A close friend talks often about wanting to draw, but never does. She is afraid of making mistakes, expecting of herself some kind of perfection to which she can’t quite put words.
Running shoes, rhetoric, hyperbole and the dog with the human head
Legend holds that a creature patrols the graveyard. It is a bastard, described best as a dog with a human head. Imagine the body of a rust colored pit-bull, proudly carrying eight pounds of rugby ball-shaped evil on its shoulders, with one pound of face having been beaten into the head with a flail and mace.
Still life painting at 36 Via Fondazza
Giorgio Morandi was a modern master of the painted still life. He lived in Bologna, at 36 via Fondazza, from 1910 to 1964.
True creative genius
What matters is that rats the size of small dogs were strolling from pile to pile, across five lane avenues, with an impudence usually reserved for a Goldman Sachs partner.
"Sometimes you need to just lay on the sidewalk and bleed for a little bit"
The flow sculpts efficiently, precisely and permanently. It’s effortless. Not a finger raised. Not an endorphin earned.
Dozens of worn-out couches in a true art house
Every artist’s studio needs a comfortable place to sit that allows one to recline and contemplate the most recent creative actions taken — a well-worn sofa or an overstuffed armchair, perhaps.
Daft Punk Frida
Dalian nerve. Hypnotic birth. Danceable dildo. Plastic bhagwan. Slicker chunk. Rubber chocolate. Vinyl vodka. Detached syrup.
Eating cake in a cemetery
Cake is a weird thing to be eating in front of ten of thousands of souls
Mindfulness, meditation, a drum circle and the yellow doves of Mount Airy
A legend exists about three doves — remarkable bright yellow doves — that arrive following the departure of the last person to leave a burial.
That diner in Brighton
Two coffees arrived. Smile lines on the corner of big, bright white eyes. Leaning in, placing most of her weight on both elbows, her necklace scrabbling, she wanted to know everything.
Tibet via North Philadelphia
My gut tells me the signs are half art, half reminder and half hopeful introduction.
Bukowski is family
The fact that he wrote prolifically, with an uncommon blood alcohol level, begs an analysis of the benefit of a disconnection from sobriety.