oops!

Oops! I guess the thursday prompt arrived on a friday this week. Tells you something about out lives right now! Everything good, just a little upside-down. 

5/9/08 image prompt

something for your kids, or for the kid in you…

if you want to join in simply write up your piece and post it to your blog, then come back here and leave a comment saying its up. That way people can click on your address to find what you have written. I will gather up the writing and images and post them here as well. If you don’t have a blog but would like to participate email me and I’ll post your work here.

5/1/08 image prompt

(Please see the post beneath this one for new posting details!)

Here is this week’s image. This is a free for all. Kids are welcome, too.

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new thursday image prompt details

(this is not intended as the image prompt, although you are welcome to use it.)

I started this as a place to share my own work but find I am more interested in the stories, myths, parables and poetry others weave from the images, and the collaborations that follow.

Every Thursday I post a new Image Prompt. (Although you are welcome to use other images.)

If you would like to participate, simply write up what you have on say on your site, then come here and put a comment under the posting of the image saying, mine’s up here… That way everything is together under one image and if someone wants to read them all they can click the addresses in the names.

All responses go (as I find time!) into the growing Collective Storybook, and are credited and linked to your blog or website.

If you don’t have a blog but have something to post email me and I’ll make a page for it.

I’ll be moving my own writing and photos of works-in-progress to a yet-to-be-determined new site, reserving this space for collaborative work.

Aside from your work, all images and writing are original unless otherwise credited. Use the images for your work as you wish.

I’ll post today’s prompt after we meet with the midwife. (For real!)

(Thanks to Jo for her neat and tidy 2 cents worth.)

mary draws from silence

Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,

silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,

she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things

and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,

all things tossed or turned or treasured,

all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed

or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,

all things stirring, dead, or passive

all the unknown multitude of things

enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.

Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.

weighty voices on hallowed ground

below the image are links to some stunning work by a variety of poets

. Ozymandius wrote ‘Neath the Ground. His blog is Ocellus. Check him out!

. johemment’s poem, hallowed ground, and the link to floresence, her poetry weblog.

. short and not so sweet, by greybeard, author of crackedheadblog

. from bottlecapper, author of diary of a quitter, the poem hallowed ground

. poetry playtime, from misterbooks

. from myunclepepeksjournal, a quiet poem, hallowed ground

. paisley, impressed by intropolis‘ piece on nanda, wrote completion

. niebla, the voice of the hermetic weblog, niebla/fog, wrote dead suburb

. and we are patiently waiting to hear from lakota… and anyone else who would like to writ

Forgive me if I have misplaced anyone. If you do not see work that should be here please write me. If you have questions or suggestions leave a note in the comments or send me an email!

4/24/08 thursday image prompt

Internet, cable, phones - landlines as well as towers - have been out all day and are just now being restored. Someone (accidentally) cut the fiber optics trunk line running north from Santa Fe (New Mexico, USA) and feeding all of NW New Mexico. Major disruption here. Reminds me of “…for want of a nail a kingdom was lost…” Now, if we could only lose our mad, pathetic, dangerous king.

So, here’s the Thursday prompt. Not your happiest of images… The title of the painting is Hallowed Ground. It is approx. 4′ x 6′. It was painted on desert warfare-style camouflage material, using charcoal and acrylic washes. But don’t feel you have to include that title or spirit in your work. Take it is any direction you wish
Here is the image….

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4/23/08 stupid war (broadus mobbs)

It’s a family affair here. My son, Broadus, explained this picture, Stupid War, to me last year when he was 7. We worked on the painting together. The horse’s red leg is totally his.

4/23/08 nanda (image prompt)

james17930, author of the blog, Intropolis (and several others!), wrote Nanda, using the painting below as his starting point.

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paisley, author of why-paisley?? (and others!) wrote completion

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4/23/08 bird of paradise (paisley)

paisley, author of why paisley??, and some other great blogs linked there, chose to write about the painting below, (previously titled sun and moon). Her poem is bird of happiness.

4/23/08 Darfur Fridge (ozymandiaz)

just in from the incomparable oz, creator of the blog Ocellus, a poem about more than the darfur fridge

#22 earth day - seeing eve (pepektheassassin)

seeing eve, for earth day from pepektheassassin, author of the blog, myunclepepeksjournal. (Definitely go over and check out the blog!)

