Moto mojo

1950a, 1960s, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Coffee Shot, Harley Davidson Patriot, Motorcycle Knockoff, Urban Rider

Hey, why not ride a motorcycle that looks like it was designed in the 40s. More so, put a ridiculous stereo on it, an American flag to show you are “a real American” and then strip.

Strip all common sense for your safety and the safety of your partner. After all, you ride a Japanese knockoff of some other famous brand. You know the one, the motorcycle that will soon use Europe as a more reasonable method of manufacturing. But you are one with the air and the road.

Fly on little wing, ride on.






Monster at the top

Acrobatic chairs, Chair, Chairs, Chaises, Monsters, Staircase, Stairs

Surveying where I sit and feeling safe is criteria number 1 where I eat. If they come, I have my escape route planned. Execution is a quick leap and out.

Staircases offer none of the above. Either direction, the geometry is not your best friend. Either way, “you’re going down”. Damn venues made from old houses.

Parachutes can’t pop open in tiny spaces.


America, American Illustrator, Architecture, Art, art, artist, Autumn, Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Bush, color, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, dreams, Fall Colors, Fall Leaves, Home, Old Neighborhood

yard 4

The houses in my neighborhood are close. In some places 2 meters for those outside the US. You can hear the neighbors arguing and their dogs barking indoors. It is an old neighborhood set higher than the river which floods and is call The Highlands.

Blustery and Fall seem to be upon us.


Barry Comer, Barry Comer Artist, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, EBD, kunst-papier, kunst-papier sketchbooks, Pen and Ink, Pen and Ink Illustration, Self Portrait, selfie, Special Education


Ever feel that a handstand sums it up? That was yesterday, tomorrow most likely, and today. I work with kids who are in crisis mode. They cannot fend for themselves and are emotional car wrecks. They likely will be the same tomorrow unless the heavens part and the tooth fairy does a drive-by.

Art is about expression and creating an emotional connection. If it does for you, read above. It did for me, handstand, left feet and a good dose of asymmetrical ball catching.

I miss paris

American Illustrator, Art, artist, Bars, Boulevard Saint-Germain, Cafe, Cafe Sketches, cafe sketching, cafe workers, confit du canard, David Hockney, Dessert, Dinner, Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiant Concentrated Watercolor, drawing, French, Paris Cafes

paris copy

A single flower illuminates a confit du canard, with a wine glass appropriately sized. Smells and touch; many textures. I miss speaking a language whose melody is sung in alley cafes.

Parts are home in memory. Parts are waiting for new eyes and newer touch.

2308 Portland Avenue

Art, Ohio River Settlements, Portland/Louisville, Urban Sketch, Urban Sketching

PortlandThis facade is among many in the Portland (Louisville) neighborhood.

First settled in 1811, it was the largest major settlement on the Ohio River. Because of the Falls of the Ohio canal, warehouses, shipyards and immigrants settled, helping to establish a vibrant community.

Many buildings still stand, representing a unique and functional architecture. (

Doodle bag

Art, Black-eye Susan, Doodle, Flowers, Messenger Bag


Sometimes I start out very seriously. I sketch using accurate proportion, line up what is intriguing and then feed my instinct. There are other times when either whimsy or being very casual take hold.

Either way, I finish what I started and evaluate the outcome. Do I like the line quality? Do I feel what I saw? Do I show to other people?

I don’t know how I feel about this sketch. Why did I draw Black-Eyed Susans? (

Whine the wind for another tale

beat poetry, Cemetery, Flowers, Illustration, Lilly, line art, Pen and Ink, pencil drawing, Summer Heat, Urban Sketching


Trickling some laughs and rippling steam,
allow my hands to palm the curve,
and smell my sense and shake the salt.

Ears and waves her boiler-room shy,
trust the touch; the experience of age.
Smell your sense and shake it hard.

Dance toes on scratch-grass roads, feel
the boil, touch the lip – don’t leave me alone.

Touch the sense and push it through.
Tap dance girls all smell the same.
Goofied smiles, such nervous sounds –
skin-squealed up like boards of steel.

Whine the wind for another tale.
Just some love for Summer, just
pickled stuff.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015

This land of which we speak

Apple, Apples, banana, Bananas, beat poetry, fruit, Fruit bowl, Limes, oranges


Yeah I am gonna like this one because it’s full of beat and rhythm no matter how or why – as the man said to me earlier today “there are plenty downtown, go there” and wondered what he meant and how he meant it. No difference to me since I hear too many pieces of counsel and advice known as friendly and natured – but find them intrusive all the same. Last week was a little bird who said – ”you want to know what I think” – not really – but I can get around to a small discussion once they have my brand back.

So I am driving and working myself to a hotter point of expressive twitches and feel the fingertips of a stranger pull me back – my shirt is stained from wiping my mouth and sweat still clings from walking my two or three depending on how I count – which way the map is headed. It’s stranger than dreams, you know the street scene this year, this summer of heat – the women cling to sidewalks and melt in blinks of the eye. I was a very lucky to notice not being very occupied – with eyes on the road, reading signs for sale and sold or rent.

In the mirror a friend of mine is a face of all things French and all foods that make the mouth sigh heavy. There always is food for memory and drink of the street – so stains cling – I don’t care. They are scars of memories – experiences and little beats – the heart, the heart – fusion reaction, no? This is the rhythm today – winds tear the beads of sweat – dripping stains on pavement. Sweet beats of prey who watch from windows at the corners of mouths that eat and cough – bits of paper napkins – late night people with hands-down belts who watch the road and the killers.

The people who beat to death, a funny way of expressing love, huh? Somewhere in this night which crushes all expectation – sometime in this evening which beats down, beats down – I find the little coin that has a flip-sided tails and gives good heads. It shines and twinkles of storied mythologies, famous foot in mouth for bold and lousy truth-telling – stories that match the hyperactive hawks that circle, circle and circle.

I dive under and swim the beat, pulse the rhythms of famous tidbits – the dreams, the expected demise of promised honey, this land of which we speak – so often – so mute.

2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015