TIFFANY WILL IS NUDE STUDY
CHARCOAL ON PAPER
16" X 20"
MARTIN KIMBLER
ACRYLIC ON CANVAS "WOMEN WITH FINE ASSES " 3'x3'9"
BETH AL BERTS
U MBILICUM SERIES "TwIN ORBS"
·DETAIL·
WE WERE GRACIOUSLY PERMITTED BY THE ARTIST TO REPRESENT THIS PIECE OF CERAMICS IN BLACK AND WHITE. IN THIS VIEW WE CAN SEE A PARADOX. MASTERY OF THE MEDIA ENABLES THE ARTIST TO SHOW A SIMPLE BEAUTY USING VERY COMPLEX TEXTURE. SHAPE. AND FORM.
DARREN BAKER "WOMAN"
GRAPHIC DESIGN
ADOBE PHOTOSHOP
7"X4.5"
DENNIS STEWART "OVOID"
12"X 19.5"X 3.5"
A TRIBUTE TO CLARENCE CARTER MIXED MEDIA
LANE RAISER
SWEET BLUE TAMYELLIG
I stay inside on windy. days. When the weeds growing from the eaves wave in the breeze and sunlight drips into the split curtains puddle on my wood flooring. My house is barren. Only the essentials. A place to sit, a place to read and recline. Cool blue throughout and fire red around exposed wood. My companion has hair, ambiguous, snipped short, with stale breath, cigarettes, and she peels her nail polish. No television. But there is electricity, pale blue sparks jump and rouse my spirit when she flips on some sad, thumping, pumped up rhythmic, motor-humming, drummed -out beat on my only sleek, stylish stereo system, black and cadaverous. I massage my temples and wait for the wind in the cracks to become drugged and sluggish.
It does so I st umbled to the Asian man squatting in the comer and remove the duct tape from his mouth. He opens his wretched toothy head and I simultaneously, with silver speed, shove a live parakeet I named Bill into his throat, re-tape, and proceed to lean in closely to his harnessed body. Place my ear on his Adams apple, and listen as his mute vocal cords wretch and convulse against my very flighty friend. Willie is being gummed to death most certainly but likewise the foreign gentleman is suffocating on feathered, fresh as you can get, birdie wings. His yellow jaundiced skin is cooling to blue and matching the interior nicely. I hear a tap of beak on teeth and move away from this display to see if he will swallow my very . lively $8.00 purchase or struggle and succumb to the ever enlarging, spittle picker upper that is an aqua marine flying machine. Man against beast. A bird in hand is no challenge, well what about in the molars. He "riked raw sushi" and very much would "rike" to try raw fowl. My girl dances on and stares steely eyes at a cornered, tethered, kneeling, and feat hered mouth man. He sweats so much and swallows unsuccessfully, slouching toward oblivion and eyes roll flour white as if they might escape to dangle, orbs on fleshy strings . But he just pitches sideways and the mass in his taped orifice throbs and continues its airless resistance.
THIS REALLY HAPPENED DINKThOUT
Jerp: I need a chicken McNugget
Happy Meal with an orange drink.
Mcdrive -upbox: Is it for a boy or a girl?
Jerp: What the hell? Why does it matter? I just want to feed my spawn.
McBox: Sir, we have girls' toys and boys' toys for the Happy Meals.
Jerp: Wha? Why? Why can't they all have the same? Look I don't care, you pick for me.
McBox: I'm sorry sir I can't do that, you must decide .
Jerp: What in the ... ? I just want the nuggets, the fries. We don't need your girl and boy toys.
McBox : Would you like to just order a 5 piece and fries with a kids drink? It would be cheaper.
Jerp: Do I get the cool box?
McBox: Well, no sir. But you get an extra nugget and it is cheaper. And there is no toy.
Jerp: So the only way to get the box, is if I choose a toy?
McBox: I guess sir. I could get my manager to see if we can remove the toy?
