Over 70 guests at opening night. This is the last exhibition at the art studio in Cut Bank, Montana. Thanks for your support, we've had a blast! - North
Friday, March 19, 2010
Contemporary Fibers & Textiles: A Group Exhibition
Over 70 guests at opening night. This is the last exhibition at the art studio in Cut Bank, Montana. Thanks for your support, we've had a blast! - North
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Space: A Group Exhibition 2010
Sold a painting in, literally, the first two minutes of the opening. Hope to sell more over the next couple weeks of the exhibition. -North
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Miniatures 2009: Portraits
November's Opening Reception boasted over 100 visitors! Not bad for a town of 3,500.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Deep Maps
My work reflects an obsessive interest in deep maps. A deep map goes beyond simple landscape/history-based topography. It interweaves autobiography, archeology, stories, memories, folklore, traces, reportage, weather, interviews, natural science, science, and intuition. In its best form, the resulting work arrives at a subtle, multi-layered and 'deep' map of a small area of the earth.
Tracing the beginnings of civilization to the heart of modern exploitation. Inspiration runs the gamut from the author and former professor William Least Heat-Moon to the neighboring Hutterite colonies where formal education ends at the eighth grade. - North
Tracing the beginnings of civilization to the heart of modern exploitation. Inspiration runs the gamut from the author and former professor William Least Heat-Moon to the neighboring Hutterite colonies where formal education ends at the eighth grade. - North
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sunday, March 08, 2009
New Studio... now featuring elbow room
I was in some timeless space, timeless face of my embrace
Held empty air and empty space, all on a sunny day
There's a lifeline that I know and it holds me back and lets me go
Whatever I do I don't let my lifeline stray
So it goes as lifetimes pass from heart to mind and back again
My restlessness becomes a flame letting my lifeline show
-Gordon Lightfoot
It has been a while since my last update. Something I would have found unforgivable a year or two ago, when these posts were a daily occurrence. Ultimately, it has all been sidestepped in the name of art or at least the malnutrition of my lifeline.
Fortunately, I believe I have finally found a time and place in which to remain, at least for longer than usual. I have rented a downtown storefront for my next art studio. Something with a thousand square feet to work on the large scale installations that my waking dreams have only alluded to during spats of semi-consciousness. The idea is to finally have enough space to create and document the works, then dismantle and store while I market to various galleries and museums.
It also has another thousand square feet for gallery space and art classes. In a time when the economy seems to bring in fewer and fewer sales, it seems that a focus on providing summer art camps, after school lessons and adult night classes may be the best bet to paying the rent on a new and massive space primarily acquired to finally fulfill my longtime desire to work in cubic feet rather than square inches.
Works a comin’ so sit tight, we’re getting into uncharted territory. – North
Held empty air and empty space, all on a sunny day
There's a lifeline that I know and it holds me back and lets me go
Whatever I do I don't let my lifeline stray
So it goes as lifetimes pass from heart to mind and back again
My restlessness becomes a flame letting my lifeline show
-Gordon Lightfoot
It has been a while since my last update. Something I would have found unforgivable a year or two ago, when these posts were a daily occurrence. Ultimately, it has all been sidestepped in the name of art or at least the malnutrition of my lifeline.
Fortunately, I believe I have finally found a time and place in which to remain, at least for longer than usual. I have rented a downtown storefront for my next art studio. Something with a thousand square feet to work on the large scale installations that my waking dreams have only alluded to during spats of semi-consciousness. The idea is to finally have enough space to create and document the works, then dismantle and store while I market to various galleries and museums.
It also has another thousand square feet for gallery space and art classes. In a time when the economy seems to bring in fewer and fewer sales, it seems that a focus on providing summer art camps, after school lessons and adult night classes may be the best bet to paying the rent on a new and massive space primarily acquired to finally fulfill my longtime desire to work in cubic feet rather than square inches.
