Collage-a-Rama

In my high school years I got into collaging. I'm not artistic and looking back at these I could see where I fell short of making something good and instead created something barely mediocre. I loved fashion and models back then and the 90s offered so many inspirations in both. I would sit on my pink carpeted bedroom floor and spend hours cutting up magazines like YM, People, Vogue, Spin, and US, then get a big ole poster board and get to pasting together my "masterpiece." None are worth showing in their entirety but here are a view bits and pieces I still like.

Fillin' 'em in!

I love getting fill-in-the-blank books. The only problem is that I suck at completing them. Not no more! I've pulled all (gulp) sixteen of them from my bookshelves and I'm determined to finish them. Although it partly feels like homework, I am definitely up to the challenge and having fun while wracking (racking?) my brain for the responses. Flipping through Austin Kleon's Steal Like an Artist Journal I'd forgotten about the cute lil' cartoon I wrote up and coloured in. Check it out:

"Didn't there usta be a tree right here?" .... "Yeah, where'd it go?"
"Drats...no shade or trunk to lean against..." ... "How about we..."

"Good idea! This is comfy. But I'm hungry..." ... "Hey, I think I see a tin of cookies over there!"
"Don't tell me. I already know they aren't vegan..." ... "How dya know til ya tried 'em?!"

6 September 2002

The movement in your eyes
is like the sea after a squall
A black squall that ravishes
the waters and leaves them listless
Burying a thousand cries
in its infinite waves
Bringing solitude a new home
beside the wrecked vessel
of a lonely, insignificant woman.

I wrote this ages ago and I still think it's one of my better pieces.

Three Random Pieces

Eleven pages after the previous post's journal entry I found this scribbled in red:

The casualties keep coming; on gurneys, in the arms of a woman, from the back of an old Studebaker. I'm the only healer for miles and miles and no matter how many I repair and bandage and suture, for every one twelve more arrive with pleading eyes. It's chaos and mayhem and I cannot escape. ~28 Feb 2009

Five more pages from that, also in red:

Beside the campground, off in a dune, half buried sits an old player piano. I sit at the edge of my blue tent and listen. I hear the crackle of the campfire, the katie-dids in the distance and Byron's banjo. He plays off key and pulls stupid faces which draws laughter from his audience. They're trippin' on mushrooms and dancing and singing "Uncle John's Band". They feel like all the world is in love and at peace.
I pull a long, slow drag from my orange cigarette and continue to stare at the keys. I am at ease and feel totally content as I try not to try to hold onto this feeling. I try to accept it as here and now and as a part of this now and as time forces this moment into the past, I cherish that it passed by me. That's all I can ever hope for; to have been a part of something real and magical. ~4 March 2009

And sixteen pages after that, this time in blue:

He told me that my eyes were the colour of broken dreams. I liked that he said that because it was comforting and real and familiar. Then I remembered 6 weeks later that it was familiar because it was a line from a book from the 70s. I no longer liked it, suddenly I felt cheated. Like he wasn't saying it to make me feel that he saw a part of me that no one else noticed. It became an itch on Jeff's casted leg and made me see him differently. He morphed into an audience and I the clown. ~Spring 2009

Red Slippers

There's a dirt road.
It's wide. Wide enough for two carriages to pass side by side.
She walks with hesitation towards the trees ahead, one on either side of this sad, desolate path.
As she grows closer and closer he steps from behind the shorter of the two trees.
He is tall and faceless. White and finely dressed, clean and smiling. The girl is fearful of him yet cannot explain these feelings.
I am knee-deep in the marshlands of North Carolina. A French waiter with strong crow's feet brings Italian wine to the nonexistent table. He sees that I have blue eyes beneath my geeky frames. The girl from the road is in the boat. She is being taken advantage of. A man in the dark is sketching her features without her consent. She feels our eyes. I sink to my chest and feel the heavy clouds of pitch pass across the moon. My heart races as I scream a silent scream. I yell for Carlo.
A staircase in a broken house. It's Mr. Thomas' house. Keanu Reeves' construction boots are by the door. But he's out of town. I see the waiter walk past. I call out to him. His name is Gee, short for Guillaume. I become incredibly frustrated. Why won't people answer me? I pick up China plates and smash them to the floor. They clang but do not break and I become even more enraged. The green man calls me Rock Star and I pick up my blanket. The one with the unicorn. I hop scotch on the street with Lucy and tell her I love the boy from behind the tree. Lucy says I hate him and I agree. I run and get stuck in a bank door in Philly. Those spinning revolving doors. Around and around I continue. I wake myself up hearing me say "Big Ben, Parliament, Big Ben, Parliament, Big Ben, Parliament...."
what can it all mean?

(I wrote this several years ago and decided it was bizarre enough to post.)

The Dark Forest

In the midst of a dream I find myself wandering through a darkened wood. The moon is a fingernail clipping and we are in the autumn of the year. Stars fill the heavens as I feel the echoes of crinkling leaves and crunched pinecones beneath my feet.

There's a cremation of ashes swirling in the air, mixing with the smells of coffee and grief. The wind that sifts through the trees whisper stories that only I get to hear. I am approaching the clearing deep in the farthest reaches of The Dark Forest.

