Tuesday, 31 May 2011
the atelier today
Monday, 30 May 2011
My first book of Memoirs
Recently I realized that it has been twenty years since I started writing a narrative nonfiction based on my daily ink on paper journal entries, that was when I moved a overstuffed cardboard box in my atelier causing a little black book to fall on my feet. Ouch! I opened it and read an entry from 1991, ouch again.
Over the years my first book of memoirs has been thrown in the trash several times, the last time was about a month ago when I discovered Janet Reid's blog, Query Shark, shortly after I had the great opportunity to pitch, in person, writer-agent John Cusick.
It was painful to realize that once again, all that work, 145 pages finely revised but dead-ending, had to go to the bin. After discovering flash fiction fridays where writers blog short-short stories, I decided to come out of the closet with my memoirs. But this time around I am one-hundred percent positive that the book will be finished.
Over the years my first book of memoirs has been thrown in the trash several times, the last time was about a month ago when I discovered Janet Reid's blog, Query Shark, shortly after I had the great opportunity to pitch, in person, writer-agent John Cusick.
It was painful to realize that once again, all that work, 145 pages finely revised but dead-ending, had to go to the bin. After discovering flash fiction fridays where writers blog short-short stories, I decided to come out of the closet with my memoirs. But this time around I am one-hundred percent positive that the book will be finished.
Friday, 27 May 2011
The publishing industry -vs- the art world
The more I read about the publishing industry the more parallels I see with the art world. There are too many writers seeking representation and not that many good agents. Connections are important. Writing and painting are full time professions. Showing and not telling is so important. How can you tell a painting? Too many sharks looking to make money off the vanity of the wanna-be's fill the ocean of both worlds. I think it is worse in the art world.
There are differences too. In the art world it is unusual that one can become a block buster after forty, but perhaps in with writing, yes. Writers communicate, rant and share on public forums. Artists hide in their caves guarding their secrets thus making the ocean more murky and easier for the predators.
In both arenas, it takes years of work, practice, and informing oneself to succeed, plus a thick skin that grows over time and through rejection. It seems though, with the revolution of e-publishing, that the writer's realm is facing a tsunami, everything will be upturned whilst the artists world remains in the age of the caveman.
There are differences too. In the art world it is unusual that one can become a block buster after forty, but perhaps in with writing, yes. Writers communicate, rant and share on public forums. Artists hide in their caves guarding their secrets thus making the ocean more murky and easier for the predators.
In both arenas, it takes years of work, practice, and informing oneself to succeed, plus a thick skin that grows over time and through rejection. It seems though, with the revolution of e-publishing, that the writer's realm is facing a tsunami, everything will be upturned whilst the artists world remains in the age of the caveman.
Thursday, 26 May 2011
palette-knife painting NYC by Angie Brooksby
Here is the last painting for the show that opens 8 June 2011 at the
Parisian Gallery Terre des Arts.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
palette knife painting NYC urban landscape
Here we are again, I feel like I'm icing a cake.
Count down 10 days to the show. I'm exhausted.
Can't wait until the opening is over, Oh whatever shall I wear?
JUNE 8 6P.M. at the Galerie Terre des Arts - Paris
Monday, 23 May 2011
The count down
Only ten days work days until the show at the Parisian gallery Terre des Arts. I just started another painting that will be the last before the show. The last one I did this size took over 30 hours to finish.
I look forward to when they send the chauffeur to collect the 21 paintings so I can concentrate on flying to Florence and finishing the first draft manuscript that I've been working on for the last twenty years. Less than a month ago I started once again from scratch and it is flowing. Show not tell. Show not tell. How can you tell what a painting is about. You have to see it, show it. It's the same thing, there's no gimmick.
Back to the easel.
I look forward to when they send the chauffeur to collect the 21 paintings so I can concentrate on flying to Florence and finishing the first draft manuscript that I've been working on for the last twenty years. Less than a month ago I started once again from scratch and it is flowing. Show not tell. Show not tell. How can you tell what a painting is about. You have to see it, show it. It's the same thing, there's no gimmick.
Back to the easel.
Friday, 20 May 2011
I sold my car for 400 bucks and bought a one way ticket to Florence
Today I logged on to Chuck Wendig's blog and learned that he is to become a father. I wish him all the best. I like Chuck Wendig's blog because he spills his guts, sometimes too much for my taste and seems to get diarrhea of the key board but it is Chuck that inspired me to come out of the closet.
Thanks again Chuck!
In 1988 I sold my honda civic for 400 bucks and bought a one way ticket to Florence Italy. It was hard to sell the clunker that had a collection of big round metallic pins stuck to the roof on the inside. It was gold colored and strangely enough, the owner of the house I lived at had the exact same car, same color, same year. That was when I had a P.O. box in a town called Detour, Maryland. For real! Don't laugh.
The summer in Detour, I sent a a post card to a guy in Baltimore that I had a crush on, these were the days when mobile phones and internet were sci-fi. When he saw me in September, back at art school, I asked why he didn't write back. He thought my address was a joke and then told me that I was like a weed growing in the cracks of the city sidewalk.