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triple damn cat

Opened the door to see the tail of the cat

that’s all I saw scat, just the tail of the cat

but the rest of the cat was there somewhere

I just didn’t know where (or really care).

Till down came the witch calling cat! cat!

where you at, cat? zoomin’ around on her

stick, pounding the ground yelling

cat! cat! even louder than that! I watched

through the crack in the door but the light

on the floor drew her look, and I knew I was

fucked, fucked, forever fucked, because

all that it took was one look and she had

me, every cell as it split and all of my entities

my extra personalities, my torn heart that

snagged on a branch as she flew off with

the cat, damn cat, triple damn cat and she

laughed, she laughed, imagine that? I’m all

hollowed out and she’ll eat me for lunch

and she laughs…

She goodnights the moon and she leaves

me alone thinking cat, cat, will you ever

come ever come ever come back? Cat?

Will you? Will you ever come back? Cat?

Darfur Fridge - thursday image prompt

(updated contributions to the collective storybook are found on the Storybook pages.)

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Hiking in the woods I found this rusting refrigerator that hunters had been using for target practice. I retrieved the door and it sat in the studio for a year or so until surfing the web I happened across some drawings by children who were survivors or refugees of war or civil unrest. The pictures were collected by Human Rights Watch workers helping the children and were put on the web here. A quick search found kid’s drawings dating back to the Spanish Civil War, WW1, WW2, the bombing of London, Germany, Iraq, Iran, Lebanon Chechnya and on, and on, and on…

I was moved to copy some of the drawings onto the fridge door, eventually adding some of my own but a good many of the drawings came directly from the kids. I added hunter/warrior figures found in cave paintings.

I then traced the figures onto steel plate and cut them out using a plasma torch. I painted some and backed them all with magnets so they are completely movable refrigerator magnets.

I have not been giving a back-story with the images thus far but this one seemed to ask for some explanation. If anyone feels moved to write from it I would love to read what you have to say. As always, if this image doesn’t suit feel free to take another.

(All 3 pics above are the same door, different shots. Steel cut-outs are on table. Sorry, have neither door nor good photos with me now.)

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I do this kind of work intuitively, trying not to analyze as I work. The images build and layer. I try to trust that inner sense, try to choose the best on the fly, sometimes backtracking, painting out, painting over, sometimes progressing to a finish. Sometimes knowing when I’ve finished, sometimes..

…I’ll ask my son, who’s eight, what he thinks.

“Well,” he says, “You’re making it different, but you aren’t making it better.”

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All of this is just to say that your thoughts on these things are as good as mine, often more interesting and sometimes more fun, and I welcome them.

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This week::

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Prester John, from crackedheadblog wrote faith without works.

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why-paisley??, rockin’ girl blogger, wrote darfur fridge

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expalla, known only as expalla (want help setting up that blog? write me) wrote a silly little door

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christine, prolific author of mariacristina wrote Lantana using the painting below as a starting point

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from the vanishing enigma (notwhatitseems)

Just recently did she vanish. Magically, mysteriously. We hope for a reappearance. I overlooked her thoughts on the chimera/child/rockhead thing, the painting below. So I’ll add them now.

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“I am no writer, so these are my feelings,

firstly the griffin, the magical winged creature, which seems to be comforting the mother with the ill (dying?) child……the central figure holding up the dreams of others, that maybe are lost and dying, the little sweet hedge hog, hiding in the corner,the wise guardian birds, perched on the mothers shoulder, the softness and sadness, and hope of it all, set against the backdrop of the harsh landscape…

hope in a bleak world for rebirth, and regeneration.”

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but you are a writer.

Whoooeeeeee!!! Guess what came in the mail today?

A poem from Lakota, author of the handsome blog, naughtylakota (be warned!). She’s been promising one, and wrote the ailing child to tell the story of the painting below. I believe she has tapped into her softer side…

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process - on the dangers of overpainting

or, how do you know when to stop? I like the life in the first two. It feels like I start to paint the life out in the next two. It is easy to overwork the painting I am focused on if I don’t have another that I can turn away to. That gives me a space where things can fall into place, so that when I return to the first painting I have a fresh eye. I also have to admit to a prejudice that doesn’t allow me to see charcoal and pastels on canvas as finished work, so sometimes in translating the work into a painting using, oils or acrylics, I lose the very things I liked.

