Bird for Cuba

Bird for Cuba

Published in: on October 8, 2014 at 12:15 am  Comments (2)  
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Bird for Israel

bird for israel

She flies from Tel Aviv to the wall, moving the silences tree to tree

Published in: on August 27, 2014 at 10:48 am  Comments (1)  
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Bird for Palestine

Bird for Palestine

Published in: on August 19, 2014 at 11:54 pm  Comments (1)  
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Volo

 With Your Bloody Bib, In Secret, You Do The Work Of The Songs.


With
Your
Bloody
Bib,
In
Secret,
You
Do
The
Work
Of
The
Songs.

Published in: on August 14, 2014 at 1:14 am  Leave a Comment  
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Bird for Bobby Womack

birdforbobbywomack

Published in: on July 8, 2014 at 2:04 am  Leave a Comment  
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Alphabet of Songbirds – B

Alphabet of Songbirds - B

I’ve kind of been quietly making an etching alphabet of songbirds. The first idea was to make them pretty, pretty, pretty, and then I thought about the nature of Nature–it’s not all pretty–and then the hideous habitat destruction we’ve inflicted on songbirds and every other creature the landscape attempts to sustain, and the pictures have become a bit tougher and more wild, and maybe more true. We’ll see.

“B”is for Baltimore Oriole.

Published in: on June 20, 2014 at 2:29 am  Comments (2)  
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Lunch Drawing #49: Gary, Indiana Cardinal

Lunch Drawing #49: Gary, Indiana Cardina

Published in: on June 12, 2014 at 4:00 pm  Comments (1)  
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Azul

Azul

All over the west and south sides of Chicago there are still live poultry shops. It only now occurs to me that I’ve never actually been in one. Americans are particularly squeamish this way– we never want to look the creature we’re about to slaughter in the eye. We’d rather see it fried with some biscuits and gravy on a plate, or in nugget form in a small styrofoam box; or even better, chopped up with a bunch of vegetables in some soup. We’re not much for the blood and the feathers and the screeching death that comes along with butchering poultry.

A number of people in the city have begun to keep chickens in their yards in Ukrainian Village they raise their own eggs and I have to admit it is kind of heartening to see a plump chicken or two walking the alleyways. You want to warn them that: feral cats, large rats, raccoons, and now coyotes also now walk these alleys, and would gladly feast on them; but then you notice these are some big-assed chickens and when you get right up close and look them in the eye?  You see all of the madness in the world.These chickens are Chicago chickens and they just might be able to hold their own.

Years ago, when I first opened my studio on Damen Avenue, there was a small bodega a few doors down from me. The older Puerto Rican guy who ran it made change out of his pocket, rather than the cash register. The store was badly stocked, open when it  wanted to and closed at odd hours. We struck up a friendship by virtue of being neighbors and sometimes having to look out for the same goofs who would run in and grab stuff when you weren’t looking. We were also the only Sox fans in that part of town. I liked him, He had thick bifocals and a sad smile and spoke the kind of English that one speaks when they learn it first in Chicago. He referred to the alderman as “our guy” with a roll of his eyes.
I only knew him as “Popi.” One day, I noticed these Polaroids taped to the side of his antique cash register. They were all pictures of roosters…more specifically, fighting cocks. He told me, that in Puerto Rico, he’d raised many champion birds. He said where he came from people weren’t  hypocrites about things like cockfighting. He’d tell me, “You gringos get all weepy about  two chickens fucking each other up WHILE you eat your McNuggets.” He had a point.
He also, once in a while, would stop me in my tracks when this line of conversation occurred. He would ask me if we cared as much about people as we did about the chickens. “There you go– white people will wring their hands over cockfighting, where each bird has a fifty-fifty shot at coming out alive. But kids in this city are blowing each others’ heads off for dime bags and where are your tears for them?”
Bucktown changed and the bodega is long gone, as is Popi and his backyard full of fighting cocks. There were a few of them that were beautiful in a wild, mad, kind way. Rubio, a starkly black, long-plumed bird with a blood-red head. Pinto, a speckled mess with sharp thorny spurs, and Azul who. Popi explained. was a rare blue-faced gamecock who he’d paid better than a grand for back home. He fed them only prime feed and fought them in Indiana, he explained, “with a bunch of white guys who look like a dumber version of you.” It was nice to know that somewhere out there there is a dumber version of me.
I guess what has changed about Bucktown the most is the absence of people like Popi and the fact that I used to walk my neighborhood and sometimes hear three or four different languages being spoken in the length of a couple of city blocks.
Now there is a Marc Jacobs store and restaurants that people blather on about on Yelp! all the time. I’m old enough to know that this isn’t bad or good–that change is the human experience. I don’t miss the days when you had to look over your shoulder in this neighborhood, though. Judging from the gun violence you STILL kind of have to.  I do realize that in very short order, it is a different city. That for all of the technology that was supposed to connect us, it feels like we are more alone. For all of the cameras and crime-prevention gestures and feel-good documentaries, we are still apt to maim and kill each other.
It has always been a cruel city– it is our history; Steel, slaughter, railroads,and bootleggers made the cash register ring, and this was the only music anybody with any power danced to.
Popi was right. We’re still killing each other in Chicago over dime bags, and still wringing our hands over smaller cruelties. Everything has changed, and everything remains the same.
Published in: on May 13, 2014 at 5:47 pm  Comments (1)  
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Last Child

The Ice Bird

Last Child

 

Published in: on May 8, 2014 at 6:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The City Bird

The City Bird (etching)

Published in: on May 5, 2014 at 6:19 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Lunch Drawing #45: Blue Steel Bird

Blue Steel Bird

She
is
a
gem-
Blue,
Blue
as
a
Murmur.

