Beauty Grit

I didn't know what to expect exactly. My first response was a gasp followed by the obligatory OMG. The grandeur of the chimneys stake their claim in a final swansong rising out of a mangled pile of dated cheap furniture, flannel shirts on plastic hangers, and a crack house mattress placed gently atop the debris. Evidence of daily life remains in what feels like a doll house with its backside blown off to access the living quarters so you can rearrange the furniture to your liking. The mansion was opened for tours once a year on Halloween. I had planned on going this year. I'm sorry to say I think I would have been sorely disappointed. As I pressed my nose to an available window, I saw a sad story of an unappreciated house artlessly wearing decor that was dated and inexpensive. There were a few interesting pieces placed without a sense of their beauty against waterlogged walls. These homes were built when craftsmen took pride in their work and the owner had the money to support their ideals. I'd love to document their painstaking efforts that resulted in the massive limestone fireplaces flanked by the original sconces that were clearly visible but inaccessible. Ultimately this scene breaks my heart. As much as we'd like to subscribe to a religion of permanence, everything passes into nothingness. There is no point in waiting to enjoy a thing of beauty, tell someone you love them, stop and help, go on an adventure, pursue a dream. These opportunities will pass and never come again. One of my biggest fears is to be a big talker and never go anywhere. Just shut the hell up and go do it. Then post the pics on Facebook.

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http://www.kimfay.sitesofourown.com/ for all the pics from this shoot. Special thanks to Officer Upshaw and the Lathrup Police Department for making this possible.

Waiting

ramona received approval for police escort into the recently burned Louise Lathrup Mansion scheduled for Sunday. She's pretty excited. The historical mansion was struck by lightening last week and due to the state of disrepair the home was already in, firefighters were unable to readily access the home. They were relegated to park in neighboring driveways delaying their ability to save the building. Only a few artifacts were recovered; some paintings and documents. There have been a few treasure seekers skulking about looking for the score, but were all arrested. Good thing for ramona, she has her own personal Jesus on the Lathrup Village police force that generously agreed to allow her access. I think her escort's partner thinks she's a bit of a nut, but that only verifies a policeman's instincts to be accurate.

I seem to have abandoned the paintbrush. This entire process appears to be about finding my voice again. Now that I'm out of the tunnel and living in the light for a bit, I am using this opportunity to explore. Mostly to have some fun. I've been painting to satisfy others for so long I forgot what it feels like to just run it out there, see what happens. Even if it sucks, it's in the doing where I find my soul. I expect this to translate back to the paintings and I have some ideas percolating in there. Not ready to pick the brush back up just yet and since the images are still rather nebulous, I'll wait until they are in a more concrete form. We'll see what this shoot in the mansion produces. I'm very interested in its blackened former glory. Good scars tell great stories. Hope there's one here.

ramona Goes House Hunting

I've always had a fascination with homes in Palmer Woods, Boston-Edison and Arden Park. In Detroit's heyday, these neighborhoods were where the money lived. I've had the pleasure of painting in several of these homes and admire the care and unparalleled craftsmanship that went into them. Marble, limestone, iron imported from Europe. Picture-frame panelling in stocked libraries. Artists who left their mark in decorative embellishments on the woodwork. Plaster work that no one can afford anymore. Detroit's signature Pewabic tile. I drove by Berry Gordy's old residence where he auditioned Michael Jackson. And the Vernor estate that boasted spigots delivering hot and cold ginger ale. Most of these homes are occupied and well cared for. The property taxes and our one state Depression has, however, made room for abandonment and decay to infect these exclusive neighborhoods. Under the collapsing porches and boarded windows is the whisper of its former grandeur. I do see beauty in the disintegration, but there is still plenty of polished beauty and ramona is interested in investigating those images as well.

Little Green Chair

I have to concede to public opinion. I love making abstracts, but most viewers have a tough time grasping them. It seems it's the chairs that have the strongest appeal. I do enjoy making these and the fact that the first painting came from a dream is rather romantic. I need to get on larger canvas and really invest in this image. I like the small whimsical thoughts on board, but I'd like to see how they develop when I have a larger space to contend with. I want to continue to explore contrasting colors. I've always admired the way VanGogh and Gauguin used this palette without bludgeoning you over the head with it. Despite a very unsubtle personality, I'll see if I can't exercise some restraint while painting and produce something quietly provocative.

Cecily Brown Isn't Getting Laid

Ramona. I decided on Ramona. Saucy chutzpah that doesn't need a last name. Female artists seem to require this attribute to even get noticed. Of course, upon recognition, it is also required to keep it up. A recent review of Cecily Brown's Gagosian exhibition illustrates the point. Where is the high-voltage sexiness? The pornographic pileups? Her paintings still contain the frenzied slashes of paint layered into tactile flesh. But it appears the reviewer was disappointed at the absence of splayed thighs, breasts, penises et cetera. Is it possible for an artist to evolve to a new place and still retain the attention previously bestowed? Maybe the work represents where she is now. I think it's just as valuable. I have my periods of overt sexuality, but I can't sustain it. The expectation that Cecily Brown, Tracey Emin and other artists like us can be bad all the time is impossible to accomplish. And in the end is it real? If the art doesn't contain her soul and it's all for spectacle it will eventually perish. Yet, without the spectacle, say, of a woman flagrantly expressing her sexuality which still surprises the resiliently puritanical audience, she doesn't get a show. Then I see a review of a show by Lee Jung-Woong, whose paintings look like spills I make when I'm house painting, but are described as technically adroit. Are you bloody kidding me? Ok, I may be experiencing a little sting from Agora's gracious rejection yesterday, but seriously? I've decided that no one knows what the hell they're talking about. I don't know who they're all trying to impress, but I'd like to see a critic really speak their mind. Who's got the balls to unmask Lee Jung-Woong for the house painter he is? As much as I resent still skulking about in obscurity, I am committed to making a good picture. I am compelled to live the life I was designed to live. After many years of capitulating to social parameters and hating it, finally rejecting all of it and finding peace within myself, I sure as hell am not going to concede now. I may not get my NY show, but maybe I can make it to the show as a collector. Or that mouthy critic. I'm not afraid of you. What can you possibly do to me that hasn't already been done? Do your worst, bitches. I'll still tell you what I really think.