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4/10/08 incongruent (whypaisley)

Here is a link to incongruent, a poem by whypaisley, creator of theinkpot, based on the image below-

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4/10/08 asherah (johemment)

johemmant, the author of florescence contributed asherah to the collaborative storybook, words to carry the image below.

work in progress 4/11/08

4/10/08 image prompt

That week rolled by quickly! Welcome to the collaborative storybook. The image above is the Thursday prompt. Jump right in! Your ideas are welcome here.

Colors aren’t quite as true but for higher resolution pic click on image below.

a little note of explanation…

…and a picture…

the reflection… is anything as it seems?

I wrote this upon the passing of my friend, Broadus Evans, from AIDS, just before the medicines that would have saved his life were introduced. He was a long-time activist in the African-American community in Wilmington, NC. He was an educator, counselor, a concert pianist and an activist in the gay and recovery communities there. He was valedictorian of his Williston High School class, the designated Black high school in the city. He graduated in the 1950’s (?) but he was not allowed the honor of speaking to his class at graduation because he was already “out” as a gay young African- American male. This, in the South, in the ’50’s was no small thing. He also made his own clothes and sometimes wore a black cape. When I met him he scared the shit out of me. I am grateful to him for a lot of reasons, one of them being that in a very short while he also started to shake the homophobia out of me. He was an interesting and wonderful, beautiful man, and I still miss his friendship. My wife and I named our son after him.

I am re-posting the poem today because I think it says a lot about where my art comes from, which I started thinking about because of a comment I read this morning. (Thanks, enigma.) But it’s long. I just read it again. I don’t know if it’s legal to write a poem this long. But I don’t know where to chop it.

SIZZLE

Sigh, child, and sink into the world you know.
Let butterflies appear in snow.
So what, if the rains come back to Nicaragua?
They always do. Would you add your wishes
to the weight of ignorance
that presses down upon the world?
I don’t think so. There’s work to do.

You stand inside a world that moves on wooden wheels
and as you watch the chirping cart
roll across the concrete cobbles,
a child up-ends a bucket,
and wears it on his head, and laughs for you.
Can you remember, and paint that laughter?

And those trucks that died beside the road
and all those tools that proved so useless.
The way he threw them down and hiked the mile,
and then on top of that, the extra mile
to walk along with you.
Can you paint those colors, too?

Try to find the spirit that inhabits an abandoned truck,
and you’ll have found the trick to universal language.
We know that face, that truck, that walk.
Just like we all spot the places
where the city keeps her secrets safe
and where the forest ties the secret love-knots in her braids.

Listen, it’s good you burn the candles
for the children of the dawn,
and all the men and women
laboring in Chinese prisons;
it’s good you recognize that we are one.
But what did Broadus say about the meantime?

Crack the word and drop its contents on the frying pan,
and listen to your mornings start to sizzle.
Think about that old black man who took the time,
(before he left to do his dying)
to send you north to find your father and your son.

You brought them home. Paint that.
You’ll find the recognition that you want inside your bones.
And who knows, friend, who knows?
You may find your brush has known the grip of other men,
and other women. Their hands will lead your hands, if you will let them.

The rains will come. The hurricanes, the liquid eyes
of thirsty, starving, children. Will these things change
for all your writing, all your painting?
Perhaps the best that we can do is celebrate, and honor them.
Ask the dancer. What he knows is he must spin and spin and spin,
and after that he has to practice spinning.

Don’t think you are the first to wonder at the questions.
That’s why we came. Feel sadness when you lose your friend,
and you may truly wish to die if you should lose your lover,
or your children. We are mated to illusions real as frying pans,
as eating. Grief is spelled out in our bones
and we are issued names to lose, at the beginning.

Didn’t Broadus tell you? I think he must be grinning.
You didn’t know he died? You have missed a thousand things
I would have shared, but gave up trying.
Now, the time has rolled around again.
I revise my gift and place it on the table as my offering.

In the meantime I build shrines, and travel.
I talk to cats and listen for their names.
I bear witness to small miracles of pleasure and of pain
and sketch them out, and write them down in long-hand.
I charge the little world I know with color,
I store milagros on computer.
One day, I’ll meet the spinning dancer who can dance them.