Works a comin’ so sit tight, we’re getting into uncharted territory. – North
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Progress
The house is temperate, despite the twenty-below weather, outside. I’ve missed the unforgiving manner in which life continues with an almost detached certainty of cold. Yes. Nearly a foot of snow, now, with drifts taller than my youngest son. It is scheduled to start again; at any moment – the eastern blowing momentum of snow and ice strained through a sieve before pelting glass and wood and pressed-aluminum.
The canvas is stretched and primed. The painted sketches, which I typically ignore in my madness to build deposits and sheets and layers of pigment, are nearly to a state of finish – something a sketch should never confusingly reach. The abstracted Hutterite half-truths need permanent visual explanation before they are buried with the short stories, biographies and landscapes that are lost among my memories of Southwestern arroyos, Southern deltas and previous Rocky Mountain winter blazes.
I may eventually consider sleep, if I can continue to deny this urge to step out into the dazzling midnight snow and cross the sixteen or so feet from the mud-room door to my awaiting studio. The wind chill will reach negative fifty, within another two hours.
-North
The canvas is stretched and primed. The painted sketches, which I typically ignore in my madness to build deposits and sheets and layers of pigment, are nearly to a state of finish – something a sketch should never confusingly reach. The abstracted Hutterite half-truths need permanent visual explanation before they are buried with the short stories, biographies and landscapes that are lost among my memories of Southwestern arroyos, Southern deltas and previous Rocky Mountain winter blazes.
I may eventually consider sleep, if I can continue to deny this urge to step out into the dazzling midnight snow and cross the sixteen or so feet from the mud-room door to my awaiting studio. The wind chill will reach negative fifty, within another two hours.
-North
Sunday, November 09, 2008
"The Boy with a Moon and Star on His Head"
Tuesday’s election ushered-in a new moment of change for the nation. Then, almost as if by grand design, my family awoke to a few inches of snow the following morning. The powder wiped the northern slate clean, yet somehow, along this region called the Hi-line, the golden-white fields were limited to Glacier County – the only region of the north central Montana political map to turn blue the previous evening. The snow lasted for only that twenty-four hour period and I’m not one to believe in blessings, but I did stop and consider the gesture as appreciation.
Now, however, it is Sunday. The first fresh week as it starts after the election and so far nothing of depressing consequence has happened. There were no riots, there were no assassinations. There was only this humble resignation muddled with silent relief from my red-hued compatriots.
Under these thoughts and safely-missed illusions, I began this first new day of the week, listening to the album “Catch Bull at Four” by Cat Stevens.
"The Boy with a Moon & Star on His Head" by Cat Stevens
A gardeners daughter stopped me on my way, on the day I was
To wed
It is you who I wish to share my body with she said
Well find a dry place under the sky with a flower for a bed
And for my joy I will give you a boy with a moon and
Star on his head.
Her silver hair flowed in the air laying waves across the sun
Her hands were like the white sands, and her eyes had
Diamonds on.
We left the road and headed up to the top of the
Whisper wood
And we walked till we came to where the holy magnolia stood.
And there we laid cool in the shade singing songs and
Making love...
With the naked earth beneath us and the universe above.
The time was late my wedding wouldn’t wait I was sad but
I had to go,
So while she was asleep I kissed her cheek for cheerio.
The wedding took place and people came from many
Miles around
There was plenty merriment, cider and wine abound
But out of all that I recall I remembered the girl I met
cause she had given me something that my heart could not
Forget.
A year had passed and everything was just as it was a year
Before...
As if was a year before...
Until the gift that someone left, a basket by my door.
And in there lay the fairest little baby crying to be fed,
I got down on my knees and kissed the moon and star on
His head.
As years went by the boy grew high and the village looked
On in awe
They’d never seen anything like the boy with the moon and
Star before.
And people would ride from far and wide just to seek the
Word he spread
I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned, and love is all...he said.
