This image is from a new series of drawings called Notes to Self, abstractions of written language meant to illustrate the fallibility of communication and our penchant for misinterpretation. The new work is largely rooted in post-it notes and random writings flung about my life, some serving as reminders while others are trigger phrases I’m trying to purge from myself due to deleterious effects on my psyche. Sounds fun, right? You’ll find more in the Notes to Self gallery (or from the IMAGES tab above).
Ladies and gentlemen and all the rest of you:
I’ll be at Pitchspork this weekend – July 17th through the 19th in Chicago’s lovely Union Park – selling fifty new test tube drawings. And then storming various stages to illustrate what a rock star I am. Come say hello. I’ll be in the artists coterie. Which is a fancy word for “inner circle,” though you may rest assured that if there are circles at all, I am far from in them.
A couple of these new drawings – all measuring about four by six inches – are below for your art viewing enjoyment, while more will be added to the test tube gallery in the nearish future.
The following drawings were inspired by Jonathan Lethem’s short story The Collector. See more images and find information about this illustration project by selecting The Collector and its subsequent galleries via the Images menu above.
Feed one kind and starve another
12 x 36 marker on paper
What I find depressing is that you can pay to have your filthy name put on a star or a crater on the moon that never did anything to hurt you in the first place, never so much as glanced in your direction.
12 x 20 marker on paper
The boxes in which they were stored accumulated crumbs in the corners, evidence of dissolution, of the shells’ complicity with stardust, with the antihuman ebb of entropy. One day on a visit to his grandparents’ neighbor he spotted on a coffee table a hideous decorative clock from Florida ornamented with affixed shells, several valuable specimens possibly ruined with clumps of glue and glitter. Shells grew, he understood now. They were clocks themselves. They lurked in fathomless beds of frond and mud, were exuded in octopus and shark shit.
(Finding only crumbs in the corners, he licks meaning from the air before fluttering out of focus entirely, a waver in light and space with a whispering voice made yet of sharp edges.)
12 x 20 marker on paper