For now I watch the river run.
I work, and do these meantime things.
Paris and New York? It’s you I am committed to.
The children begging in the streets of Rio, the kids in Guatemala
huffing fumes and solvents, people running for their lives,
and all the cats and dogs we lose…

The way that politicians try to eat our children…
even as they promise us our safety, even as they promise us
our freedom, and the nightmares that daily feed upon us,
breathe and eat us, one by one.

The bridges that collapse beneath the best and worst,
that do not hold the weight of love,
that do not hold the weight of hope.
And the sleep which brings relief from these assaults,
and brings relief from their amazing weight,
or we should truly die from grief. This is the raw material
of our meantime. This is where our art comes from.

My words are marked, and handed down from trees.
What should I eat? Should I wear leather?
Should I buy this thing if it was made in China?
Plastic, or paper? How much does it matter?

I have a small gift to offer: I would see you dressed in rose petals,
sprays of hyacinth, lavender and lilac, covered with mother-of-pearl,
with diamonds, with the painted shells of almonds.

I would brush your skin with feathers, with starlight, with small pebbles.
And I would see your daughter learn to dance, unashamed, entirely naked,
across the universe, the seas, and stars and flowers.

Because the gift of the heart is one gift, it’s breath one breath,
its word one word. It speaks with one tongue,
in one language, one idiom.
And love sits on her throne. She seats herself, and listens.
She is easy with the world. She relieves us of our burdens

work in progress

today’s work.

murals and LARGE art

A recent comment (from Paul) proposed the idea of scaling one of the these images up to, say, 5 meters x 10 meters. I haven’t been thinking in terms of street murals but I like the idea. The largest backdrop I have painted was an 18,000 sq. foot cyclorama for the movie, Muppets From Space. For feature film and tv most production designers want to see their vision come to life, but a few designers have given me a free hand to design as well as execute murals and backdrops. I designed and painted the main set murals for the weird tv series, American Gothic, and for the feature films, Deceiver, Body Count, and The In Crowd. The backdrop below was for The In Crowd. It measured 20′ x 20′ and was painted on translucent plastic roofing material. It played in a rave scene in a warehouse, with highway construction lights burning through it from behind.

(The American Gothic murals were supposed to represent the dark events that have darken the history of a small southern town. It was a great little show. I’m sorry it went off the air.)

works in progress

Both started from charcoal rubbings. Expect they will both change a lot.

Lost my camera so I took these with my laptop. Good only for a rough idea.

And, oops! images reversed by laptop camera. Will correct in next take.

the collaborative storybook

I am trying to find a graceful way to publish in one place all the stories and poems and myths contributed, and to create an easily read storybook. I first tried posting all the pictures and responses on one page but then realized it would be confusing if viewers wanted to comment on individual entries. But perhaps it would be better to post each contribution separately with the image and complete text? Feedback and suggestions appreciated (especially from those with design minds) and story/poem/myth-making/art contributions welcomed!

Click here for an interesting description of ekphrasis.

about image prompts

Tonight I added a page - image prompts

to have a place to post the myths, stories and poetry that come in as responses to the image prompts I’ll be putting up here on a weekly basis. Look for a new image on Thursdays… (this will keep me busy in the studio trying to stay a bit ahead). I suppose I’ll post things as they come in, unless people would like them all put up on a certain day. In the spirit of collaboration please let me know your preferences. I am wide open to suggestions.

Also, please feel free to interpret/reinterpret any of the images on this blog and to post the images on your blog sites. I will do my best to credit everyone who participates. And the more, the merrier. It’s all in fun.

Spring is here.

an open invitation to write about a painting, or two…

Last week, feeling on the moody side, I posted an image without an accompanying poem or explanation, asking if anyone would like to make up a story to go with the image. Jo of floresence and Oz of ozymandiaz responded and the result was two of the most interesting and original posts on this blog. Since I have way more original images than I have things to say about them I would like to offer them up for others to play with.

These are narrative paintings, but I don’t always take the time to locate the stories and anyway, my interpretations shift and change according to the day and context, so other’s takes on the images are usually as valid and sometimes a lot more interesting than my own.