Jerp: Oh lord, I'm sorry. We don't need to go to the trouble, I'll just choose. I'm sorry I'm being difficult .
McBox: It's okay si-
Jerp: Just give me the one with the pem s.
McBox: I'm sorry sir?
Jerp: The one with the penis (lean forward) JUST GIVE ME THE ONE WITH THE PENIS! (other people now stare)
McBox: Sir please drive thru (pull up to the payment window)
Jerp: What's the difference in the toy?
McBox: (nearly trembling) One is a Transformer, the other is Hello Kitty.
Jerp: Oh yeah, gimme the Hello Kitty. Damn why didn't you just say Hello Kitty in the beginning?
McBox: I-
Molly: (giggling happily) Hellooo Keeeeettttttiieeee!
We pull up and get our food. I look into the store to see many customers looking at me with their mouths in a perfect McEgg shape .
The employees are either hiding or standing, holding their sides, faces the exact color of beets. It seems "JUST GIVE ME THE ONE WITH THE PENIS!" had just boomed into the facility like a voice from god. One day, my daughter will appreciate this humor. (drive away)
Jerp: Molly, you want your numb numbs?
Molly: *NO*
Jerp: But I thought you were hungry, you said you wanted numb numbs.
Molly: *no no no no* (into a little song) ~no no no nnnnnoooo no no~ (followed by a very advanced and well-practiced finger to lip wiggl e)
Jerp: Oh, karma, you wicked little vigi l ante.
Molly: *beedle beedle beedle*
JENNY RUDMANN
"TANG IBLE "
ACRYLIC ON CANVAS 3'x2'
IN THIS BED
JACOB RAKOVAN
deep is the well I'll drink to drown your face thrice drowned already and dried salted away in the cellars of my memory
I'll suck this bottle as I could never suck the bitterness from your soul or quench the taste of the dust of you in my mouth
all the shallow stagnant years of lost loves and broken pride and parading your mouldering corpse on my arm are dead my love as you are dead, and sleeping as I am sleeping that is to say, not at all
bruised dreams turn green before they heal as though verdant fields effaced the waste as though broken love's shattered fragments could be made seeds instead of shards and ashes
You've been my nightmare these sleepless nights
it would take a life of sleeping
To unravel the dream I have built of you and still I awake at night with you fastened on my neck
Eyes which were once my gems turned to stones dully gleaming over me six feet of your eyes between me and the sun
And I lie here in state
Without the benefit of a single wreath
I find a dead man's bitterness loses its venom mellows as he lies ripe on the ground, or in it as the wasps crawl over what remains of sweetness. And yet it is not fit for tasting
you're invisible, you dare to stare at me from this blank ceiling
To remove your mask, grin through teeth like broken windows
Paper hands and rope for hair
Dust and memories a dry husk seeing visions in this barren bed the flies punctuate the ceiling above my eyes, an ellipsis
The puppeteer's bruised anns, Hang crucified on the marionette's controls
Breathe life in this dead wood with a word
And watch me jerk to life
"How was your three days in the tomb?"
They'll ask me
" I did not sleep well," I will reply
Rip me from my wires and crack my husk
You may find a dead man you may find a fountain to wash away
All that is left of us.
We traded the harness, a double tree, for a young mule 'green broke and a nice animal' with a fellow who raised mules and was working a matched pair of beautiful 4 year-olds with hand-me-down raw-hide traces. We traded the young mule for an older mule, half a mismatched pair. We traded the older mule, a hard working Hinny (the backwards cross, a Jenny and a stallion, the female sterile hybrid) with many years still in her future, for a springing Holstein heifer. A real dairy animal, high production, low butterfat, she'll milk three gallons a day in her first lactation. We traded her to the Pocahantas School System (I went to school there for a little while, when Dad was shipped-over and we stayed with kin for 90 days during the school year) where one of the teachers milked everyday for lunch milk in the two-room school. They had a lovely Jersey cow, but she didn't milk enough for the student body. She's what we've been after the whole time. She's in full milk and it isn't enough and it's school vacation.