Get Me Outta Here!

I absolutely LOVE interior design. The cover of the March Arch Digest issue is a room I'd love to live in. I can be easily busted sneaking peeks in your home if I've never been there before. I don't know what has happened, but there is a definite shift in attitude these days and the clients are getting more and more difficult to deal with. In the beginning, 17 years ago for me, bringing an artist in to create work in your home was a big deal. Then the faux craze came along with HGTV. I became just a contractor along with your plumber, carpenter and the tile guy. Ok, that's cool, I can live with that. It's not fine art after all. But, it seems I've been demoted even further to a status where clients are telling me how to do my job and determining my value, even after an agreement, and paying me accordingly, or not at all. Huh. How about you paint a dragonfly on your wall and see how it looks. I seriously have no idea how my ability became so easily dismissed. The bummer is I love my job. I could hardly believe I could earn a living like this. I had the coolest gig on the planet. It wasn't a job, it was FUN. No more. I want out. I am thrilled that Hollywood has come to Detroit because I am making in roads to translate all this experience to feature films. Not that I wouldn't love to paint a dragonfly for one of my favorite clients any where, any time- always. But I really need a fresh start. I'm sorry to have to phase out the interiors, but I just can't take it anymore. Stencil? Bite your tongue. That medallion is all hand done and matches the rug under the dining room table. Gorgeous. Who doesn't want gorgeous?

Little Blue Chair and Anne

This piece sold a while ago in a silent auction for the charity Michigan Aids Prevention Project. The person who bought it was smitten. I'm not always privy to a buyer's enthusiasm so I treasure it when I get to witness it. I had other images to post that have yet to be publicly presented, but I miss the chairs. I really should make more. I dig the leaves, but it's the chairs that get the attention. Even more than the abstracts that I work so hard on perfecting. I could be on to something.

It's been brought to my attention that "Anne" really should be a one name entity, like Cher. I'm thinking. I had every intention of taking her out on her first photo shoot, but my motivation has been thwarted by the worst client I've had in 17 years who has decided this dismal economy is her opportunity to bleed all her minions dry before payment, if she deems the work worthy of payment at all. Dance you mud turtles! This, coupled with the relentless fingers of winter hardening their icy grip resulting in the incubation of cabin fever, leaves me in hibernation, lethargic and uninspired. Brighter days are ahead and I expect my nameless muse to provoke me in her quiet way to new creative avenues. Meanwhile I am drawing on previous images that remind me how fulfilling painting can be. I'll build out from there.

Anne Boleyn Clark

Introducing Anne Boleyn Clark. She is possibly the best Christmas gift EVER. Linda Clark is a member of the book club I belong to and was my secret Santa this year. She is a bloody genius. Ok, there was a scarf on her head when I opened her, which I also love, needed and wear with regularity, but it's Anne herself that captured my heart. Right now she is just hanging out in my studio getting a feel for the place. But I've got plans. She could turn up just about anywhere. I'm as curious as you are where she might find herself. I honestly haven't felt such a surge in imaginative energy and a return to childlike creativity in years. I've missed it. Desperately. Prior to the economic meltdown, I had enjoyed some modest success and I wound up back in the rat race without conscious authorization. I keep getting swayed despite my efforts to reject all social trappings that indicate I'm a grown-up. I hate capitulating. I did. And landed in the creative ditch. Maybe this financial fallout could be my creative, and spiritual, rebirth. The chance to reacquaint myself with myself. My true self. Life can get so crazy and drive me so far afield it can take years to find my way back. I really never cared about all the accoutrement, but am too pliable not to acquire enough evidence of said adulthood to move around the world incognito. I've always held I wasn't strange enough to really make it as an artist. Poppycock. And Anne's gonna help me prove it.

Red Gingko

The recent economic meltdown has had a profound effect on me this past month. I haven't experienced that kind of fear and uncertainty in quite a while. I was forced to question my stance on money, financial aid, the value of fortitude and God. Having grown up in Bloomfield Hills Michigan with a father who had a swanky job with Sports Illustrated, country club membership included, my perception of money and its participation in the determination of success is warped. I've been fighting the feeling of inadequacy most of my life. Of course, I don't compare myself with my contemporaries, I compare myself with stock brokers, commercial real estate dealers, etc. No wonder I've come up short. The past month arrested my interior business not to mention decimated my small investments. I watched fat cats party on government bailouts, our money, while I struggle to pay my mortgage. I finally had it; I called in the cavalry: my tax attorney and my parents. I let go. I was willing to let it all go. Lose it all. Give it up to the Universe. I give. Uncle. The Universe loves it when you surrender. It opens possibilities. It's the moment I can move to a new and better place. I have been evolving this year to a new understanding of myself. Most of it has to do with sex and relationships, but I knew I needed an overhaul in financials. Now that a plan of action is in place and clients have stopped freaking out, too, and are calling, maybe I can finally put money where it belongs. Don't tax yourself more than your bills. Money is only something you need if you don't die tomorrow. It also represents some freedom, which I am currently missing, but with a new abundance of choices, I suspect that won't be far behind. This picture is in the Holiday show at Paint Creek Center for the Arts in Rochester Michigan, which opens this Saturday. I hope it sells. Or not.