Last week was the East Tennessee Community Design Center's 100 Block Party Fundraiser.

I donated the piece above to their auction. It's a photograph of the former Flynn Paint Building, located on the corner of Summit Hill and 11th Street, in a window from Knox Heritage Salvage.

I used to be obsessed with this building. Obsessed is an understatement. I'd drive out of my way to pass it, daydream about owning it. I wrote business plans for how I'd use it and contacted the owner to see if he'd sell it.

But I had no money to offer him. It sat for a few years until he converted it into a bar. And he desecrated the building in the process. I lament the way it looks now. People say, "At least it's saved." They don't understand. I was in love.

I've made several pieces about it since then. A muse never dies even when it dies.

a ridiculously good cry

red-faced clarity 

and disbelief

swimming somewhere beautiful

dinner out

a margarita or three

dusk riverside walk

heading home

this song for the first time

Remember my vicious and sad sheep dog friend? Here's an update.

I've cut him free and we're now living in a craftsmen style bungalow in South Knoxville. He and Juicy are getting along juuust fine...

Sigh... 

No, his life is still tragic, especially now with the summer heat. He spends his days a filthy heap of fur asleep by his house. 

His owners did shave him, so they aren't 100% terrible. Only 99.

I have taken it upon myself to give him treats and a reason to live. Of course, they're dental treats because I mean business in my Good Samaritan efforts. 

The first time I tried to give him one, I called for him to come up the hill to me, but he stayed on the porch. I threw it to him, it bounced off the deck, and ricocheted out of his reach. Fail.

The next time, I had a better throw, he ate it, and stared at me from the porch. Progress.

This past weekend, I coaxed him to come up the hill to me. He's still a little snarly, so I used my trusty stick to pet him. 

I gave him the treat, and then he started doing the same thing he did when I freed him from the tree trunk he had wrapped himself around in the storm- he bounded around playfully. I continued to stick pet him but I knew he wanted something more. 

 

It looks like he has little sore spots on his skin (mange? I should know this, but I don't) where flies keep landing. Or maybe the flies like him because he's dirty. 

 

I did pet him on the head with my bear* hand for about ten seconds. Then I went home to wash my hands immediately.

 

 

In my teeny tiny bubble of a world, this is the most risky thing I've done with my life in a long time. Not only is he unpredictable, but I have this wonderful feeling I'm going to get a gun pulled on me one day very soon. The blinds of the house are closed and I only visit when there aren't any cars in the driveway, but still. This is life on the edge, and it's exhilarating. 

 

 

I decided to give him a name. My first thought was Pookie Face, but then, I thought, no. A desperate dog such as this needs a strong and noble namesake. So I've named him Samuel, after Samuel Hamilton.

*ha!

There is a sheep dog that lives across the street from me. I've never seen him off his leash that's looped around a post on his backporch. He used to be attached to the front porch, but I figure the owners got tired of people calling animal control so they moved their prisoner to a more convenient location for them.

His hair is matted and dirty, and he can't see because his hair covers his eyes. He's weathered the coldest frosts and the most smoldering summer days.

On several different occasions, I've found myself standing in my apartment parking lot, twenty yards between the dog and me, tears in my eyes, whispering "I'm so sorry." I've also found myself standing in my parking lot, scowling at the owners as they get out of their car and pass their dog who loves them dearly without touching him. They shut their front door on his wagging tail, he stands at the door for a second, then hopelessly lies back down.

There's an alley that runs behind the owners' back yard that I use when I'm walking or biking to work or downtown. Usually the dog is asleep on the backporch, and if he's awake, he typically doesn't see me because of the hair covering his eyes. When he does see me, he barks viciously, and every now and then, he jumps off the porch, bounds up the hill leading up to the alley, and lunges at me furiously. His leash catches him just before he reaches me, but I'm always worried it will break, and he'll attack me- the one who actually loves him.

One time I fed him half of a steak. He didn't bark at me then, but that fond memory faded quickly from his animal brain. 

This morning, I walked to work in the sunshine. When 5:00 rolled around, the sky opened up and sent forth a torrential thunderstorm. I stayed at work waiting for it to die down with a couple of co-workers. When it finally let up, my boss asked if I wanted a ride home.

"No, thank you," I said. "I'm going to steal this umbrella that's been sitting in our lobby forever and walk." When was the last time I purposefully walked in the rain? I thought.

I made my way home under what I learned was an umbrella in shambles, cut through the yard of an abandoned house to the alley. The rain began to pick up as I neared my neighbors' backyard.

I noticed that the sheep dog wasn't on the porch. Then I noticed his leash running from the porch, up the hill toward the alley, disappearing under a tree. It was then I saw his face and the leash wrapped tightly around a small stump of a tree. He was stuck, probably panicked during the thunder and lightning, running in circles until he couldn't move. He saw me but didn't bark. I took a look at him and decided he was too unpredictable to help. His owners will come unwrap him soon.

