P  R  O  J  E  C  T     N O. 3 

paintings & procrastinations


Laundry Prison
Instead of fluff and fold, I feel fluff and old.
Living more the life of a maid than an artist lately, but I do love to have a homey home for my family.
Always trying to figure out how to strike that balance.

Being Mom.
Standing nervously at a closed door, straining to hear my son's NYSSMA performance—I become a living, breathing stereotype. After weeks of driving to lessons and ordering extra strings and the right sheet music, I believe I earned the right, thank you very much.

All a Glow
After the meter was turned off on my Mom Taxi, I decided to "fill the well", as they say, and wander through Anthropologie. Love this display of dried oranges and lemons. I'm eager to try this myself. So beautiful!

So what's that you say? 
Oh, right. I'm supposed to be sharing art. Right, right. Well after a delightful routine mammogram and food shopping, I have returned to my studio 
(really just a corner of a room, but let's ignore that fact.)

Experiments in Framing
Playing around with framing up Barrette Girl and the shot of last week's pretty pigeon. Just waiting on more prints to arrive tomorrow and I will add them to the mix.

My work on "The Face Book" continues.
I have continued dreaming up the lives of Duke and Barrette Girl as they meet working at MaxMart. (Ya know, the big box store with the tagline, "GO TO THE MAX!")
I now introduce intimate details from the life of 
Duke Francis Stein:

The Incarnation of Duke Francis Stein

Duke’s mother, Margaret Stein, died when Duke was eight. He often visited her grave where he would refer to her as Regret Stein, an inside joke with himself. His attempt at making light of all their lost opportunities. It wasn’t enough to fade the sadness tattooed in his eyes. He lived with his Aunt Lu, a chain-smoker with a passion for reality TV. He prefered to be alone, but lived a textured inner life. A poet clothed in a cashiers smock, he scratched out spontaneous phrases on the back of forgotten MaxMart receipts, and thrust them into his pocket to be smoothed out later that evening. A book housing backward receipts could be found on his bedroom floor, the binding cracked from the added burden of paper and tape.