That was when I lost interest.
Not long after I decided to call it quits with the US, may I get severely chastised by saying this an lose my citizenship, I hope not. Oh well, what I couldn't stand was walking down the corridors of the high school and hearing my colleague students talk like they were on TV. I guess this dislike carried on too long.
In art school there were these kids that drove Mercedes to school and had jeans that were ripped on purpose to make them look artsy, perhaps I should use a French or an Italian word. Alla carte, d'arte, j'en sais quoi They were so damn boring. I had to get out and find a real frustrating experience to make me feel alive so I moved to Florence, Italy. Talk about bating at windmills.
I wanted to go to Paris but the guy I was in love with, at the time, lived in Florence. He was plagued by a certain malessere, that went something like: I would rather read 12 newspapers a day than study for the exam that will make me an architect instead of farting around spending my parents money while they live on 200 bucks a month and me 800, I'm too cool.
Despite his dis-ease with reality he was fun, for a while, and helped me spend those 400 bucks to purchase a super, 200E beige Vespa, which I used to ride into the Florentine Hills at 6 A.M. to paint the Tuscan countryside. That was the beginning of my painting career, wow!
Thanks again Chuck!
In 1988 I sold my honda civic for 400 bucks and bought a one way ticket to Florence Italy. It was hard to sell the clunker that had a collection of big round metallic pins stuck to the roof on the inside. It was gold colored and strangely enough, the owner of the house I lived at had the exact same car, same color, same year. That was when I had a P.O. box in a town called Detour, Maryland. For real! Don't laugh.
The summer in Detour, I sent a a post card to a guy in Baltimore that I had a crush on, these were the days when mobile phones and internet were sci-fi. When he saw me in September, back at art school, I asked why he didn't write back. He thought my address was a joke and then told me that I was like a weed growing in the cracks of the city sidewalk.
That was when I lost interest.
Not long after I decided to call it quits with the US, may I get severely chastised by saying this an lose my citizenship, I hope not. Oh well, what I couldn't stand was walking down the corridors of the high school and hearing my colleague students talk like they were on TV. I guess this dislike carried on too long.
In art school there were these kids that drove Mercedes to school and had jeans that were ripped on purpose to make them look artsy, perhaps I should use a French or an Italian word. Alla carte, d'arte, j'en sais quoi They were so damn boring. I had to get out and find a real frustrating experience to make me feel alive so I moved to Florence, Italy. Talk about bating at windmills.
I wanted to go to Paris but the guy I was in love with, at the time, lived in Florence. He was plagued by a certain malessere, that went something like: I would rather read 12 newspapers a day than study for the exam that will make me an architect instead of farting around spending my parents money while they live on 200 bucks a month and me 800, I'm too cool.
Despite his dis-ease with reality he was fun, for a while, and helped me spend those 400 bucks to purchase a super, 200E beige Vespa, which I used to ride into the Florentine Hills at 6 A.M. to paint the Tuscan countryside. That was the beginning of my painting career, wow!
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Cafe at the Marigny - the T
The girl leaned forward over the table, her shirt hiked up exposing the white lace “T“ of her thong. The frilliness contrasted dramatically with her clothes that were of cheap quality and mismatched. He didn’t notice, they were lip locked leaning into each other’s faces across the Pyrex bowl of French fries. The back of her head shifted anxiously while their lips suctioned an essence no one else at the Marigny perceived. Separated to breath she giggled, reaching behind her back to pull down her striped t-shirt.
The waiter came, perhaps seeing the breather as the moment to interrupt.
“What would you like for dessert?”
Neither noticed the waiter and locked their lips again once again exposing the "T."
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Bogged down by faces
There is so little time to write before June 8. My upcoming show is taking every breath. After twenty years I've discovered how to piece my memoirs together and that is all I want to do. It would be nice to be able to paint and write simultaneously.
The method is so simple that it made me laugh. Scene by scene, every action or dialog does one of three things. It builds character or setting or it advances the action. Now I know the project will pan into a book, the ending is in sight and mind.
It's like making a painting. Plotting then plodding. A painting must be like a short story and a series perhaps a novel. Every series of twenty has two or three excellent after 24 years of grinding away at the easel.
Now I've stopped painting faces.
They were killing me. Architecture's replaced people. It feels good to paint now, my mind free from the sad personalities of people Crossing Manhattan, that painting may go in the trash, cut into pieces.
The method is so simple that it made me laugh. Scene by scene, every action or dialog does one of three things. It builds character or setting or it advances the action. Now I know the project will pan into a book, the ending is in sight and mind.
It's like making a painting. Plotting then plodding. A painting must be like a short story and a series perhaps a novel. Every series of twenty has two or three excellent after 24 years of grinding away at the easel.
Now I've stopped painting faces.
They were killing me. Architecture's replaced people. It feels good to paint now, my mind free from the sad personalities of people Crossing Manhattan, that painting may go in the trash, cut into pieces.
A view inside the Atelier before the show
There is so little time to blog or even breath before the upcoming solo show at Galerie Terre des Arts. The last show there were 45 paintings, this time they're be fewer. Here's a look inside my workspace.
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