Wait... no they won't. They're terrible!

I stared at him for a few seconds, closed the umbrella, and inched down the hill toward him. I talked to him in my sweet animal voice while I put the umbrella near his face. He nipped at it but didn't growl. I kept talking to him and began pulling at the leash to untangle it from the trunk. He sat there calmly and didn't even move after I had freed him. I was soaking wet at this point.

As I walked away and ironically said "Be free," he began bounding around. He pushed through the low branches of the tree toward me, wagging his tail. I patted his disgusting head and scratched his matted behind with the umbrella. I pushed his hair back from his eyes with the hope that he'll remember me the next time I see him. I cried a little, too, because that's just what I do.

We said our goodbyes and as I walked home, I thought about being his secret friend. I'd come to the alley at night and cut his hair and give him snacks**. Maybe at night I could free him from his leash and we could walk around the neighborhood together.

I could be his Boo and he could be my Scout. Or would it be the other way around? Or maybe that makes no sense, but what I mean is that we'd have a great amount of affection for one another.

* Who or whom?
**That was for you, Audrey.

That's not true, but

I've been checking out a lot of documentaries from the public library lately. The cold and my wallet have been inspiration.

I wasn't so sure, but it's becoming one of my favorite things. It's like school without tuition or papers... or reading.

I watched the first season of PBS's Art 21 about a month ago. I have this feeling we watched it in one of my drawing classes, but I can't remember. That's the thing with me and information- we love and then we lose each other.

One of the first episodes features Margaret Kilgallen. Even if I had seen her work while in school, it may have not mattered then, but it matters now.

She talks about seeing hand-painted signs for businesses around San Francisco. She loves their simplicity, their crudeness. She draws on trains and she makes massive murals of folk-inspired text and images on gallery walls.

It's a little troubling to realize someone else (over a decade ago) has all ready made the work you have dreamed of making. At the same time, it's a relief to know there's someone else out there that's a kindred spirit, that likes what you like and is a bad-ass at making what you kind of maybe thought about making (but probably never would have to the extent they did).

It's also exciting to think about what you can learn from art someone else has all ready made, how it can propel you like a pinball lever somewhere else.

***
I watched the documentary Beautiful Losers a couple of nights ago. Margaret was in that one, too. It included some of the same footage of her from Art 21. Why?

At the end you learn Kilgallen died after giving birth to her daughter.

(No)

I did some reading on the specifics. "Though diagnosed with breast cancer, Kilgallen opted to forgo chemotherapy so that she might carry a pregnancy to term.**" She died as a result in 2001 at 33.

A talented artist ends her career, her marriage, her life through sacrificial love.

(Sigh)

***

If she was alive, I would have liked to have written her a letter, maybe invite her to come to Knoxville. I think she would have liked it.



***

This came on while I wrote this.

*Also, this guy.
**Wikipedia

The way I remember it, when I was a freshman in high school, I received a couple of very significant things and a couple of  insignificant things.

One insignificant thing was a really bad version of Meg Ryan's haircut in You've Got Mail. It's my own fault for going to A Great Cut to have it done, but hair grows, so it wasn't the end of the world.

The second insignificant thing I received was a noticable amount of weight gain, a result of being bed-ridden and given mostly brownies to eat. The reason for being bed-ridden was because of one of the more significant things I received that year:

A patch to cover a hole in my heart. I was told it was Gore-tex in material, but really, that didn't matter too much to me. What mattered was that after having my sternum broken in two and my heart man-handled, I woke up. That's really all you can hope for in a situation like that.

The second significant thing I received near the same time as my surgery was a yellow lab puppy named Honey. She wasn't just my dog, but I always put it together that we got her as a result of my open-heart surgery. Maybe she would be a good replacement if I didn't survive, and if I did survive, she would help me make it through high school, as my older sisters were going off to college one by one.

There I was, chubby, sporting a terrible haircut and a healing wound right down the center of my chest, with the prettiest, sweetest dog by my side. I was a lucky girl.

***



As I healed and Honey grew, we spent a lot of time together. Who can tell what a dog really thinks, but context clues pointed to the fact that Honey's favorite activity was going to Shelby Farms, a large park in Memphis. As soon as we'd enter the parking lot, she'd start whimpering to get out of the car. I'd let her out, we'd walk through the gate together, and in a flash, she'd take off for the nearest body of water. I'd walk along the trails while she ran vast circles around me. She never grew tired.



The same wild dog had a soft side. Many nights or mornings, she'd climb in my bed. I couldn't sleep with her through the night because she snored, but her affection was the sweetest. Or maybe she was needy. She'd follow us around the house all day. She always wanted to be near someone, and she always wanted a good pet. How do I know? Because every time you sat down, she'd get right next to you and put her nose on or under your hand. If you gave in to pet her, she'd wriggle slowly, tail wagging, until you were scratching her rear end.

