homie-prayer-shrine

Ok. So this is hilarious.  This comes from a new favorite blog, Craftastrophe (because handmade isn’t always pretty).  The title of the post is “Our Father Who Art in Heaven, What Up, Yo” and the post says “Because even thugs and homies have to repent their sins.”  See the little thug in the little point of the heart?  The rosarie hanging around his feet has a little plastic gun dangling from it.

bird bull

Still working small and quick and theiving from Picasso.  This one is from a 1941 pencil sketch.  I don’t know what I’m going to do with all of these.  If I’m going to sell them, I’ll have to matte and frame them which will be expensive.  I know there are artists who do “painting a day” exercises and then sell the results for el cheapo.  Maybe…

I say “Our Father” to my kids every night.  My favorite part of that prayer is “thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven”.  I think I take solace in the the simple idea of the divine existing inside of, or even in close proximity to, this reality.  I sometimes have trouble believing in the idea, but the fact that the idea exists is nice.  My mother won’t let this comment slide without bringing up Swedenborg, and, indeed, that idea is at the heart of his theology.  My pal Joe Campbell liked to quote the gospel of Thomas on this one too, “the Kingdom of the Father is spread upon the earth, but men do not see it.”  I’m not sure why today’s entry is generating this stuff.  Maybe it’s just in the air in my studio.  It could be the fumes from the spray varnish.

For some reason, I keep returning to an interview I heard with the poet Patricia Smith recently on To The Best of Our Knowledge.  She spoke briefly about the idea that most people aren’t aware that they have a “second throat”.  I looked around for a quote and bumped into this:

Some time ago, poetry ceased to be something that I do
for fun and became the way I process my life. I would write
even if I had no books, if there were no audiences. I’d write
and read my poems to myself. When the world closes in,
poetry helps me find a safe place to breathe and be. I don’t
know if I could live without it. It’s my second throat, the
way I’m rooted in the world. This is who I am.

I’m going to hang onto that phrase, “second throat.”  It’s an odd phrase but very apt at describing the muscles I’m trying to excercise when I’m in my studio.  And painting and writing are not just what I do, but are, like Patricia says, the ways I’m rooted in the world.  I fear a world where I’m not connected by these things.  The divine is most present for me when I’m speaking with my second throat.  That first photo in this post is there to remind me that a sense of humor is woven very tightly into my throat, tied up in my roots.  What up, yo?