A soft, gentle voice speaks with the solemn rolling of the night clouds. It's dreamy weather and as twilight draws near, I awaken calling out for Alice.

(for blaine)

3.1.7

i wear glasses. like buddy holly.
i have a huge mouth. like billie holiday.
i am often filled with lots of hate. like adolf hitler.
i want to kill myself. like meriwether lewis.
i am silly. like no one else i know.
i will die childless. like gilda radner.

i am often prone to tantrums and shades of genius. like klaus kinski
i speak french. like sid vicious.
i have dull coloured eyes. like jim morrison.
i try very hard to be kind. like father damien.
i have many scars. like tupac shakur.
but mostly i have dreams. like martin luther king.

~lisa*

(Dug around in some old corners of my life and found this piece from way back when.)

Mother was wrong!

Back in college, Ray, Winnie, and I all took ceramics. I had made this as a gift for John Palumbo and after I dug out these fotos I got to wondering what's become of John, does he still have this ashtray in his office and mostly I wonder if he remembers me at all.
This ashtray was built at a time when I was obsessed with Anne Sexton and Laugh-In so I scrawled a quote from each into the ceramic ashtray and placed it in the kiln. Please forgive the shoddy photography - it was my first month working with a manual camera and the lighting at my parents is less than ideal at 2am.

Star, Artist in Residence

Sifting through some papers over the weekend I found some pictures that I had done last summer when I was hanging out with my cousin, Alina. I'm glad I saved this one, cause it's really kinda cute!

The Shoebox

In his home, under his grownup bed, there is a Buster Brown shoe box. Open the lid and one will discover a well loved brown teddy bear. The fur on its left ear is worn down completely and the navy blue button that acts as its left eye is held on by but a thread. There are postcards with airplanes, two buttons with anchors and dog tags from his childhood pet that say Jack London. Dig beyond the postcards and find random keys, an old Crayola crayon (Cadet Blue), a tack pin of a mushroom, plastic dinosaurs, and Hot Rod stickers. A lock of blonde hair tied with a small violet ribbon lays beside a picture of his mother laughing, leading me to believe it is a lock of her hair. At the very bottom of the shoe box is a page torn from a baby name book with Dominique circled, a wrist tag from a hospital's nursery, and a photograph of Chicago that is dated August 1937.

Veritas

Truth. It is something that we all seek. Truth in who we are, truth in life, in the very meaning of our existence, and the seeking of truth in all things we feel, know, and believe. It is one of the greatest desires mankind possesses and when trust is placed only to be abandoned, it leaves one in a state of betrayal and devastation that often times is beyond repair. In Roman Mythology the goddess of truth is Veritas. She is described as being so elusive that she resides in the depths of a holy well. Truth thus lies seemingly out of man's reach; but not entirely. The journey to truth is boundless and arduous, but nonetheless, a journey worth taking.

Christmas with The Marshalls

James, Davy, Mark and Susan O'Hennesshey, Janice, Deanna, & Bill Marshall; seated-Miriam Anderson, Betty, Ralph, & Elizabeth Marshall (photo by Harold O'Hennesshey)

Walking through the threshold of 1490 Fitzpatrick Street, the aroma of Janice's Casserole mixed with oak paneling and Ralph's pipe would whisk around you like leaves caught in the winds of late autumn. In that precise moment, you knew you were home and in for one spectacular meal. Betty & Ralph Marshall always hosted Christmas Day, just so long as Betty didn't have to lift a finger. Of course that always meant that Susan, their eldest, would take complete control of all things edible. Sister-in-law Janice was second in command and always seen buzzing about the kitchen, incessantly puffing away on her Pall Mall while directing daughters, Deanna & Lizbeth, on how to set the perfect table.

Betty, Ralph, and the grandchildren, Davy, James, Harold, Deanna & Lizbeth

In the den, Betty and Ralph were listening intently to their oldest grandson, Harold, tell of his recent trip to Ireland. Mark stood in the dining room with Bill as they both talked to James about his studies at the University of Pennsylvania. He just started classes in the fall and is on his way to becoming a successful architect. In the middle of this discussion, James gets dramatic and starts in on his Gary Cooper "Fountainhead" speech and has everyone howling out loud. Just as the laughter dies down, Susan decides to do her impression of Cary Grant in "Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House" and leaves everyone in a state of disbelief. She breaks up midway through while the men all applaud with Bill yelling, "Ladies and Gentlemen, my sister, Susan Beatrice." Mama Sue & Lil' Harold 

Dinnertime rolls around and everyone piles into the dining room. Ralph makes a toast in honor of all his many blessings: his wife of 54 years, their two children, Susan & William, their son and daughter-in-law, Mark & Janice, and their five wonderful grandchildren.

The meal is an absolute triumph and the conversation flows easily and lasts hours after all the food has been devoured. Each holiday season brings this tight knit family together for fabulous food, lots of laughter, and of course, unending amounts of love and thankfulness.

(A handful of years ago I was thrift shopping in Philly and bought an old mini photo album that contained these pictures. I instantly named them all and created a story about their family holiday together.)