Mannerus Caninus

Went to a dog and cat show this weekend in Hartford. My camera battery died by the time we got to the cats. The cats were by far the more elegent of the two, but my heart beats for the canines. How could you not adore this pumpkinized bulldog? As exotic as the animals were, the pet owners and enthusiasts were equally fascinating to observe. I've been using spandex as a painting ground precisely because of the torque and flex aspects when stretched over a wood support. At the pet show, I learned that it works equally well on a human support. (see pic) It's amazing how unexpected moments link to others from the past. Hence the importance of recording even the littlest moments of life. The 2nd image is a candid pick I took in the Buick, waiting for a light. I'm sure these two people have never met, but now in the minds of a few, they are joined in blogger matrimony. (what I wouldn't give to get them into a life painting class)

Oh but dearest reader, how you let me get carried away from my topic. We are here to discuss the glory of dogs, are we not?
My brother and I grew up with a little mutt named Sandy. I think my brother found him on his pedaling through his paper route. He was bright orange so he fit in to our family well (mother and brother have bright red hair/ my beard is like fire in the summer). There is plenty to say about Sandy, but I'll try to narrow it down to a few things. The dog hated the mail man and got maced on numerous occasions. If ever you got bored, entertainment was a mere flip of the mail slot away. What would follow would be a distant half bark growl, the sound of a clanking metal dog tag, the steady growing volume of claws ripping carpet, and a dive into the window facing the porch. The mayhem and barking would last for a good 3 minutes. On the more tender side, Sandy was a good hunter and would naturally chase after cats, but through the course of our childhood, Sandy became attached to the cats we adopted as pets. Two kittens we had, Malcolm and Angus (named after the two brother guitarists of ACDC) occasionally would wander close to the swimming pool. Sandy would go over and very delicately put his mouth over their heads and lift them away from the pool. The first time we saw this, we thought he was eating them. We later had a cat named Frito that we got from our cousins. (Frito sometimes would wake me in the morning by sitting on my chest and very slowly rubbing a claw on the inside of my nostril) As I said earlier, Matt and I had paper routes. On his was a dog named Ringo that would ferrociously chase anything that moved. Ringo was a pitbull, and Sandy was about the size of a beagle.

Ringo was in the adjoining park across from our house and spotted Frito in the front yard. He immediately charged and got in a face off with the hissing cat on the lawn. Sandy spotted them from behind the bushes, and before Ringo could tell what hit him, Sandy torpedoed over Frito right into the pitbull. Other memories of Sandy are when he would come back from the park strutting with the swagger of a New Jersey Italian in his new rolled-in perfume. And if you picked him up wrong you get an ear shattering YIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEP! But these weren't the stories I wanted to tell..... after both my brother and I left home, Sandy stayed with my mother and her 2nd husband Jerry. They no longer lived across from the park. There were no more youngsters to keep Sandy busy, and on top of it, Sandy was getting old. He ate well and even got the occasional strip steak for dinner. After a steady half decade of slowly bloating up like a giant orange tick, Sandy died. A week later I got a letter from my mother expressing a desire for me to do a painting of Sandy. Along with the letter was a picture of an orange dot, formerly known as Sandy, in a wall of ivy. The picture was shot with a flash so there was the ever present black shadow along side of him and two glowing red eyes. That was the day I swore to myself never to become a commissioned portrait painter.


Last month, I got on the radio telling this story about my father. He had a very large doberman pinscher named Max. He took it to get neutered and paid about 70 dollars. After bringing the dog back home he noticed some blood on the floor, so he went to find the dog. Max had licked the stitches open. My father loaded him back in the car and made his way to the vet. After another70 dollars, Max was stitched back up and had a plastic cone put around his neck. At home, everything was Kosher the first 15 minutes, so my father left the dog alone. When he came back he found the cone on the floor and once again, Max had licked the stitches open. Not wanting to spend anymore mone,y he took matters into his own hands. With a small bottle of super glue he glued Max's nuts back together, but in the process glued his hand to the dogs balls.