They want the Holstein, who should come into milk just in time for the school-year. The Jersey is a sweetheart, gentled to hand milking, used to kids, them big eyes. We load her in the small stock trailer and I climb the side to reach over and scratch behind her ears. An alto lowing. Co Bossie, com da say. It's late afternoon by now, this lady needs milking. Tom gets in the truck, motions me in, we're off.
I know he and Grandma already have a cow, another Jersey, and all the milk they want to deal with. And sure enough, we drive right
through town, past Tom's holding pens; over the tracks. And on the long slow grade, he kills the engine and coasts, as he always does. We pull in at the Simpson Place (places in the country always retain the name of someone long gone). I know he owns it, one of a dozen or more places he's taken in trade and I've heard Myrtle complaining that the tenants haven't paid a dollar in rent for months. Tom says, 'These folk are on hard times, their little girl needs milk'.
We unload the Jersey before they can get outside. The place has a good pen and small barn. While I'm putting the cow in a stall, Tom gets a sack of com out of the truck. He comes in the barn with Harold, the tenant.
Harold's wife and little girl are at the barn door, big-eyed as the cow. 'Now be sure you strip her out good at every milking. Feed her just enough com to keep her head down. She'll do fine on graze. I might bring over a dry yearling to keep her company. We'll breed 'em in a month or two'. 'Mister Cobb, I don't know what to say... '
And we're off. On the way home Tom has a big grin on his face. Before we turn in the drive he turns to me, 'Don't mention this to your grandmother."
Kisses are swept under the rug along with my checkers and rice patty. My love seems to be the archangel
He tap dances to the hollow rhythms of my integrity. My grandfather, the bagpipe player, tells me not to play with scissors, so I whisper into Father's ear.
Jesus tells me to hush so I watch Lucifer push Mary from the monkeybars. Grandpa's steady rocking chair hums to a hymn from my soul that tells me I'm all grown up. My cradleboard is crooked and my papoose has an uncalmly solemness to herself tonight that tends to be unsettling. I cautiously whisper, on my tiptoes, into God's ear My pigtails fall behind my back and again, Jesus silences me.
ALLY CHAPMAN
So today she tried to write a story, The kind with characters like Tori Spelling, Who was on that one show. She's spilling her guts like 150 cats running out of one room, and that room is a closet, and she's locked inside. Not like she's gay, but sort of, you know? Like she has yellow shoes, Maybe the high-top Reebok kind, and she's strange.
· Not normal strange like with horns and a tail, but odd strange like David Duke or Billy Graham. There's something there, but it's dark, and she keeps hitting her head. She cries these tears that make her head ache, and she rips her clothes,
· Because that's the only thing to do. Somebody's knocking, ready to do the secret hand shake, but she can't thumb wrestle her way out of this jam. She sits down and tells her arms she'll try not to hate them as much as she has, But they don't believe her, and neither does she.
COMING BACK BARB COSTAS
We thought we'd move there, car packed to the ceiling ~ith odd things small things we thought we needed.
Through West Virginia, Maryland and New Jersey looking for the lights of an island bad maps in our hands
and my underarms sweating at the idea of the big place, saying hello and goodbye all in the same breath and too quickly for the good of anybody, really. You, me and who we left
(briefly, but we learned things that we needed to learn, and it didn't sting, the coming back, like I was scared it would.)
I fell in love with it all, too quickly and you saw me eaten by notions and what it should have been.
The constant to-do's, we can go here and there all the time, I saw Joni Mitchell like a dream, I like a place that can give me that.
You weren't solid, but you were clear, a tangled safety net, and I was like a child or a dog, confused by what things really can be.
We are back, I am holed up, and I remember the lights, the view from high places, the rocking trains underground.
Finally, we are back, with a new couch, bed, comforts, closet space, clear heads, and I'll say I remember
for a long while to come, like I remember other brief things; with passion and the clarity of lessons learned.
