These prints have been waiting to go back up on the wall since 2017 when our house flooded. Finally, they are back where I can see them on the daily.
This series of photos has a title: People Enacting the Behaviors of Urban Animals. This work was made after the housing market bubble burst in 2008 and so many people found themselves in dire straits.
These prints can be bought separately or as a group in the shop.
1st in a series of five ink jet prints, 2010
2nd in a series of five ink jet prints, 2010
3rd in a series of five ink jet prints, 2010
4th in a series of five ink jet prints, 2010
5th in a series of five ink jet prints, 2010
Playlist as application. Playlist as antidote. Playlist as the question. Playlist as the moon walk. Playlist as the inside joke. Playlist as a shiny object. Playlist as morning ritual. Playlist as cross section. Playlist as treasure map. Playlist as life preserver. Playlist as an apology. Playlist as the equation. Playlist as the connection. Playlist as milkshake…you get the idea.
#thechemicalbrothers #madonna #gheist #joydivision #suzannevega #fleetfoxes #junip
The playlist as an expansion of space. The playlist as leaf in a dining room table. The playlist as an extension of tunnel. The playlist as bookmark hidden in a PDF. The playlist as a universe running parallel to a universe running parallel to yours. The playlist as something that never happened. The playlist as ghost feeling. The playlist as a contemporary art form. The playlist as stylus. The playlist as escapism. The playlist as foundation. The playlist as a proof. The playlist as wish list. The playlist as past time. The playlist as turf wars. The playlist as scrapbook. The playlist as outline. The playlist as an alternative to biting your fingernails or flailing the skin on the sides of your thumbs. The playlist as a beige veil. The playlist as guest room. The playlist as intuition. The playlist as a family of raccoons living in your garage. The playlist as your humble opinion. The playlist as an algorithm. The playlist as a set of specific parameters. The playlist as your time-worn excuse…you get the idea.
I am hoping that the second half of 2021 might mean a return to exhibitions and galley shows. I obviously haven’t had a show since 2019. I don’t have anything lined up yet, but we shall see.
Here is a link to my exhibition history.
Recently, my son said to me, “I’ll probably never have to take my kids to Disney. We’ll be able to experience it right in our living room.” I’m not really sure how I feel about this.
New painting.
Check out the gallery for more info.
a snippet from Your Silent Face:
Sometimes the humidity caused my thick bang to wing away from my forehead like a Lays potato chip. I looked more like Duckie from Pretty in Pink than Tom Bailey of Thompson Twins. It could have been worse, though. I could have looked like the lead singer from A Flock of Seagulls.
In Nigel’s bedroom, the question buzzed the air like a fly: “Now what?”
“Let’s make a cento.” I sat at the typewriter. You could only play so many records in one shitty night: R.E.M., Clan of Xymox, Kraftwerk, Brian Eno.
“A poem made out of lines from other poems.” Nigel yawned. Was he impersonating my best imitation of the HAL 9000?
Kimberly sat on the edge of the bed, as motionless and oblivious as a rose in my grandmother’s crystal vase.
(Grandma Norcross loved fresh flowers.)
Karen sat by the window. The light allowed me to admire her wheat-colored hair, the fresh Page Boy haircut, the way she tilted her head and pointed her chin at an obtuse, hostile angle.
I wondered about her.
Nigel snapped photos of their faces, torsos, legs.
Stay here, I told myself.
Nigel quoted a line of poetry from memory (from T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock): In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo.
“Good one,” I said, typing. We were almost out of beer.
Nigel and Karen bickered.
“The old modes are dead.”
“And a cento is new?”
“We have to stretch the boundaries.”
“With lines from poems that have already been written?”
“Everything’s been written.”
“Lame.”
There was a stack of library books beside the typewriter with due dates that had expired six months ago.
Karen drained the fibrous pulp of a California Cooler. Where had she found them?
“Fuck poetry.”
“No!”
“There have to be different modes of communication.” Nigel sighed. “Different openings. Different end games.”
Ennui flitted through the weak light of the room like a battered moth.
“How about slamming a beer?”
Poetry was taking a beating. The cento was trapped in the typewriter—the pale figure in Magritte’s painting, ‘The Menaced Assassin,’—beyond resuscitation.
“All right, fine. Fine.” The cameras were rolling. “I’ll slam a beer by myself. Who wants to see me slam a beer?”
Kimberly tipped her hat back. Something was happening somewhere.
“Me,” she squeaked.
I gave her a look. My eyes said, “Did that noise come from you?”
For the first time all night, Karen cut through the awkwardness and spoke to her. “No. No, you don’t. Don’t encourage him. He’s already trashed.”