I pass through life less as a visionary than an actual man, lonely for the past, pitiful yet anxious for the potential future. I miss my children, though they are within arm’s reach, I long for my partner, though I can still hear her in the next room. I wonder where the next painting will come from as I travel the outstretched prairie shadowed by the Rockies to the west and the Sweetgrass Hills to the northeast. I may confuse my left with my right - but never my true direction... it is bound to me where a soul should be. - North
Now, however, it is Sunday. The first fresh week as it starts after the election and so far nothing of depressing consequence has happened. There were no riots, there were no assassinations. There was only this humble resignation muddled with silent relief from my red-hued compatriots.
Under these thoughts and safely-missed illusions, I began this first new day of the week, listening to the album “Catch Bull at Four” by Cat Stevens.
"The Boy with a Moon & Star on His Head" by Cat Stevens
A gardeners daughter stopped me on my way, on the day I was
To wed
It is you who I wish to share my body with she said
Well find a dry place under the sky with a flower for a bed
And for my joy I will give you a boy with a moon and
Star on his head.
Her silver hair flowed in the air laying waves across the sun
Her hands were like the white sands, and her eyes had
Diamonds on.
We left the road and headed up to the top of the
Whisper wood
And we walked till we came to where the holy magnolia stood.
And there we laid cool in the shade singing songs and
Making love...
With the naked earth beneath us and the universe above.
The time was late my wedding wouldn’t wait I was sad but
I had to go,
So while she was asleep I kissed her cheek for cheerio.
The wedding took place and people came from many
Miles around
There was plenty merriment, cider and wine abound
But out of all that I recall I remembered the girl I met
cause she had given me something that my heart could not
Forget.
A year had passed and everything was just as it was a year
Before...
As if was a year before...
Until the gift that someone left, a basket by my door.
And in there lay the fairest little baby crying to be fed,
I got down on my knees and kissed the moon and star on
His head.
As years went by the boy grew high and the village looked
On in awe
They’d never seen anything like the boy with the moon and
Star before.
And people would ride from far and wide just to seek the
Word he spread
I’ll tell you everything I’ve learned, and love is all...he said.
I pass through life less as a visionary than an actual man, lonely for the past, pitiful yet anxious for the potential future. I miss my children, though they are within arm’s reach, I long for my partner, though I can still hear her in the next room. I wonder where the next painting will come from as I travel the outstretched prairie shadowed by the Rockies to the west and the Sweetgrass Hills to the northeast. I may confuse my left with my right - but never my true direction... it is bound to me where a soul should be. - North
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Sunday, September 07, 2008
501 Posts, Have I Learned Anything?
Actually, only a small minority of the human race will ever consider primeval nature a basic source of happiness… Mankind as a whole is too numerous for its problem of happiness to be solved by the simple expedient of paradise. – Robert Marshall, an early explorer of the Brooks Range in Alaska
Like most blogs, this page was established to give voice to the spinning wheels in my head. I was looking for a way to work-out-loud with my ideas of the visual, literary and conceptual arts. Sometimes it works beautifully, other times, not so much. Basically, a philosophical sketch of my past, present and future – everything changes, everything stays the same. It’s all about perspective. - North
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Gotta Love Small Towns
From the local paper...
Friday, Aug 29: 12:03 a.m. - Officer is out with three individuals in a parking lot. It is a man and his two sons. Their vehicle broke down and all motels in town are full. Officer told them to go to sheriff's office and they will put down mattresses in the old judge's office and they can sleep there.
Friday, Aug 29: 12:03 a.m. - Officer is out with three individuals in a parking lot. It is a man and his two sons. Their vehicle broke down and all motels in town are full. Officer told them to go to sheriff's office and they will put down mattresses in the old judge's office and they can sleep there.
