Monday, June 27, 2011
Three Friends
This is based on the photo above. Not a particularly realistic reproduction, but it was fun to draw. I made up Stuart's horrible sweater. As you can see, he is much more stylish in real life.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Glitter surfer
This sketch looks pretty sweet in the light. The effect is an ever changing ocean surface. I dig it.
That girl is me. The me from my fondest daydreams.
I still don't surf. Sigh.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Autumn halo
An ode to the photograph of a boy I never knew:
Blue boys sprout and waft in the same breeze brushing your loose strands. Bare shoulders freckle as sunlight wraps you, lights you, burns you. Blossoming cornflowers recall mornings spent beneath stained glass. Mornings spent beneath your passing glance.
I fear I will never know you.
Autumn halo so golden in the summertime, you play my muse. I am your idolizing sculptor. I reach for freckled skin and my touch finds stone. Oh, naught but trembling daydreams and stone.
What pen can write you? What ink can give rise to your unfathomable self? I know naught of you. How might this pen then tell of what I know not?
Bare shouldered farm boy betwixt a bed of blue boys. Dirt stained fingers wrap around long stems as you gather. Your eyes alight upon your chosen blossom and in perfect stillness you reach.
Were I but a wavering cornflower in your grip! I would happily fade amongst the bouquet if only it gave you pleasure. Were I but the sunlight caught in your summer lightened hair! Ah even to be soil beneath your fingernails, for then inside myself you would have reached. Oh but to touch you as the breeze so freely caresses.
What thoughts wander behind the serenity of your expression? Your lips part slightly. Your brow softens. What love but that of a cornflower?
Blue boys sprout and waft in the same breeze brushing your loose strands. Bare shoulders freckle as sunlight wraps you, lights you, burns you. Blossoming cornflowers recall mornings spent beneath stained glass. Mornings spent beneath your passing glance.
I fear I will never know you.
Autumn halo so golden in the summertime, you play my muse. I am your idolizing sculptor. I reach for freckled skin and my touch finds stone. Oh, naught but trembling daydreams and stone.
What pen can write you? What ink can give rise to your unfathomable self? I know naught of you. How might this pen then tell of what I know not?
Bare shouldered farm boy betwixt a bed of blue boys. Dirt stained fingers wrap around long stems as you gather. Your eyes alight upon your chosen blossom and in perfect stillness you reach.
Were I but a wavering cornflower in your grip! I would happily fade amongst the bouquet if only it gave you pleasure. Were I but the sunlight caught in your summer lightened hair! Ah even to be soil beneath your fingernails, for then inside myself you would have reached. Oh but to touch you as the breeze so freely caresses.
What thoughts wander behind the serenity of your expression? Your lips part slightly. Your brow softens. What love but that of a cornflower?
Empty Vessel
Stephen woke alone in his bed. This was a rare occurrence as he could barely stand an hour without company. However, that morning he had not planned adequately. His most recent lover had been chased off before he'd bothered to find another. Several women had caught his attention, but he was tired. Ruby had left him drained. They were inseparable for months and yet she had never managed to catch him. She did not even try. He had sat in frustration beside her for months waiting for something, anything, besides her beauty to catch his interest. Despite this effort she gave nothing. Her dark eyes flickered from unknown point to point, rarely catching his. They were fluid and deep, insinuating a heavy current of thought, but she never spoke. Not of her own accord anyway. She would answer questions with a word, two if she were feeling verbose. He wanted to be entertained. He wanted to laugh and listen, but she offered nothing. What began so sweetly in June ended bitterly in November when, fed up, he exorcised her from his narrative. She called and called, but he ignored the persistent ring.
December had come and he woke alone.
The feeling was foreign and uncomfortable. He missed her touch- nothing more. Her very presence had become a vexation he could no longer stomach. What a fool she was. Her empty head drained her of allure and left her a hollow pretty thing unworthy of his affection.
He pulled the comforter over his head. Still- he missed her touch.