A SMALL OCCURRENCE IN WYOMING
BOBBY MCDONIE
Sucking color from the sky
Night unpacks its belongings
I am left frozen
Wondering
My hands full of empty answers
Dust rolls over the Scarecrow's body as he vomits up His last thoughts
Attached to a tree, Still standing
Rolling His head toward Heaven
Convulsing, ScreJlming, Crying
Reverberating in my brain
This bloody pile of skin produces no human sound but he was human is human
And I know His thoughts
His squirming hands Pump the message through my blood
So this is how life ends for me And this is how I'm
Measured
Sent to Earth to live as a Human
Yes, I am a different Man;
My message, my being, I scare the world
But I've lived as a Human Like You.
As they finish killing Him
I know now that he was a human Betrayed by Man .
And when they are finished, I close my eyes and see Jesus
Nailed to a cross
On a hill
There's a mob
A mother Mary with no face
And this other shrouded figure
I ponder this all in my heart.
When I open my eyes
The mob has melted into weeds
Mary and her companion look more like Two flannel-shirted boys
Walking, Running, Flying Away
The cross is more like a fencepost
The nails are more like string
And the hill is more like Some prairie out West
I know I've seen before
I walk away
Wondering
When He will rise from the dead.
A FIRE IN THE DESERT BRIAN J. OVERMAN
Born lightning under cosmic comet constellations
Born a tiger, and where has it gone?
Bocn a dreamer, a stargazer, a stranger.
And like lightning I flash against the cosmic highway
In a cosmic comet cadillac,
Roaring like a tiger in the hollow desert night
Dreaming dreams of freedom and fame
Gazing at a horizon of stars that are all mine
On my way to California
To become the stranger that I am (to myself)
And there is pin prick blood drop love lost And sour sarcasm impedes glory in us all (especially assholes like myself)
And I've tried it
Drug induced hypnotized, lost and insane
And I've tried it
Ruthless club owner, big cheese bullshit
And I've tried it
Cross-country perversion, running saying good-bye
And I've succeeded at all of it
And realized its worth is hallucination
So from crimson trickle to capacious flow
It's pin prick blood drop love lost
Empty heart, sin-filled soul, poetry unto death, Sick and sad
My muse is confusion
Oh, how I can pour pain into paper
The desert is beautiful, As beautiful as any woman And equally cold at night, So what have I lost?
You can't kiss warm sand.
COLORED REALITIES TAM YELLIG
1srDREAM
Burnt orange and blinking eyes in night skies. The stars burned into my psyche and I awoke. I do not know this dream well enough. I am above all of the graying timbers in a smoking, gutted wasteland. Below charred fir-trees belch gloomy and skeletal. A wind brings stinging cinders to my eyes. I search and find three small children covered with ash and mouth the words that for me are muffled.
They sear my soul for their eyes are black and teeth like coals, yet smiling blistered lips seem to suggest they're having a blast, so I grin back. Their heads are bald and cracked. I know two of them are no more than seven and the largest, a girl laughs like a slowed record. The boy is clad in pajama bottoms. He kicks up his heels and the soft powdery smface they all trot upon plumes like some great mushroom releasing its spores.
I fall from my perch to the forest floor and land head down, jaw first into this chalky tasting powder keg and my jaw crunches from the impact When I push up off of the floured floor, my jaw stays where it hit imbedded l~ly and my tongue now wags against my neck. No blood, no pain, and I am pale sitting on my knees. The kids jump over me. The littlest, a girl in a dirty white dress, grabs my jaw from the ground and runs toward a smoking stump where she slowly eats my teeth like the last few bites off of a watermelon rind.
2ND DREAM
I awoke to a dream of motor oil on pumpkin colored horns; the horns of a buffalo, small compared to the shaggy haired beast gazing glassy eyed down at my head. I can feel his mass and heat hovering above my bare legs and a snout that resembles a wet black eraser snorts snot and flies. This animal straddles me. As if I stepped on a zip-lock bag of vegetable soup, his weight could crush me. I peer into those globes of reflection and see my own eyes and outline of my body. Then the oil begins.
