A gleaming motorcycle arrived via flatbed to our suburban ranch. Six children are warned not to touch its chrome and attitude. Dad has never ridden a motorcycle before. He tells us he’ll be back later — he’s taking the bike across the George Washington Bridge. Wearing a button-up shirt, plaid Bermuda shorts, black knee socks and brown loafers, no one ever looked more badass.
II did this sculpture at 17 years of age. It was the only one, of four sculptures, to return home without crumbling. Sadly, she did eventually break apart. I never gave her the fighting chance she’d deserved.
I wasn’t interested in school. It was difficult for me to take direction from anyone. I was one of those perpetual daydreamers. Perhaps, if I’d listened to my art teacher, my sculptures would’ve survived.
The image shown here I call Grieving Woman in Clay. She was about two feet long. To this day, her image remains in my studio. The loss of her long ago, is what prompted my return to clay 44 years later…
I hope you’re all managing with this weather.
am:)
reconstructed resolutions lower the ball to the ground
the ball won’t rise again till the crowds gather next year
when the lovers and the true believers return in celebration
when the partiers piss and vomit on sidewalks and in alleys
My Resolution(s)
this year I’ve gotten better at accepting multiple versions
I’ve barreled through decades and broken over waterfalls
I’m pumped to shred the rowing muscles
this year I’m shoving specific plans into my eye sockets
not the usual well-formed outtakes, no more excuses
—here—I wonder if I’m bull-shitting myself with words as I often do
or maybe, I’ve gone and done it—reshaping thoughts into tangibles
maybe I have, because this morning, facial recognition can’t recognize me
could it be this year’s resolution, this thinning skin I wake in each day more
forcing my handheld device to decide who I am?
but…my new phone requires an app update…
I remain the same (use your words, AM)…
time carries the words, the dreams, the light
she throws down faster than a gaudy ball dropping on a bombastic evening
she grinds to enjoy a loved one’s pain
she grins as voyeur to our last moments
she slows if I watch her red digital clock counting down as my soup warms
I’ve come to realize this—dreams, words
the very pace of time is up to me, to you
when these things travel swiftly, we’re doing good work
busied our worlds between seconds, minutes, hours
this morning, I placed flint sparks in my pockets
today we will do good work
we will shoot firecrackers to light the night sky
we will dirty the dark street a little to say—we were here
to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to touch
every burning color of this moment called life
The joy of imaginary playdoh. My first few sculpts have been created with airdry clay. In the coming months, I hope to venture into polymer. As a poor excuse for a kitchen Italian, I find the oven a tad out of my zone, and polymer clay requires oven-baking to set. I’ll get there at some point. Just not yet. This is Sculpt No.2.
Brick by brick, tooth by tooth the learning continues…
Here in Hudson Valley, NY, after the holidays with the trees barren and winter white no longer serving Christmas Card purpose, it can get bleak. This is the long stretch to spring. Any creating can be cathartic, maybe even add a little warmth in the fingertips.
I hope you are all doing well.
am:)
Across many years, our kitchen linoleum withstood the battering soles of six Roselli siblings and the endless march of neighborhood children.
In our home Sundays began with morning Mass book-ended by evening pasta. Tomato sauce was gravy. Mom’s gravy hid meatballs. Our forks would battle fiercely.
My ‘best’ friend lived across the street. Every Sunday night her family ate pierogies and their cars were shiny. Her older cheerleader sister drove a beige Pontiac Firebird. I loathed the color—fast cars must be kissed by fire. I’d never eaten pierogies. I’d never been invited into my friend’s home for dinner.
One evening I was invited over for Sunday pierogies. Filled with potato and pan-fried to a golden-buttery crisp. That night, rather than my beloved dreams of flying horses, I sailed upon heavenly-winged pierogies The following morning I prayed for God’s forgiveness.
(in my childhood kitchen – a photo op – i didn’t cook back then – i can’t cook now – i’m a horrid kitchen italian)
Three of us usually accompany her. Two of us push unwieldy shopping carts. Mom fills three carts every two weeks for nine ravenous people, one voracious dog, neighborhood visitors (back when it was quite common for neighbors to stop by) and of course, the Italians-the Italian relatives.
The store is bright. The bakery section smells of heaven. The produce aisle with its brazen display of foil-wrapped candies is my favorite. When Mom moves onto the adjacent aisle with two carts and one of our other sisters, my younger sibling and I begin stuffing our pockets.
Though Dolores and I believe these illuminated candies are ‘free’ — our better angels tell us to stow the candy deep.
Mom wouldn’t catch us for quite some time.
One of my favorite photos – Uncle Robert (Mom’s brother) always brought great gifts whenever he visited us from far-off California – this was the one visit he botched – then our smiling mother forced us to wear Uncle Rob’s gifts for a photo op. We were all quite miserable about it. Still – some of us attempted a smile…
Top row – left top right Grace, Virginia; bottom row – Robert, Vito, Dolores, me
Well, it’s official – no turning back now – 2025 here were go…!
am:)
The television tucked behind sliding woody doors – like a Christmas surprise. Counting down the days till Rudolph would soar above our shag-carpeted family room. My sisters, brother and I waited. And when that bulb-nosed deer finally arrived, we watched him save cinematic Christmas. All of us resting our laurels on orange shag. Each of us smiling.
