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henchmanI used to ride a Ducati Monster, and now miss it dearly. Among all the bikes I owned, it was my favorite. It made kickass sounds in shades of black in muted chrome. Plus, it was my only transportation year-round.

If it snowed, I found a groove in the road and off I slid. The most frightening experience was riding in hail, but can’t tell you why. It was a been there, done that sort of thing.

The image is how I looked in my mind’s eye. Yeah, the baddass artist from hell. The one who scared himself too many times.

Crisp brown

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The wind is stirring my dirt, with rain and scents in crisped and brown. You are here, time wound, now sprung. Floating delivery, you brought me here.


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Let’s imagine a student in class today who said, “I am going to stab you in your head and then shit and pee on your grave”, and me saying “OK”.

What else could I say?

The kid was angry and lost it for about 2 hours. It’s difficult not to fall into the trap, feel threatened and angry with a 10-year-old. However, I don’t, never will and kept my senses clear.

This painting is what I felt, what I knew could have happened. Another time. Another place.


Project One: Barry Comer and Richard Guest

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Thank you Richard for a satisfying, creative experience. Whenever you want to collaborate again, I’m your artist. To all who enjoy this post, please review Richard’s entire site. His art is extraordinary and refined. (


The Future Is Papier Mâché

This is a project by Barry Comer and Richard Guest.

Barry and I have never met in the physical world. He is based in Louisville, Kentucky and I live on the edge of London. I have long admired his drawings. So I jumped at the chance when Barry suggested we work together.

At the top of this post you can see Barry by Barry and Richard by Richard. Having agreed to work on each other’s images in a game of consequences/ exquisite corpse kind of way, we swapped self-portraits.

The idea was to pass the images back and forth a set number of times, each adding to (or subtracting from) both portraits, and responding to the other’s changes. In my case, I had a hidden agenda and sought:

(a) to bring out my idea of who Barry is (based on his blog and my knowledge of him from emails etc)…

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I like a big brush

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I am exhausted this first week of school, and knew it would be difficult. How difficult… very. In fact, I have not had the energy or inspiration to settle in to a drawing, much less paint it.

Tonight I didn’t compromise, but I relied on an old standby; me. What better way to express this fatigue than with color, lines and mood.

I like persevering and holding a big brush.

My friday self

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It was a great week for illustrating and for discovering new pathways of line and paint. Even if I didn’t post as much as usual, I learned a lot from my errors and false starts.

I used to hate wasting a page in my sketchbook, until I realized that my perceptions needed the adjustment. Paper comes cheap, lessons and honesty are harder to find.

Let ‘er rip Let ‘er rip Let ‘er rip.

Self portrait

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I’m finally learning how to “get myself”, but wonder why it’s been so difficult. I’m not particularly scarred or too much of a pretty boy.

In fact, I am 60 and finally becoming more interesting to observe and live with.

The wrinkles are starting to really kick in, my eyes are sunken from irregular sleep and the stress from teaching has made an interesting groove. I like myself this way and think that anyone who is picture perfect needs to get some experience. The line part of this painting is particularly satisfying. There is not too much nor too little content. Implied shape is much more interesting.

Friday is a great day to go tripping.

Her breath greases grip

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me copy3.

Hair sweet movement – stops and starts

while breath fixing down, way down –

she hangs to life.

Oh, she sees no end in sight.

Poor baby lost in lust, an addiction to

white boys and servants.

This is final she kids him not.

No more, no less – just right.

A sweet serving and pass the salt.

Arms fixing hair while hands hang on.


Her breath greases grip.

She held tight.

This doesn’t mean much if

you weren’t there to see.

If you were and she was – colored

paper rang all the news.

She sees no end in sight, so

she left her grip.

She fell six inches deep.

Canyon standards.

I say.

2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Color my dreams

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Everybody rides the wave of time.
Some ride fast and others, perch slow.

All make book for the end of light, for the
ride of demise where day is left, unwritten.

Peaceful playground, my imagination, this
zoo of misfits who color my dreams and hue
my light.

Focus of clarity sees through my window
and history is made, but yet be blended; my time,
the time and my reality.

We ride the train, where merciful stories puff so slowly.
I guest with an owner, we write together, we share
the ingredients, our dreams.

Puff a wave, feel the sensation of melange
and fingers making beat to time, in me.

2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

Garbage of song list memory

Self Portrait, selfie, Selfies, Sketchbook, Sketching


She walks with dead in her eyes and

speaks of dead in her throat – that

lovely woman with cigarette forests in ashtrays

and swirling ravens for hair.

Where are you going sweet one, dearest fawn

of darkened pathways at noon.

You were laughs of lunch, you the stuff –

so much for that.

Nighttime driving seeing double dippers and naked romps –

so much for wildings – they count for nothing now.

Garbage of song list memory. Rotten the secret twinkle and

lost, are you to me.

Shoo Bop Shoo Bap