The consistency of motor oil, it is warm leaking from his belly on my bare skin and I realize with astonishment this monster is melting.
Wild with fear, the buffalo looks on as it's hairy kinky fur slides slowly off of its brow into my face and his legs rooted become bare, revealing pink skinny poles. I am covered in oily buffalo shag and smothering, but I dare not make sudden movements if I value my existence.
The scene now must resemble a man covered by a huge black glistening blanket, sleeping under a table shaped like a smooth buffalo. I feel the shape move away from over top of me and I listen to the padding of hooves become more distant. I rise, letting hair fall, and feel the heat dissipate as a cool breeze blows much of the residuals away. I look after the pink oozing hulk as it plods toward the horizon, melting, and I look at the buffalo trail.
BOB SPELLED WITH Two O's
He hides behind the blue tiled counter knowing the bell will sound. Oil, gas, he wonders as he sits indian style rubbing his knees with bloated fingers that look like dirty sausage links. The finger nails are layered dirt, cheetos, more dirt and he decides that gingerly licking the crumbs off of his coveralls would be divine. Little Debbie looks down on "HAL" the mechanic with grinning idiocy.
He constantly caresses the cardboard cutouts that attract his manhood, tipping back his greasy cap to smooch their innocent, intoxicating faces. No one sees him like this. He jingles his pockets that are full of change and smells the floor where a nice lady stood two hours earlier asking to buy a pack of cigarettes. "Nasty habit" he mutters taking off his shoes and socks so he can bite his toenails.
I peeps two little honeys an' s00te dude with a feather boo. On~ of the girls is in black vinyl pants, some metal and -1iit: The u e • weari~ jeans and a baby doll tee shirt that ~ys "hitch." I don't thin I sots to go further. She is a hotty. Pretty smile and ad ll glaze that . er am jhe's rollin'. I take a long hard look. Her nipples are r t on' her perf~ half o~nges sha~ breasts. Oh, she got some track marks. Gtld. T i broad will be bhlce to pun if I score a little smack. I gots to find my d ler, . Thl!!ee hundred and fi l is worth getting this dumb bitch on my j · . ~-' 1011. OOll.S, I t· a little stiffy from thinkin' 'bout it. Cots ta' chill and be ~•mmltmooooolfflvvvv.
"Yo, you gots some jun , an' ah po, clwg?" ~Wha?''
"Bitch, doi't front. I know you gots the hl>k up, I ain't ni,i'l.a.J'Ci shit."
'4.(ight, aifit, doQ'~trip, I can hook you u_. How muc~ou w t1t ?'·
~ee fitt7, yo. I may have to bang four Jteps, so ho</ me up dawg." 'Gimme fi ' minutes and meet me in the laffroom."
I turn aroun d and see ..bitch" jigglin' righli.n my fac e. b, 1i she right i~ frm!ll o' me. She compliments _my ~lisil job and I fiank aer. · 1 moves a little closet and we start to dance. Damn. I got no rhythm, I'm gonna have to l freak-4icious to play it off. I look L I see a crooked smile perched right below her 'i:lull, _milk~ aaze. This is i;oing l:> be easier than I thought. I think she retmtled, ltoned, t som l hfr . The song fini$hes and we walk over to ~r friends at the back comer.
Dude ¥ril' ' hf' boa -,, :,;; me a big smile as he looks me over. Damn, Irish he was lrearin' the Jlch shirt Lmiigh L Oh well, the chick came up to me, jt1l an easier kill on her. lft>be I'll be nice to her and get some lideline ass l ler. tl1 metal l.-a cij.ick go($ to the bat to get us some drinks and I excuse myt-Jf' to go to the UL_a:......._ " I.JIWIUUm.