Every Christmas, I retell my children how today’s young lot miss a wonderful life. The escalating thrill, that building joy of patience – of waiting – waiting – and finally – experiencing the ALL of Christmas. There were no multiple viewing times, streaming services, faces staring at ass-pocket phones – we traveled together in one pocket of time. Playing outdoors, watching holiday shows, building snow people…
And yes, though sometimes not by choice, we’d have chosen it anyway. The uncanny warmth, the holiday magic bursting forward when we celebrated together.
Then at New Year’s, how we gathered again. Our home open to all relatives and friends. We watched the ball descend while ringing Uncle Jimmy’s silly noisemakers. We stayed up late. Everyone woke to pancakes and a new year of unknowns shrouded in mystery and love.
My childhood was the last generation of un-instant gratification. ‘Twas a glorious time indeed.
This little cat is my daughter’s beloved Clam. I sculpted him as a special Christmas gift. Clam was adopted months ago. This was his first Christmas with us. I’m happy to report that both Clam the Cat, and Mojo the Dachshund, are peacefully hanging out.
I do so hope you all are doing well.
And a happy, happy New Year to all!
am:)
One of my favorite holiday shows is Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol (1962). I adore the soundtrack and belt out the songs (much to the chagrin of my family) every December.
“…We can’t afford to have a hen
We will some day I vow
So I suggest you dream of then
and prize what we have now…”
— Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol
I recently jumped into sculpture and began my adventure using air-dry clay (lots of muss, but no heating element needed). I’ve asked Santa for polymer clay (bakes in standard kitchen oven). One can achieve much higher levels of detail with polymer clay.
The werewolf sculpt above was created with air-dry clay. I learned 1,000 ways how not to sculpt with this first bulky attempt.
A merry, merry to all who celebrate.
Warm wonderful days to all!🌲
Stay safe
am:)
Yesterday’s post highlighted an artwork I painted for my son. The painting – Washington’s Last Cantonment – was created after I’d painted a canvas for his sister.
For the acrylic (above), I used several old reference images – some of the fish – like the large koi – were directly inspired from those images (apologies to the brilliant artists – I’ve been unable to locate their names to properly credit) – a few of the other fish swim in my head – and now – on my daughter’s apartment wall. She’d requested the specific water color…for interior decor ‘matchi-ness’:)
Both paintings are 4′ x 2′ – each a labor of love. As much as I don’t enjoy painting landscapes, water scenes run a close second. I find the most joy in creating cryptids and creatures. I don’t know why or what to think of that. Perhaps, I shouldn’t ponder fangs and claws too deeply. These thoughts might reveal lurking images in the sub-basement brain;)
Looks to be another cold beautiful day here in the Hudson Valley.
Keep warm,
am:)
Months ago, my son had asked me if I could recreate a painting for him. The particular artwork in question – he’d decided long ago – was his favorite of all time. Since I’d painted a picture of fish for his sister, I told him I’d create art for him too. The painting he wanted had been living as a blurry photo on his phone for quite some time. He’d seen the art – years ago – hanging on the wall of a restaurant.
Neither Max or I were able to locate a decent reference image – my son’s photo was so blurry in fact, I saw nothing but white in the air and dark lumps on the ground. My son’s description from memory was “men on horses and some cabins.” We went as far as returning to the restaurant (under new ownership for several years) and inquiring about the painting that had once hung on their far left wall.
Now I’ll tell you, I don’t like painting landscapes – I never have – meaning – I’ve avoided them my entire life – so my best attempts at recreating any are fake – I muddle my way through in an effort to get something close to the needle of credibility. The painting above is the result – my son – of course – loves it – because his mom made it for him. Any artist looking at this might smile and keep the honest review beneath the tongue.
And, as karma so often intervenes, months after I’d finished the painting, Max and I walked 2 blocks from the house to get coffee. The coffee-bar’s proprietor was a collector of books, art, antiques…and when we showed him the photo of my painting – he immediately knew whose artwork I’d been trying to recreate (in fact – the framed reproduction below was actually in another room of his coffee bar)- dang – was I off.
The Last Cantonment, 1783 – John F. Gould
John Fleming Gould (1906-1996) graduated from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY, and later instructed at Pratt for 22 years. He was a prominent illustrator for the Saturday Evening Post for more than 8 years. Many of Mr. Gould’s works hang in private collections. He was partial to historical subjects, especially in the Hudson River Valley from the Statue of Liberty to Albany, NY.
I’ve provided more visual snow for some of you. who don’t really need to see anymore snow.
I hope you’re all keeping warm,
am:)
anntogether 