We could try something like the format of ‘Totally Optional Prompts’, or do something more informal on a weekly basis and just wing it. We can begin with these two images. Anyone who wishes to write about one or the other or both can post on their blog and send me a link, which I will then post here. Also, please feel free to copy and paste the images into your post on your blog. If that doesn’t work or you would like a higher resolution copy please just ask in the comments section or email me at painter@rickmobbs.com

(Clicking on the images below should take you to the same image of a higher resolution.)

(I tried to post these side by side but that is beyond me just now.)

trials of the ugga bugga man

or, one person’s ceiling is another one’s floor, or, the worlds we carry do get heavy sometimes. Maybe, I’m glad the snake is friendly?

I am finding that as much as I love this blogging experience, and the people I am starting to recognize and enjoy online, it is taking a little too much of my attention right now. (Moderation being an ancient challenge.) I would like to have my tea and drink it, too. I found the collaborations with Jo and Oz interesting and rewarding and great fun. I wonder how to structure an open invitation to others to write stories or poems to accompany the images I spin out here. Maybe a weekly image? I am wondering if there would be any interest - and what would make sense and what would be fun for others. Your thoughts invited here and your suggestions welcomed. I am blown away by the way the images have been received and would like to make them available to poets and storytellers who might be interested in doing something with them.

a moody little drawing

a moody little painting sits atop a moody little piece of writing

a moody little piece of nonsense

Water is the sound of small boys throwing stones and chunks of iron and old bones into the ocean. Water is the sound of bones dissolving. Water is a black sound. Is there a blacker sound?

“Who goes there?” asks the moon. The moon had been sleeping in the sun, just the crescent of its eye is open.

“We do,” say the neck bones.

“We do,” say the vertebra along the upper spine.

“We do,” say the plates and blades and sticks of bones, the ligaments, the balls and sockets of the shoulders.

“Hold us up,” they say to the moon.

“I can’t,” the moon replies. “Your strings are broken.”

The swish and swirling chuckle of the ocean as it sucks the marrow from the bones and grinds them down and pulverizes them?

A distant sound like church bells ringing from the sandy cones of anthills. A pure sound, with tiny undertones of gravity, and rain approaching?

Rain through fig trees, rain through broad leaves, rain through palm trees, rain through sand, washing nutrients from tired bones.

“What of our addition?” say the old ones, “Our subtraction?
Our multiplication? Our division?”

“Your calculus is sand, your sand is glass, your glass is time, your time is mine,” the wind hisses through teeth closed against the rain. ”I am coming for you now. Are you ready? Get ready then.”

The old guys hoot and cackle so as the wind removes their arms and legs, their livers and at last, their heads. Without heads they can’t remember anything.

“Begin again,” the moon suggests. “Start with a rocking motion.”

“One starfish from the ocean, two starfishes on the sand, three turtles and a house of glass, an hourglass, a box of time. A zero moving in a stream. A little thing. A rose. A rose is missing.”

“Where is my rose?” I asked the moon. I was with the other kids tossing things into the ocean. I had found a piece of bone. Raised threads across an etched surface. Minute breaks and cracks, star patterns. One end sheared. Inside were hidden chambers, hollow rooms, supporting columns. I felt something. The wind laughed. I knew the moon winked at the wind. I chucked the thing into the ocean and heard the sound a grain of sand makes when it separates and falls, featherless and mostly round, through the hourglass when the glass is opening.

“Where is my Rose?” I ask again.

The moon says nothing; it seems saddened. The wind puts bow to string and turns. His audience is the universe that I am standing in. I cover my ears but I still hear the sound. Sad notes run down the string and I am crying.

“Why am I crying?” I ask the moon.

“Your Rose,” the moon prompts kindly.

“Hush,” says the wind. The wind is always hushing someone.

Now the scene has changed. The boys are gone. Gone the ocean, beaches, sand. Water is a black sound where creation was. Water is an opening in the wind. Water is a mindless thing. The wind is endless repetition. Water is oblivion, my hearts longing.

“Chide me, then.” I say to the wind. “Say something.” Willows weep around me but they are water trees, like cypress. They were meant to weep and go on weeping.

I can’t ask the moon for answers. The moon won’t answer direct questions. Focus on the crashing breakers and the star above the sound.

