Oh, holidays. How I love all of the gatherings, good food, decorations, crowds, warm coats and boots, cuddling with my hubby and pups in new blankets, and hot chocolate yet I get so frustrated that the time for art seems to completely disappear, even during quiet moments! Now that the festivities have passed it’s time to curl up with sketchbooks and paintbrushes (of course with the warm puppy next to me) and see what kind of creations manifest. I hope you’ve had a wonderful welcoming of winter and holidays and good luck for 2015!
New post on my site http://www.bloodrosescomics.com !
Damned to hear the spirit voices of those he has killed and searching for his Dream-lover, an immortal finds that he must sever old bonds, regain his balance between realms, and unearth the remnants of his past in order to realize his future.
What started out as a few sketches and a series of acrylic paintings has evolved into a novel, much to my surprise. I was not much of a writer when I was younger, and really, not when Blood Roses got started. I had some ideas for a story inspired by those paintings that I really wanted to draw so I asked my husband Rory for help. At the time he was working towards a Bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing while I was pursuing my degree in Fine Art. Our pairing of creative resources produced the first issue of Blood Roses in 1998. Four more issues followed as…
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“The principles of true art is not to portray, but to evoke.” –Jerzy Kosinski
These days, with so many art-making tools at our finger tips be it traditional media such as graphite or paint, pen or film, or new tools such as the computer and all of it’s accessibility to information, ideas and manipulation, there is always the place of the mind and soul; of emotion, thought and experience. Well executed art transcends its media and gets deep into us to become part of our memory, dreams, of who we are. There is a special corner in Berkeley, California where such evocation is happening now that you shouldn’t miss: A pictorialist’s perspective by Rory Dean.
At first glance Rory’s new work is obviously photographic yet perplexing as so many images and pieces intertwine to create reflections of experience. Deep wounds and uplifting dances juxtapose yet flow with ease. Photos of familiar places in San Francisco, the San Joaquin and Napa Valley blur the lines of reality as Rory blends colours and emotion with such vigor that you might think you just remembered that scene from your own dream just before waking this morning. These real and imagined landscapes manifested from ecstasy and turmoil, draw one in for lengthy breaths and linger long after the return home.
Although these works are very technical in their execution, this is left behind as the viewer is invited in to not only contemplate what the artist went through during the creation but to bring their own experiences to the palette. As inner-worldly as they are, there is a knowing that these pictures also inhabit the collective experience of humanity and this makes it work. The art is as strange as it is accessible, such as with “Roads Within Chaos.” At first glance I was drawn to it by the bursting colour that seemed like the moment of creation of the universe.
“Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Try to make sense of what you see, and wonder about what makes the universe exist. Be curious.” – Stephen Hawking
Stepping closer I began to see familiar things like faces and eyes, purposeful shapes. I thought I was imagining these as my mind tried to make sense of it, as I often do with abstract paintings. However, I began to see dogs and perhaps eyes of wolves, fans and tables came into focus, and finally my own ideas and memories swirled around the starbursts along with the artist’s. That instant it became mine as well as his and I knew that the next person who gazed at this would enter this world with us. We would now always have this connection whether or not we had ever met.
That is what great art does: Evokes and Connects us – to each other and to our selves. If you happen to be in the strange land of Berkeley, I hope you take a moment to experience Rory Dean’s art and visit the even stranger land of the inner self.
NOW LIVE! New page for my comic series Blood Roses.
Once upon a time,many moons ago, I started a series of paintings that spilled over onto pages in ink and the beginnings of my comic “Blood Roses” manifested in print. As some of you know I’ve been working on the story again for the last few years and it’s been evolving into a graphic novel. Please visit/share/comment on my new site! There you will find drawings, insights into the story and creative process. You can also get updates directly from the star of the story, Donovan McCullough by sending a him a friend request on Facebook and on twitter @BloodRoses
The clouds have moved in again. They thought about leaving around 10am and have since abandoned this idea. I wonder if they realize Time.
I like to imagine that they don’t. They tend to do the same things over and over, coming and going over my bay side house every morning. On schedule. All summer. I question their observance of Time by Clouds again then remember that the Rocks know Time and they speak to the Clouds. The Rocks tell them to come and Clouds cannot resist the request.
“You speak of clouds,” he says softly to me in his grumbly wolf voice. “I remember your fur,” I whisper sideways to him. He smiles with the biggest teeth that shine like moonlight. “Your blackberries are ripening,” he tells me and we are content for a moment.
I’m reminded that the world constantly turns no matter how hard those around me try to make it stop. He shows me Goddesses turning the earth and Gods shining brightly to make the ladies smile.
I am back in the clouds with my feet on the ground. There is enough Time.
I notice it’s been since November since I made a new post, but I’ve not been without pencil in hand. This long, cold winter has finally melted away, the frost running cold and away along the cracks in the sidewalk making way for my defiant morning glories to bloom.
I’ve been busy writing, drawing and working on a new website all whilst attending to my border collie. If you have one you know what I mean. I can feel his one blue eye staring through the wall at me as I write this, his wonderings of “why aren’t we playing?” echoing between the keystrokes.
It is because I’m being drawn into the Everywhere.
My mind moves between soft whispy pencil lines to hard ink quill strokes as the prickly vines of Blood Roses wraps around me. I find crow feathers as D speaks with me along my daily trails. Moments in story weave dream lucidity to conscious paper, constantly leaving me hungry for more.
I don’t even know what time it is. But this moment which has lasted hours has finally come together bound by wine and clarity.
It started with rain. And I heard it against the window then that place in mind where he finds me from the Everywhere, close to where Comanche talks to Butch. A raven sometimes flies there. “Let’s just start a new one.”
But what I wonder. Before I think too much about it I remember it’s just best to follow him around the room, wherever it is he’s leading me. Figure it out later I’ve learned. Don’t ask questions yet because the spell will break with heavy breath.
To the couch he sits in front of a cozy fire as this rain hits his windows and mine. He speaks and I write; ethereal becoming material. Then he stops and faces me fully with that look coming from all places deep blue. It means “take over” and part one intertwines with part two. This vision is a short moment in the story and I decide where on the timeline it will manifest. Kelsey and Miki paint themselves in ink as I see on these ragged pages when they are and D agrees with me.
We are driving now, the Horse bucking against the wet air. I sing to him and pray at the same time, somehow able to keep the words I voice and the words I think separate. We gogogo as Mustangs do, as they must and later that song plays and the night has come all black around us. I see D in the back seat, hazy through his cigarette smoke, stretched out behind me. “Did you get the red?”
“How could I not?” I can see the Everywhere clearly in my rearview. He looks up, meeting me there over the pages of a book. I know what he’s reading. “Why are the pages white?”
We both smile as the scenery blurs by. “You haven’t drawn them yet.” I think of the other books I’ve seen him reading. I come back to the story. Reread, researched online, what was printed that year on the timeline? I find a list of books. Many are familiar. I ask D which one he would be reading and I feel a smile for a response. I know it will come to me as I decide it’s time for a nightmare with his she-demon as he drifts there from his reading.
How do I know this? Because. Because whilst driving today, in the trunk of my car on the spare tire sits a copy of this book, weathered by rain and mustang, one I leave there so I will always have it.
Story: Page 55, “The Devil was a woman, now.”
This is why I trust D. He never lets me down.