Sunlight spilled from the kitchen window. It would be past eleven if the sun had crested the redwoods. He filled his mug, screwed the lid on, and glared at the sun. Clothing and instruments were strewn about the sparsely furnished room, which irked him. He liked things in their place. However, he was already late.
Outside crows were calling from the wires above his already running car. It was an orange beast of a Mercedes teetering on the edge of its mortality. Each morning that it sputtered awake was a genuine relief. He could not do without it, though he resented it as much as anything else.
His fingers expertly rolled a joint. The phone was ringing again. "Ruby" flashed across the screen. He silenced it. The lighter sputtered uselessly, so he pitched it across the room. The resounding crack satisfied him. He struck a match and lit the joint. Inhaling deeply, he locked the door and walked down the staircase. A dead cornflower still occupied the vase on the picnic table. He picked it up and crushed it between his thumb and index. She had left it there. She'd had a strange obsession with cornflowers. Another unexplained idiosyncrasy which irritated him to no end. He hated guessing.
He hated her.
----
Anne woke alone in her bed. Fog hung low overhead, creeping between the pines outside her window. She stretched and rolled onto her stomach, burying her head between pillows. Stephen was first to visit her thoughts. She pictured him waking without her, perhaps with another. Stephen was never alone. He had asked her to dinner two weeks after leaving his live in girlfriend. She knew too much about it, having worked for a year with the girl's former roommate. That town was too small.
She had moved to San Francisco two months prior to that particular morning, and one month before the break up. They were never a good fit, but somehow it still affected her deeply. He had taken to ignoring her. It could be that. She sat up and reached for her phone. Dialing him was a sort of irrepressible tic. It rang.
"Hi, you've reached Ste.."
She hung up.
Her behavior was irrational and she knew it. What was there to say? In all those months she'd had him, she found nothing to say. They lived in different worlds.
Now they lived in different counties. She woke each morning to a thriving metropolis and he to ancient redwood groves. She missed the trees more than his company. Even so, she was drawn to him. Or perhaps she was simply drawn to his nonchalance. Whatever it was, she wanted to forget and let go.
Somehow, right then, it felt impossible.
Anne dropped the phone after staring blankly at it for several minutes. Tossing aside the blankets she rose from bed and took three long strides to the southern window. Below nothing moved. No sound rose. Another still morning in the alley. Much to her vexation, all activity came between 2 and 4 am. However, it was a rare morning off and she had managed to sleep past ten.
He had never allowed her to be herself. That was it. She swore she would punch him if he called her Ruby one more time. She had no idea where he'd come up with that one. By the end of the summer even his friends called her by Ruby. She would grimace when she heard the name, but she answered to it nonetheless. Stephen would often tell her that Anne was a tired old name, so he christianed her anew and left it at that. These days she regretted not following suit and dubbing him "Brock" or some other such nonsense.
Outside a beam broke the fog cover. She smiled at the distraction. Several gulls passed low overhead. She followed their path with her eyes. In the distance a crow swept between dissipating fog. Her superstitions began to rise, but another crow landed on the wire above her alley. She smiled to herself and turned from the window.
Another lonely day in San Francisco. She dressed in her usual layers, picked up her bag, and left the apartment. She had no direction, no plans, and hardly a thought to occupy her. As was usual on such days, she turned right on Vicente avenue and began the long trek to Ocean Beach. A crow called from somewhere beyond the rooftops. She smiled to herself again.
December had come and he woke alone.
The feeling was foreign and uncomfortable. He missed her touch- nothing more. Her very presence had become a vexation he could no longer stomach. What a fool she was. Her empty head drained her of allure and left her a hollow pretty thing unworthy of his affection.
He pulled the comforter over his head. Still- he missed her touch.
Sunlight spilled from the kitchen window. It would be past eleven if the sun had crested the redwoods. He filled his mug, screwed the lid on, and glared at the sun. Clothing and instruments were strewn about the sparsely furnished room, which irked him. He liked things in their place. However, he was already late.
Outside crows were calling from the wires above his already running car. It was an orange beast of a Mercedes teetering on the edge of its mortality. Each morning that it sputtered awake was a genuine relief. He could not do without it, though he resented it as much as anything else.