I wasn’t.
“Karen!” Nigel exerted more energy than he’d expended all week. “Stuart is no mere amateur when it comes to slamming a beer. I’ve seen him slam any number of beers. I think you owe him an apology. Look! You’ve wounded him.”
Wounded was not exactly what I was feeling. I was feeling more like a funnel cloud.
“Dude!” He was more animated than he became after two Long Island iced teas at El Oasis and the DJ put on ‘How Soon Is Now?’ “You have been challenged by this, this woman. She has challenged the value of poetry—arguably the highest art form.”
Karen laughed. “For Christ’s sake, let’s just make a cento.”
Kimberly looked like she was witnessing a stick up in an East Side bakery.
“No!” I put my foot down. I was calm. I was anything but calm. I positioned myself at the end of the bed. “It’s too late. Look! The cento lies bleeding on the Smith Corona, clamped beneath the paper bail like a fox with its leg in a trap. Nigel, change this fucking record!”
Nigel slid a record from its cover and spun the grooved plastic disc between his fingertips until the side he wanted faced him. “This should help.” New Order’s Power, Corruption and Lies.
I looked around Nigel’s bedroom. I vowed to myself that I would sit around and tape all of these albums and cassettes after I moved in, that I would not leave this house for a solid week. Maybe I would read all of the books, too.
The speakers hissed. ‘Your Silent Face.’ Not exactly a rousing tune. Raising the bottle to my lips, I chugged the warm beer while Nigel feinted around me like a boxer, snapping pictures. We’d been drinking for over an hour, I was drunk, was well aware that the foam might easily trigger my ultra sensitive gag reflex—which just might make for an ugly painting, a fucked up still life or a poorly executed landscape, a pile of puke on the carpet or bed—but I didn’t give a damn. Chugging the beer, the cassette in my mind spun maniacally. Now what? Now fucking what? Desperate times require desperate acts. It was a sentiment Nigel had stolen from the Surrealists. And then, reaching the dregs and foam, I blindly whipped the bottle toward the window like a Frisbee with a flare that was as reckless and blind and aggressive as it was impressive and graceful, and for a split second the words Oh, shit visibly appeared in the front of my mind like a neon exit sign as Kimberly clapped, almost giddy, and Karen and Nigel froze.
The green bottle pushed through the sheet.
Nothing happened.
It was as if, during a chess match, I had sent the chessmen flying across the room with a sudden, vicious swipe of my forearm. None of us knew how to respond. The last Grizzly roared its fucking head off in Nigel’s primeval forest, flexed its dark claws, bared its bloody teeth. Karen gulped for air. Kimberly’s voice was like velour. “That was wooowwww.” I hadn’t seen Nigel this animated since the night he’d given the bouncers the double barrels in front of El Oasis. He was riding over a cliff on the backs of a herd of swine possessed by demons. “You broke out, man! You broke free. I don't know what else to say. This is why we need beer, right? This is why we need art. Fucking a, man. This is what the Surrealists were talking about.” He implored us to comprehend him one last time, using frantic gestures and wild expressions, as he went over the cliff. “There are things we can’t describe with words, right? Karen, shake his hand. Somebody do something! Wait, let me take a picture!” He backed away, and tripping on the corner of the bed, toppled over the mattress and landed on the floor with a thud, his elbow cracking a bowl of moldy macaroni-and-cheese into shards.
#happyfriday #80s #NewWave #GenX #postpunk #flint #poetry #neworder #comingofage #novels
--you don't have to wonder about this novel anymore, it's live, it's available:
This collection of poems was compiled in 2010. The cover art was created by Travis Bruce Black. Thank you, Trav! And it is a free pdf. This collection was loosely inspired by seeing the documentary of Philippe Petit, Man on Wire. The poem “Can I Get a Witness” was a challenge by my friend and fellow poet, Angela, to write a poem that closed with woot! The hard copy of this possessed a glossy cover and was bound with shiny gold binder clips because that is how I roll. I might argue that this collection contains mature Tim Lane, but others might debate this self-serving proclamation, so I won’t even bring it up.
#poetry #manonwire #PhilippePetit #lovelansing
Prom is in the air. It brings back different memories for different people. My prom was all the things. It was fun, there was tension, there was this, there was that. A bit of drama. I’m certain of that. I am also certain that I had the best shoes: my prom shoes; my wedding shoes; my walking-up-to-the-store shoes; my sitting-on-the-porch shoes; my favorite shoes of all time. Dang, I miss those shoes!
#stacyadams #patentleather #shinythings #morrisday #thetime #thewalk #prettyinpink
Patent leather Stacy Adams spectators.