J head to tfie p· and find my; hook up. We ~change procbi,tjl lh last stall quickly and I boun<Wback to the table gleefully. I ean't stand ul.,}1 , booms. The smell of the c<l"Ohinelllaan-musW makes me ill if I stay_- too lon , Thf/y, t a lolli island i<\e tea paiti!}g for me as. I return. . .
We &.it cfiat aboyit some dumb shit I clop even care abotf. I under the I~arld gra} a han dful of thigh as 'We move on to the inevitable ' e time I was eoo {udked pp ... " s#ries. She seems to like the stimulation, too e~. By thJ 1 th "fuck~ uf~i story, she's wigglin' like a worm in my I propotie group that we go to my house to listen to a new CD and little ,mack. '.fhey hungrily agp!e.
We head back to tny IJl.d and c a little food and some junk. We ~it in front of the television for the nkt twu hou m. a •ze. Well. they, 0o, I didn't shoot with them; Mterfucke~ pm got HIV or.somethi;i.g. Fuel th4 shit.
JEREMY WELLS
Captivity
even the voluntary kind has a way of making you crazy so that when you're finally free you don't how to act and go a little nuts
and do things like burst into the door waving cap-guns in the air and screaming "everyone rest your tongues comfortably against your palate"
because I finally got up the nerve to ask someone out and even faux artsy £artsy wannabe girl turned me down
talk about a kick in the teeth
makes me think that
life is like a game of pin the tail on the donkey and only the guy who peeks has a chance in hell of ever getting anywhere near sticking it where it belongs
STEVE SKAGGS
ARTIST 'S STATEMENT
IN 1984, WHEN I MET STEVE, HE WAS JUST COMING OUT OF ART SCHOOL. EVEN THEN HE WAS A HIGHLY-SKILLED PAINTER. WHEN I THINK BACK, WHAT COMES TO MIND IS STEVE'S PAINTBRUSH IN HAND, WORKING ON HIS SELF-PORTRAIT. THE PIECE DISPLAYED SO MUCH ENERGY AND SKILL. IT MADE QUITE AN IMPRESSION ON ME. AS STEVE'S PAINTINGS BECAME MORE COMPLEX HE PRESERVED THIS "IT" FACTOR IN HIS WORKS ON CANVAS. THE "IT" FACTOR IS WHEN ALL PARTS OF THE ARTISTIC PROCESS COME TOGETHER SIMULTANEOUSLY. IT IS VERY SIMILAR TO YIN YANG AND EVENT HORIZON.
OVER THE YEARS I HAVE TAUGHT MANY ART STUDENTS AND NONE HAVE HAD THE INTEGRITY OF STEVE'S PAINTINGS. JOKINGLY, I WOULD TEASE STEVE ABOUT HIS PAINTING OVER PAINTINGS AND NOT HAVING A LARGE BODY OF WORK TO SHOW FOR HIS HARD EFFORTS. YET HE WAS SELDOM COMPLETELY SATISFIED WITH HIS PAINTINGS, WHICH ILLUSTRATED TO ME THAT HE HAD HIGH STANDARDS FOR HIS WORK. ANOTHER RARE ASPECT ABOUT STEVE'S PAINTINGS WAS HE ALWAYS WORKED FROM LIFE. IN OUR FAST-PACED SOCIETY IT IS EXCEPTIONAL TO SEE AN ART STUDENT TAKE TIME TO WORK FROM LIVE MODELS AND ILLUSTRATE AN ACTUAL LIKENESS THE WAY STEVE DID. TO SUM UP STEVE SKAGGS AS AN ART STUDENT AND PAINTER I WOULD HAVE TO SAY I WISH THERE WERE MORE LIKE HIM. THANK YOU STEVE.
TODD REYNOLDS
Hello, Assassin!
LETTER 1
Good afternoon,
And hello, how's your day going? Wasn't this past Sunday (the 5th) a perfect day? Well today's only Friday night, but I heard on the radio that it's going to be a perfect day.
