Betty's last words to me were a bawdy joke.

As the temperatures continue to rise....

Roe | 2022

In response to SCOTUS overturning Roe v Wade, the only male creature to experience pregnancy.

Broken in her too-small world. Remade with bright enduring wings and a fire in her belly.

Pandemic, elections, talismans, cootie shots....

Begun in a fraught political climate, my thoughts of an “I Voted” sticker for the lid thwarted by an unappealing redesign, this sat, waiting its destiny until I happened past a wee Lucky Cat. We vote every day, with everything we do. #StopAAPIHate 

He flew into a jar. I had heard him. His mighty struggles. Tried to help. Couldn’t see. I found him later, much later, at the back of a high shelf, in a jar. As well as I was able, I gave him the sky. Quickly made, and as quickly gone.

For Tarrah. May every girl get her lemon tree. Trans is Beautiful

Zooming in on some great industrial design and related culture—chiefly the game of Skully once played on NYC streets with the caps, and the British game played with small lozenges taught me by my mother first played Victorian parlors.

So—as I was working on Truffle for Tesla, I also started one for her 'rents, two of my "count on one hand" friends- and other having much time to work on it I blame myself for the fact that the renovations on their housie are going slowly, so—best get to it! Kathy said she wanted to watch sunsets on the porch... it's time to soften this....

The loud clear ringing of ownership and ego, a dog-whistle to the unthinking—words. Big red happy authoritative words. “Join us and you can be happy too.”

A fairly straight take on The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai - with a little help from Nivea and Calvin Klein.

A very fond memory of a magical place where children play in fountains in manicured parks behind museums at midnight, patchwork men dance to their entertainment and mothers thanks, parakeets play in puddles, gentlemen sew in botanic gardens, gleaming tiles paint the alleys in every color, and every opportunity is taken to live beautifully. 

I went out to my besties’ new house—a fixer-upper. I found items that wanted to be art. The three year old hollered "That's not art!" I told her it would be.

An appreciation for industrial design turned navel-gazing sight-gag riffing on Johns’ answer to de Kooning’s put-down. Artists are assholes.

Playing with fate.

Painting is dead. Long live painting.

Sublimely silly pocket-sized landscape sculptures, pearls tucked in their shells.

Named for the meaning of life given by the supercomputer Deep Thought in Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, 42 takes the stuff through its paces. No more. No less.

Posies, pollen, disruption, corruption. Delicacy. Indelicacy.

Named for an alias of Asimov's robot Daneel Olivaw, Hummin bemusedly explores our labyrinthine cheese wheel universe.

A whimsy on the rituals engaged in to get clarity. Mine is ever, art.

In a tin of lip balm from the ritual gift of tending my dearest friends bestow yearly, with an attendant conversation on the gifts that have meaning, the gifts we remember.

Boxies play on the appeal of the wee, of the personal.

An object made amid much discussion of the definition of painting, the accidental marks on the exterior were preserved under varnish, and the interior deliberately altered with paint. The work touches on Oppenheim directly, and Warhol and Guyton obliquely.