His fingers expertly rolled a joint. The phone was ringing again. "Ruby" flashed across the screen. He silenced it. The lighter sputtered uselessly, so he pitched it across the room. The resounding crack satisfied him. He struck a match and lit the joint. Inhaling deeply, he locked the door and walked down the staircase. A dead cornflower still occupied the vase on the picnic table. He picked it up and crushed it between his thumb and index. She had left it there. She'd had a strange obsession with cornflowers. Another unexplained idiosyncrasy which irritated him to no end. He hated guessing.
He hated her.
----
Anne woke alone in her bed. Fog hung low overhead, creeping between the pines outside her window. She stretched and rolled onto her stomach, burying her head between pillows. Stephen was first to visit her thoughts. She pictured him waking without her, perhaps with another. Stephen was never alone. He had asked her to dinner two weeks after leaving his live in girlfriend. She knew too much about it, having worked for a year with the girl's former roommate. That town was too small.
She had moved to San Francisco two months prior to that particular morning, and one month before the break up. They were never a good fit, but somehow it still affected her deeply. He had taken to ignoring her. It could be that. She sat up and reached for her phone. Dialing him was a sort of irrepressible tic. It rang.
"Hi, you've reached Ste.."
She hung up.
Her behavior was irrational and she knew it. What was there to say? In all those months she'd had him, she found nothing to say. They lived in different worlds.
Now they lived in different counties. She woke each morning to a thriving metropolis and he to ancient redwood groves. She missed the trees more than his company. Even so, she was drawn to him. Or perhaps she was simply drawn to his nonchalance. Whatever it was, she wanted to forget and let go.
Somehow, right then, it felt impossible.
Anne dropped the phone after staring blankly at it for several minutes. Tossing aside the blankets she rose from bed and took three long strides to the southern window. Below nothing moved. No sound rose. Another still morning in the alley. Much to her vexation, all activity came between 2 and 4 am. However, it was a rare morning off and she had managed to sleep past ten.
He had never allowed her to be herself. That was it. She swore she would punch him if he called her Ruby one more time. She had no idea where he'd come up with that one. By the end of the summer even his friends called her by Ruby. She would grimace when she heard the name, but she answered to it nonetheless. Stephen would often tell her that Anne was a tired old name, so he christianed her anew and left it at that. These days she regretted not following suit and dubbing him "Brock" or some other such nonsense.
Outside a beam broke the fog cover. She smiled at the distraction. Several gulls passed low overhead. She followed their path with her eyes. In the distance a crow swept between dissipating fog. Her superstitions began to rise, but another crow landed on the wire above her alley. She smiled to herself and turned from the window.
Another lonely day in San Francisco. She dressed in her usual layers, picked up her bag, and left the apartment. She had no direction, no plans, and hardly a thought to occupy her. As was usual on such days, she turned right on Vicente avenue and began the long trek to Ocean Beach. A crow called from somewhere beyond the rooftops. She smiled to herself again.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Overload
I drew the image on the right in November of 08, then colored it pink sometime in 09, then took a highlighter to it last month. It got to be too much, so I flipped it over and traced the original sketch through the page.
Aptly titled "Overload".
Oh- the mug belongs to my younger brother Michael. Part of an ink series I drew of my family watching TV.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Muriel
While in Santa Barbara I took to writing a page a day- mostly disconnected tidbits. Here is one such tidbit that I happened to like:
Muriel thought of stilletos.
Her own calloused heels were housed in heavy clogs. She stamped said clogs on stained floorboards while staring intently at bricks.
All fashionable cafes have at least one crumbling brick wall hung heavily with local art. Her eyes meandered from one over-priced painting to another, but her thoughts did not falter.
A woman sat opposite Muriel, just below her line of vision. It was this particular woman who had inspired Muriel's current stream of conscience. She was sitting along, spreading butter over a sliced bagel.
Her tiny brown feet were, of course, encased in murderously steep stilletos. Muriel wanted to stare, but the other woman had caught her doing so twice. Not wanting to risk awkwardness, Muriel had taken to staring at art.