Published in: on April 8, 2014 at 12:27 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Lunch Drawing #44: A Story Bird

Lunch Drawing #44: A Story Bird

It is the old story:
Hidden in shells,
and chains, and burning barns,
Carried on migrations by singing blood gospels;
It is the story only told by birds

Published in: on April 7, 2014 at 5:10 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Lunch Drawing #42: Nightengale Haunted by Assclowns

Lunch Drawing #42: Nightengale Hunted by Assclowns

She wanted to fly. She wanted to sing. And she wanted her songs to start fires.

When kids are in high school, doodles usually adorn every surface of their textbooks; at least they did on mine. I loved scribbling on the back of my tablet, or in the margins of my history book, or just on looseleaf and in notebooks. Anything was better than listening to the teacher and taking notes on whatever useless drivel they were going on about. It could be anything: hot rods, planes, Rat Fink, giant dicks, monsters. . .especially birds, tits, monkey heads, and always band logos and comics. . .a character named “Bong-Man” and voice -balloons containing thoughtful utterances like, “Shimmy-shimmy beat my meat,” “Transistor Sister,” and “Maggot-Brain.”

I had a lot on my mind.

What I’ve most enjoyed about making my “Lunch Drawings” is just how much they remind me of those drawings I made trying to escape the mind-numbing dogshit they tried to teach me in school. With very few exceptions, my teachers talked like a roll of toilet paper; one bloodless, colorless factoid after the next, until I had annihilation fantasies about blowing up my high school.

I also had this problem of sometimes thinking something while not realizing I was also actually saying it until after.

One time one of the Christian brothers was babbling on about some treacle about one of the saints, whom I gave not a fuck about. There were some cool saints to hear about. . .Saint Heckta, a loony tune possessed of much feverish faith, who iced some idolators with a broad axe, just ran through the pagans like a crazy bitch, swinging and playing Whack-a-Mole with the unworthy. This guy only concentrated on the more acceptable self-loathing whackjobs with their hair shirts and self flagellation.

On and on in this monotone drone. Brother Leo was the prick’s name, and finally I just thought to myself, “Jesus…H…Christ…will you just, please, God, shut him the fuck up.”

I heard some titters of laughter before I realized that I had actually SAID it, and then it was off to the races. Brother Leo engaging in the not very saintly, nor even Christian, act of beating the holy snot out of me. Brother Leo was pissed. His face was as red as a baboon’s ass and he was spitting while he was yelling and swinging like a madman. And for some reason, I started laughing my ass off, which pissed him off even more. He screamed, “Oh, you think this is funny, Mr. Funny-man!!!” and that did it. I couldn’t control the laughter then. I was laughing so hard my nose was running and I was snorting and the only thing I could think to say was, “God, you’re a fucking idiot.” This only prolonged things and finally I got sent to the office where I started laughing again and got suspended.

They told me I couldn’t come to school for three days.

Wow.

Hurt me.

Ouch.

Boo-Hoo.

The history I was taught was a lie. The math, I can do with a calculator. The English lit was the boring shit only Catholic schools would teach.

I went to a high school with no windows. At least in grade school, I could look outside at the birds. This became my great escape, and when I drew them, it became even better.

Often the drawings wound up situated in the middle of the crazed and vulgar doodles that I made. I didn’t realize it was my subconscious telling me to broom the rest of this shit and just go somewhere and draw. Eventually I got it. Drawing birds and naked girls became my passport to what the nuns used to call, “Tony World.” I liked it there.

I could do whatever the fuck I wanted there. When I was drawing, nothing that the teachers, cops, or other pain-in-the-ass authority figures had to say meant dick. It was all a blur and I learned how to shut out the noise.

I didn’t know it then, but those drawings were a foundation. . .the rock on which I built my work.

I still hate authority. Hate bosses. Bullies. And still insist on doing precisely whatever the fuck I feel like doing. I still doodle all of the time; eventually it turns into drawings. I still get the same subversive charge out of it. I’m happy that it has allowed me to not have a boss or have to kiss anybody’s ass or answer to any of the swinging dicks. I’m happy that at the end of my pencil is another world and I get to go there, and if I want, stay there. . .with the birds. I got it made.

Published in: on March 20, 2014 at 9:42 pm  Comments (1)  
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Lunch Drawing 41: Cinderella Blackbird

Lunch Drawing 41: Cinderella Blackbird

Published in: on March 19, 2014 at 11:39 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Lunch Drawing #38: The King Bird

Lunch Drawing #38: The King Bird

The common starling or European starling was introduced to North America a couple of centuries ago by enthusiasts of Shakespeare. That’s right, Shakespeare. I had to read that twice, myself. Evidently, the Bard was fond of the plucky bird’s gift for mimicry and a bunch of blue-bloods thought it would be jolly-good fun to have the little winged gangsters over here. The first thing the common starling did was muscle as many songbirds out of nesting spots as it could. It spread wildly, becoming one of the most successful species in the history of the continent. Particularly hard hit were bluebirds, who were pushed damn near across the Mississippi River, population wise. They are just beginning to come back now.

The common starling is a striking bird that gives off a metallic sheen of purples, reds, greens, bronzes, and bright yellows when the sun shines on its plumage. They are hearty and boisterous and given to spectacular flight when in large flocks that often result in “murmuration,” which often makes the sky itself appear to be changing shape. It is something to see thousands upon thousands of starlings moving as one shape-shifting organism.

At my feeder every morning the starlings are usually here first. Though they prefer berries and insets, the ywill suck down some seeds as well. They are improbably beautiful and tough little bastards. They are much like Irish brothers, in that they know the best way to win a fight, is to bring a crowd.

Published in: on March 1, 2014 at 2:57 pm  Comments (1)  
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