So, are classes going good, how's the old homework going? I know, time flies much too high, much too high. I received your letter today, Friday (3rd) and looked over your work. I like it. I think I like "Messiah" most of all, it's very correct. ''The songs of nature will sing and seasons will change." The 2nd line carries a bite of truth with it, but you never know, there may still be hope for us yet, if we don't blow ourselves up first. Hope I interpreted it right. Think so.
The sketch of the girl with her eyes closed and head tilted back is nice. Start looking at the many plains of the face though. When you did the face you easily rendered the eyebrows and eye lashes with a couple swashes of the pen, but then you tried to draw in every hair on her head. Go look in the middle, normal distance away from it, now look, you don't see each hair, do you. What you see are some value changes of areas of the hair, right. Maybe you see a few single hairs over the ears or over the forehead, but don't worry, even here many students were driving the instructors crazy by doing the same thing. Well enough shop talk, right. (yep)
Flip, now don't you try and weasel out of this one, when did you write that letter? A month ago, right? The part about Janet just coming home for three weeks was what did you in. Now how about taking half and hour, thirty minutes, and write a current letter, a currently long letter.
Want to hear something crazy. There's this game people in the dorm have been playing lately. It's called Assassin or KiUer. It's where you get a contract to kill someone, while someone else has a contract to kill you. You never know who's after you, so everyone gets really paranoid. The first game started Monday. As the signal to start, The David Letterman Show was designated.
A friend of mine, Andreas, was unlucky enough to have been the first one killed, just two minutes into the show.
Andreas and I were on the first floor hall talking when Marla came up and started talking to us, then suddenly she bent over and gave him a kiss, " A kiss of death." Andreas wasn't even sure what happened till he'd already been killed. Myself, I was about the twentieth one to be killed out of 52 starters. That next morning while I was still asleep, some dude got into our room by tricking my roommate into looking for some tin foil, and when he went to look for it, he stormed into my room, shot me, then woke me up and told me I was dead. I had hoped it was a bad dream, but I was dead. But in a way I received some revenge. The next night this same guy, Bob, was outside the dorm stalking someone when a police car came by. They saw his gun and thought it was real. They got out and yelled over to him, but he hadn't seen them pull up, and when he turned he was holding his toy gun pointing right at them. They freaked, but gladly they didn't shoot. But they apprehended him and put the cuffs on him. He told them what was going on and they brought him to the dorm and talked to the resident manager, a lady about 40 or so. She told them the same and they let him go. The resident manager is pretty cool, she was playing too, till Bob, the guy she had just saved from the cops, got his handcuffs taken off, and turned to her, said thanks for telling the cops to let me go, then he promptly shot her. You see, he had her contract. I just found out the game ended about an hour ago, the last two guys had been stalking each other for two days, they decided to split the 52 dollars winnings. Now a new game stars Monday, same time. One of the guys who won was the guy I had a contract for at the first of the game. I came close to getting him too before I was killed You see, I found out he worked about 6 blocks down the road at a Kentucky Fried Chicken, he had to close that night and didn't get off until 1:30 a.m. So around 1:00 a.m. I. went to a comer about one block down from it and waited for him to walk up to me. He didn't know me so I knew it'd be easy. But I found out tonight that that night his brother had come into town and his brother drove him home. He didn't know how close he'd come till tonight when I told him about it. I at least hope I get the chance to make use of the Zebra II gun I bought for $2 and get to kill someone.
Well, it's a quarter till 6 a.m. I have to work at eleven. Now the question. Should I crash and ge a few hours sleep? Pause. Yes. So, I'll see ya later. By the way, of the last 3 days I've gotten about 7 or 8 hours sleep. So imagine, if you can, why I don't put this pen down.
steve
Starving Artist
LETTER 3
Hi Flip,
Time's getting higher and higher. It's around 5:30 a.m. Sunday night (Monday morning) Only 3 hours till classes begin. So sorry I didn't get to you earlier, you know how it is. I've been pretty busy. Though I still have a lot to do . I suppose there's always work to do.