“I want to know who you are.” I say to the star.

It danced with rose and amber through horizons layered without end, mists the final breath of friends, enemies, lovers and companions. Endless generations and that single point which burned so fine an opening through every one. For a second the dots connect and then the mist rolls in again. I reach and see my hand dissolve.

“Dissolve the rest of me,” I demand, but the wind refuses to hold coherent sound. I have my thoughts, my emotions. I have my sense of dread and my well-honed sense of longing. I have air but it will not carry words.

I was upset. It is so hard, using prayers when I want to tear words out of the sky.

Every new horizon brings a concerto of popping strings, and each time I return I see my star and I say, “Come here, come home to me.”

“I am home,” the star sings. “I light a world. I can’t leave.”

“You are a coward”, I whispered into my tin can. “You are not brave. You should not do this to me.”

She did not answer. She did not leave, she drew no closer, nor did the pattern of stars around her change.

“Leave them!” I cried.

No answer. I turned to the moon.

I explained my situation. I said, “No power here, I have no power.”

“Neither you, nor any other,” said moon to flower.

“And I don’t feel much like a flower.”

“You are,” the moon said. “You are.”

Tell me, how can I believe I am a flower when the life I breathed for is such a dim star, so far away, over so much water?

collaboration #2, on ’standing in the shadows’, a poem by oz on a painting by rick

I am honored that the very able and gifted Ozymandiaz (ocellus) responded to the invitation to make up a story about the painting below with the poem below that. Please visit his blog for more great stuff. (I would like one day to illustrate one of his wilder pirate poems.)

The remarkable collaboration with Johemment (floresence) follows this post.

Neath the ashen sky
Her spirit strong and true
Some saw but a mare
But the wisest knew
The painted desert soul
Watching o’er this land
Known well as the wind
Known well as the sand
Presents herself this day
To run and to fly
In form seldom seen
Neath the ashen sky

johemmant’s story (florescence) a collaboration

This post is a collaborative effort. Johemmant, author of floresence, wrote the wonderfully evocative story accompanying the painting below. Please visit her blog to read many more wonderful and beautiful things.

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(jo’s story)

We were resting after a long day in the fields when the children came running, shouting excitedly of angels and unicorns. We would have thought it a game and sent them away but an elder pointed to the sky silver with cloud and told us to listen to the wind in its lament. We rose then and followed their raggletaggle to the edge of the village where the salt flats begin. And the children were right, these were not figments but the archetypes of our dreams.

I stand at the edge,
a myth sheltering under
my outstretched wings,

their eyes hostile
holding us here though

I have been amongst them
every day, a shifting

shadow, a soft breath
on a tired cheek.

But I see my mistake.
Men do not want proof,

they would rather
have faith.
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My brother and I are the fastest runners and arrive first, laughing but I look over my shoulder and see my father’s face, know at once that he is afraid. I reach for my brother’s hand and draw back.

johemmant’s story (florescence) - standing in the shadows

Jo, the wonderful author of florescence, has written a story to accompany the painting in the post below. I am charged by the collaboration. You can find the storypoem here. I highly recommend a visit for everything else there, as well. We will put our heads together and hopefully soon post both picture and poem on our respective sites.

a picture for the moment - standing in the shadows

something for this rainy day. would anyone like to make up a story?

notes upon the windowsill

well, nobody asked, but I’ll try to explain it anyway, if only for myself. I can’t remember if the post below - She sits upon a windowsill - started as a journal fragment or as a line that jumped into my head and I decided to see where it would take me. Something starts as an impulse to write or an image to describe, grows into a collection of lines or sentences, tries to become a poem, maybe becomes a poem. Sometimes the poems start to bulge and buckle and I’ve got the beginning of an epic poem on my hands.

So okay, I go with that and it goes along until I realize that I’m never going to read a 27 page poem and there is no reason to expect anyone else to. So I try to recast it into something else, maybe like this dense little wonder. And sometimes works and sometimes it doesn’t. It also sometimes twists into something darker.

And it goes until it seems like maybe I am working on a short story, or a chapter of a book. Both way beyond what I can manage at this point so here is where I duck back into painting. This particular effort seems to want the chopping block… any feedback sincerely appreciated…

the kiss of the fourth wind