She began tapping briskly, trying not to focus on anything. She felt her tic coming on. Her eyes had already filled and begun their steady leak. She bit her lower lip, holding it tightly between incisors.
Moisture built beneath her nostrils, creating an irritating itch. She scratched at it with obvious desperation. The woman was looking at her.
Muriel broke into a coughing fit. Everyone stared.
"WHAT!?"
The word burst from her lower abdomen into the now silent shop. She shoved herself from her chair and stood unsteadily. Her tea spilled, but she did not notice.
Blood rushed her face, deepening her pale cheeks to a vivid crimson. She began to shake. Tension permeated from all present. Muriel clutched the corner of her table and screamed.
The woman stood and briskly left.
A barista approached Muriel gently. He placed his hand on her elbow and guided her back to a seated position. She had ceased her outburst and wept quietly to herself.
"Muriel? Can I get you some water?"
She hung her wet face and shook silently.
"Muriel, you're fine. Breathe honey, you're fine."
She inhaled sharply, then broke into a fresh fit of coughing. She mumbled feebly, incoherently.
"She didn't know honey. She didn't know. Just breathe."
Muriel thought of stilletos.
Her own calloused heels were housed in heavy clogs. She stamped said clogs on stained floorboards while staring intently at bricks.
All fashionable cafes have at least one crumbling brick wall hung heavily with local art. Her eyes meandered from one over-priced painting to another, but her thoughts did not falter.
A woman sat opposite Muriel, just below her line of vision. It was this particular woman who had inspired Muriel's current stream of conscience. She was sitting along, spreading butter over a sliced bagel.
Her tiny brown feet were, of course, encased in murderously steep stilletos. Muriel wanted to stare, but the other woman had caught her doing so twice. Not wanting to risk awkwardness, Muriel had taken to staring at art.
She began tapping briskly, trying not to focus on anything. She felt her tic coming on. Her eyes had already filled and begun their steady leak. She bit her lower lip, holding it tightly between incisors.
Moisture built beneath her nostrils, creating an irritating itch. She scratched at it with obvious desperation. The woman was looking at her.
Muriel broke into a coughing fit. Everyone stared.
"WHAT!?"
The word burst from her lower abdomen into the now silent shop. She shoved herself from her chair and stood unsteadily. Her tea spilled, but she did not notice.
Blood rushed her face, deepening her pale cheeks to a vivid crimson. She began to shake. Tension permeated from all present. Muriel clutched the corner of her table and screamed.
The woman stood and briskly left.
A barista approached Muriel gently. He placed his hand on her elbow and guided her back to a seated position. She had ceased her outburst and wept quietly to herself.
"Muriel? Can I get you some water?"
She hung her wet face and shook silently.
"Muriel, you're fine. Breathe honey, you're fine."
She inhaled sharply, then broke into a fresh fit of coughing. She mumbled feebly, incoherently.
"She didn't know honey. She didn't know. Just breathe."
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
You'd have to hear the song...
I'm working on three separate pages for the previous story, so I thought I'd take a break and make something even more ridiculous.
Behold.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Comic book art...
I have been reading a lot of R. Crumb and A.K. Crumb lately. I thought I'd try the whole comic book thing, and this is what I came up with. I found a photo of Matt Costa online, printed it, drew up a story, then redid the entire thing six times. It isn't much of a story, but it was fun!!!
-R.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Summertime in Los Gatos
I made blueberry cornmeal pancakes this morning. Unfortunately I did not beat the egg separately, and thus they did not cook properly. Ah well. They were still delicious.
I french pressed espresso to serve alongside said corncakes, and that came out perfectly.
This simple meal was in memory of simpler times, when all seemed clear and right. Four summers back, long before the hard times, where daydreams lingered and linger still.
La la la.
I french pressed espresso to serve alongside said corncakes, and that came out perfectly.
This simple meal was in memory of simpler times, when all seemed clear and right. Four summers back, long before the hard times, where daydreams lingered and linger still.
La la la.
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