One of the paintings I did today turned out damn good. Well, I'm the only one here, so I'll say it myself. I only hope the instructor likes it. It's an abstraction of (part eight) a cocktail lounge.
Can't wait till after lettering class, I can eat. Haven't eaten since Saturday's breakfast, eggs and bacon. Except for junk stuff from the machines downstairs.
steve
"So many colors in the rainbow ... "
LmER4
Well, better start doing the lettering. I think I will do ''The flowers are Red," from a Harry Chapin song that goes something like this " the flowers are red, young man, and green leaves are green; and that's the way it should be. There's no use in seei ng things, than the way they always been seen." It's a good song about a little boy in grade school. He goes to school one day and starts to paint a picture of a flower, but he's using all different kinds of colors. The teacher doesn't like it, she says to him the lines above, which start out. ''The flowers are red ... " Well, the kid doesn't agree and replies, ''There are so many colors in the rainbow, so many colors in the sun, so many colors in the flowers, and I see every one." Well, she says he's trying to be sassy. After a long time of this she sits him in a corner until he cooperates. Well, he gets lonely and comes from the corner and tells her, " Flowers are red and green leaves are green ... " Then his family moves and he goes to a new school, and he's painting red flowers and green leaves and the new teacher comes up to him and says " there are so many colors in the rainbow, and so many colors in the sun, so many colors in the flower, and you should use every one."
Next week I may try and use a line from "Messiah" if I can make it work with the assignment. Better get my tea and start working. By for now.
steve
Technique
LETTERS
Good morning. Time: 9:15 a.m. Place: Lettering class.
I'm waiting for my turn. Instead of him telling everybody at once that everybody's stuff stinks (as usual) for some reason he's tellling us one by one that it stinks. I didn't think mine was too bad, when I did It, but I was in such a hurry to finish it and get to class that when I wrapped it the acetate smeared the still wet paint. But I'm saved, he 's not going to collect them this week, instead he's going to give them back to do over, won't that be fun? Yeah, sure it will. Can you say "yippie," sure you can.
Hey, brother, it's been a long day, a long yesterday and today. After lettering class thi s morning I went to the bank (I have banks) took me 20 minutes to straighten out some stupid mistake they did on my time card. The lady kept saying, "from our rec ords, there's nothing wrong with your card, you must not have entered the correct numbers . .. " Crap, I knew there must have been something wrong with their s tupid computer, their machine, I hate machines too, but they're too s tubborn, they won't even listen. Finally I told her, look lady, pick up your phone and call the main branch which has access to the computer files and give them my card number and they'll find the problem. So she did and they found out that the stupid machine had listed my card number in with the wrong status, I have a sav ings account and it filed me as having a checking account. They said it'd take 3-4 days to get to it. Well the whole thing made me 15 minutes late for color class. Though, now I wished I hadn't gone. You see, one of my paintings caused him to lec ture an extra 20 minutes. Not that he didn't like it, yet because I'd abstracted it quite a bit, possibly a bit too much for this particular step. You see, we're working on a te n-step problem, and it starts off realistic and is gradually supposed to get more and more abstract till# 10 ends up a totally new and different image. Well, I had the nerve or stupidity to ask if I began abstracting too early. This question started a whole series of questions about non -objective art; I'm not sure why I even did ab s tract so much, but when I was doing it I just sort of had this idea in my head so I did it. He talked 20 minutes on it, holding it up in front of the class, and I'm still not sure if it was good or bad, I'll find out when we pick ' em up tomorrow.
After structural class I went over to the painting studio, and sat in on a junior/senior figure drawing class for an hour or so just for the practice . I haven't been havi ng much luck at getting girls to come back to my room and strip while I draw them. (ha ha ha ho ho ho.) steve
THAD KELLSTADT "COFFEE" OJLON
BOARD