Monday, September 01, 2008
An Art Market is Not Decided by One Artist
Damien Hirst Bypasses The Galleries - The End Of The Gallery System As We Know It? "What does it mean for the art market that a living artist bypasses dealers altogether and sells his wares directly at auction? There is some speculation that this might be a pivotal moment, like the end of the studio system in movies or the continuing decline of the record labels in the music business. Could the gallerist's traditional role as mediator between the contemporary artist and his market be passÃe?" Wall Street Journal 08/23/08
I’m not sure that it really means anything, considering the artist in question is Damian Hirst – a living artist that time and time again financially dominates the British art market. His conceptualized work has always been somewhere outside the traditional painting and sculpture gallery scene; how is this a huge leap? In fact, I dare say this may have a positive impact on the gallery market, in the manner in which it opens the playing field for other artists. - North
I’m not sure that it really means anything, considering the artist in question is Damian Hirst – a living artist that time and time again financially dominates the British art market. His conceptualized work has always been somewhere outside the traditional painting and sculpture gallery scene; how is this a huge leap? In fact, I dare say this may have a positive impact on the gallery market, in the manner in which it opens the playing field for other artists. - North
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Blackmail the Baker
The dream is… Or rather it should be, dammit, like a fan club for philosophers. And poets. And painters. And maybe even rogue Hutterites. At least the ones we can catch – as they're draining a staggering number of pints (always Olde English) in the dark corner of the local pizzeria.
Like home everywhere. But not too much.
This place where Rod serves unlimited spaghetti dinners and can win free loaves of french bread like he’s blackmailing the baker. Then the next evening, playing Texas Hold’em, late into the darkness, with two Mormon missionaries and the hint of a steady hand. - North
Like home everywhere. But not too much.
This place where Rod serves unlimited spaghetti dinners and can win free loaves of french bread like he’s blackmailing the baker. Then the next evening, playing Texas Hold’em, late into the darkness, with two Mormon missionaries and the hint of a steady hand. - North
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Fresh
This house that saw less than eight hundred nights now searches for a fresh ten thousand.
Brothers building yard castles from empty crates and boxes. Stacks of cardboard trapping their voices, releasing their ingenuity. The threat of a blistering reality removed. Though, I can still glimpse it – only distantly. Once imminent, now cascading as soap round the drain.
The neighbor’s stereo is never sleeping. He has it wired to pour music through outdoor speakers and illuminate our nights with jovial harmonic gestures that release a soundtrack to a new life. This old life. One that is not revisited or retraced so much as reinvigorated. - North
Brothers building yard castles from empty crates and boxes. Stacks of cardboard trapping their voices, releasing their ingenuity. The threat of a blistering reality removed. Though, I can still glimpse it – only distantly. Once imminent, now cascading as soap round the drain.
The neighbor’s stereo is never sleeping. He has it wired to pour music through outdoor speakers and illuminate our nights with jovial harmonic gestures that release a soundtrack to a new life. This old life. One that is not revisited or retraced so much as reinvigorated. - North
Monday, August 18, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Driving My Oldest Child Home
The car sputters to a stop and we have passed to the moment after. My language is defunct. Words and phrases remain listless in their transition to time. The Ford hesitates, then turns over and we continue.
You ride with me, but I’m not driving. Our destination is sketched in blueprints and the side columns of a menu stolen from the diner outside Hungry Horse. The prairie lies east; but I can’t see it through the tinted glass and mountain pass.
To the south, they built Teddy a cock. I tell you it is an obelisk and shield your eyes. I petition the rocks and streams for the moment before. When the house was yellow, the sky was full of light and the minutes were less. - North
You ride with me, but I’m not driving. Our destination is sketched in blueprints and the side columns of a menu stolen from the diner outside Hungry Horse. The prairie lies east; but I can’t see it through the tinted glass and mountain pass.
To the south, they built Teddy a cock. I tell you it is an obelisk and shield your eyes. I petition the rocks and streams for the moment before. When the house was yellow, the sky was full of light and the minutes were less. - North
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