She was never mean, maybe disobedient, but always loving and always sweet. Always.



***

This Christmas, Honey was 13 years old. She could barely walk around or get up and down. Many times she'd fall down or slip. No more walks with her or trips to the park, but she was still the prettiest and sweetest dog.

***

Last Monday night, my last night in town, my sister Ginny told Catherine and I that we should go in and sit with Honey on her bed, a palette my mom made her out of sheets and cushiony things in our dining room.

"You never know if she'll make it through the night," she said.

We walked in the dark room and all three sat around her. Honey woke up and we talked to her and pet her and told her we loved her.

I left town for Knoxville the next day, and two days later, Honey died.

***

When I talked to my sister Catherine yesterday, I asked her why we even bothered having pets. We are all completely devastated.

Today, after a night of sleep, I know my question yesterday was selfish. Honey gave far more unconditional love and affection than I could ever learn how to give. She was a dog worth giving a home and loving as best as we could.

But, oh! How badly we'll miss her.

I'm not sure if anyone has gathered this, but I really like animals. I like them so much that when I was finishing up college, I got a job working at a vet clinic, just to see what it was like*.


Llama
acrylic on canvas
2011
Sold (I will have prints of this soon)

The clinic was about a 20 to 30 minute drive from where I lived in downtown Knoxville, and most of the time, I was the only employee there with my boss. I'd spend my hour long lunch breaks alone and also the afternoons, when she'd leave for a few hours.

As I've mentioned before, I was really down back then but was too confused, prideful, (something), to do anything about it. I bring this up because, even though my job was really great, it wasn't good for me to be alone so much.

On my hour lunch break, I did various things alone in the area, trying to distract myself from thinking too much.

One activity I enjoyed was taking walks at Victor Ashe Park. It's not an aesthetically pleasing park and best serves soccer players and disc golfers, but there's a path that runs through it to the far end where it crosses a small road, passes over a creek via a bridge, and winds with the creek through woods and large backyards.

So I'm walking there for the first time, woods on either side, listening to the water rush over root and rock. And I'm looking at the back of these people's houses and their large yards wondering if I'm really supposed to be back there, but there are other people on the path as well.

I look up, and there he is: A dirty white llama standing in the creek, looking straight at me.

He was beautiful. He was magic.

He had a friend lying in the grass behind him, and I stood for a while there, watching and falling in love. And for a brief moment, the dark cloud above my head dispersed.

***

When I'm feeling down, one of my safety nets is seeing something/someone doing what it/they do best, even if it's not particulary exciting.

Besides being cuddly and soft, I think this is part of the reason why I love animals. They are so good at being what they are.

That day I saw the llama, he was perfectly fulfilling his role as a llama, and it made me really grateful.

***

About the painting:

In the beginning stages, I painted a llama from Machu Picchu, with the mountains and ruins behind and below him. I wanted him to be magical and strong, so it seemed like a good idea to have him standing on a tall cliff.

I decided, however, that this idea took away from the fact that anyone could happen upon this llama, as I did. I also thought it was important to have the creek.

I painted the sky pink first, and then about 20 other colors. At the time I was painting it, my friend Josh was practicing for a double bass recital in the room next to my studio a lot. As the sky changed from light yellow to white to dark grey to black, he kept telling me to make it pink again. He knows as much about art as I do about the double bass (very little), and I can't say I wanted to trust him, but for some reason, I did.

I also made the llama white because I didn't want dirt to read as brown fur. I also wanted to make him a little more fantastical, because he is. Fantastic.

*If you like animals because they are soft and cuddly, I wouldn't necessarily recommend working at a vet clinic. For all the cuteness, there is just as much that's sad, terrible, tragic, painful. I learned a great deal there.

This is pretty interesting (to me).

I was perusing this month's Vogue and came across this photo.






















What is interesting about it? Well, I made this painting back in 2010.

Pool at Night, acrylic on canvas, 2010, 32" x 52"

The chairs, the shape of the pool, the grass, the hedge, the walls... the similarities surprise me.

***

The painting was based on fond memories of swimming at night in my grandparents' pools. Yes, both sets had one. I may have spent just as much of my childhood immersed in water as I did on dry land. I loved when my sisters, friends, and I could swim at night with the pool light on. Pool-light-at-night is still one of my most favorite colors.

Oddly enough, the painting was also inspired by something far less innocent- the movie The Graduate, specifically the scenes in the Robinson's house, with the green filling the windows. I wanted to convey the glamor of that movie, to show someone rich lived there. Without knowing it at the time, I also conveyed the emptiness and sadness of the story as well.





Also, there was the pool.