we can save in a shipwreck" Would that we could gather all we desire we would become ever larger gigantic snowballs heading toward the fate of all gigantic snowballs My life needs fewer not more things to carry off during that final shipwreck Better to carry these things in my head They may seem heavy but are no more than bits of electricity visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Poet with a Handsaw My dad could look at a tree And calculate its Lumber in board feet How large a home could he Construct with Its carcass? This was as close as he Would come To waxing poetic Carpenters see Only what they saw My Father Would Have been 100 This Summer visit Sandy Kinnee.com

Pretending to Write It looks like I’m writing, but I’m only pretending. My mind is elsewhere, dealing with more important and pressing things. For instance I am cooking. Now I’m eating. At this moment I am cleaning up instead of sitting down and hammering out the words. Once the cleaning is finished another significant distraction will fill the time I might have better used for writing. So it goes. I am sweeping the floor, brushing the dog, milking the cat. Oh, I meant giving milk to the cat. Pouring a shallow bowl of milk for the cat. What? She’s not lapping it up? She sits there looking at me like I’m stupid. She’s looking right through me, telling me that only in cartoons do cats drink milk. Why am I pouring milk for her? Am I just wasting time? The dog comes over and sucks the bowl dry. When it reaches his stomach I will have more to clean up. I am online researching why adult cats shouldn’t be fed milk. I’m pretending to write. I’m really doing something...

Guillaume Apollinaire’s Bust The bust of Guillaume Apollinaire greets those who walk into this vest pocket parc that cuddles up against Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Russian emigres chatter on the bench next to mine. The back of Apollinaire’s head looks like a baked potato. One does not make vodka from baked potatoes. The Russians take another drink and I can tell the subject has changed, softened. They toss bread to the birds and the man who is doing most of the talking turns to one woman and speaks in English: "You are a tough old lady a tough old girl" I look back at the potato head visit Sandy Kinnee.com

The Dancing Washing Machine The washing machine was agitated, or rather shaking violently, rocking erratically during the spin cycle. It waltzed itself across the laundry room and wedged the door closed. No one was getting in. The machine had left the door ajar just enough so the human could see that this was deliberate. What we had here was a very upset laundry appliance, perhaps over worked and under appreciated. It seemingly mustered its energy into an act of defiance, not realizing that blocking out the human who dumped dirty clothing into its orifice negated its reason for existence. The human was prevented from entering. No amount of pushing against the door succeeded in opening the door. There was no way to pry the door unshut. The human thought of desperate measures, such as getting a chain saw and cutting through the door, climbing through the hole and man handling the bulky machine out of the way. It would mean finding someone with a chainsaw and buying a replacement ...

Your Apartment Building Inside you is a towering apartment building. There is always room for everyone. Everyone you know lives here. Everyone you have ever met lives here. No one dies or moves out. But some are forgotten. visit Sandy Kinnee.com

The Fish Bicycle ”A Woman Needs a Man like a Fish Needs a Bicycle” I saw this message on every self-respecting woman’s refrigerator a long time ago. Sometimes it was handwritten on a notecard and taped to the appliance. I know it was also popular as a refrigerator magnet. The fish + bicycle has been around a very long time. Yet long before I saw the magnet I read and listened to John Cage’s Zen koans about monks (men) and women. Amusing myself, I conflated the well-known refrigerator magnet with one of Cage’s short pieces for my own delight. Perhaps you may find these too silly, annoying, goofy, dumb, or possibly fun. I mashed them together and let the pieces fall as they may. Listen to Cage’s voice: “Kwang-tse points out that a beautiful woman who gives pleasure to men serves only to frighten the fish when she jumps in the water.” ...and now my vandalism: A beautiful fish which gives pleasure to fishermen serves only to frighten the bicycle Whe...

Ah, That Girl with Wings I climb the stairs with what always seems like thousands of tourists wanting to see that painted girl who smiles They look for signs or ask guards and they search, only to stand in line for a short glance. I ascend the long wide staircase, the girl with the wings waits at the top, on the stone prow of her ancient ship where she has alighted to signify victory. She greets me and I know where I am From here I take a left and climb more stairs Then enter the gallery of massive canvases Gigantic Engines of Color My personal mission being to view Delacroix's freshly sparkling " Death of Sardanapalus", hence the detail. visit Sandy Kinnee.com