In my early 20's I was heavily into the BMX scene. I made a 'zine, had written a few articles for the big magazines in LA and had a 40 ft. half pipe in my backyard. I had a yellow lab named Saffro I had raised from a pup. The name came from the misheard lyrics of Donavan's song "Mellow Yellow". (I'm just wild about Saphron) When Saffro was about two and still very playful, I had broken my wrist skateboarding and had a cast that went from behind my elbow to over my thumb. While waiting for it to heal I had done a little riding with the cast. My friend had just bought a new bike (haro) and was showing it off. I was in the front with Saffro, watching him ride. He asked if I wanted to try it out. I was riding it in the middle of the street and was trying to do a hang five, which is a nose wheelie of sorts. It was a trick I was very familiar with and good at, so I wasn't too worried. All bikes are manufactured with different head angles, so they each respond a little differently and have different balance points. So as I'm in the middle of this trick, rolling on the front wheel, I realize that I'm going to go over the handle bars. Rather than throwing out my hands and risking breaking my wrist over again, I commit to letting my body take the brunt of the damage. I smack the asphalt and the bike comes over me and pins me to the ground. Saffro sees me on the ground and thinks that I'm playing, so she rushes out into the street and sits on my head. My hands pinned under the bike, I'm wiggling and hysterically laughing while yelling at the dog to get off.

Some of the Latest

Here are some of the latest pieces. Text has always been an inspiration and component of my work, but I'm playing it up a bit. Titles in order are March Heir, Songs of Die Mutterland, Strange Fruit, and Are We Not Men? The logos on the back are getting more elaborate.

Shoe Props

Special Props out to Xue (pronounced Shoe-uh) for introducing me to the likes of Micah P Hinson, Feist, and Hefner. She took advantage of the free music giveaway and returned the favor. Pleasureful Listening. Famed for organizing a music swap by designating her mailbox as a place to pick up and drop off hand made mixes of ear food( needless to say, the postal service did not approve), she's also a wicked draughtsperson.

Here is Micah P Hinson and Feist. Notice the the nice hand picking of Feist. Hinson does a great cover of Jeff Buckley's through the yard of blonde girls and I'm particularly fond of Hefner's science fiction



(if for some reason the videos do not show up, try resizing the window)

The Most Beautiful Nerd Ever Born

After a weekend of Open Studios and feeling depressed about the whole venture of art making and having to be accountable for my images, I ended up seeking solice by revisiting a hero of mine. The most beautiful nerd ever born was a guiding light for me in my early twenties. With the glory of you tube you can see performances here.


I collected all the Bach recordings and most of everything else he did. If this interests you in the least, I'd be happy to make a mix for you. The man was an exquisite and entertaining writer as well. If you can get your hands on the Glenn Gould reader, it is good reading even if you're not a music buff. The essay, Let's Ban Applause is worth a read. As for the videos here, you can see early and late Gould as well as a japanese version of "So You Want to Write a Fugue" ,which Gould composed.

You have to bear with the introduction for a bit, but the split screen De Palma/Brady Bunch techniques are worth the wait. The Japanese version of this is better than the English.

Sweet Hitchhiker

I've lived in some pretty sketchy situations in my earlier years, and have been hassled by cops all my life (They can spot outsiders a mile away) I've had to hithchike a few times, sometimes by choice (travel in Germany) and sometimes by necessity (impounded car, running out of gas, etc.) Because of having to wait for over an hour with my thumb out only to run towards a car that pulls out once you get close, I have some sympathy for the common loser or poor guy. I've picked up a number of hitchhikers over the years and pretty much all of them leave me with a story to tell (isn't that what it's all about anyway?)

In Vermont, I picked up a guy on crutches. When asked about how he hurt himself, he said it was a hit and run. Within the duration of the lift it came out that he never remembered being hit by the car but woke up on the side of the road all beat up and could only come to that conclusion. It also came out that the guy liked to drink.

On the way to Old Lyme from New London, I picked up a guy that was trying to get to Florida. He was definitely pretty clean cut for the average hitchhiker. I was in undergrad at the time and was in the practice of milling my own oil paint. I had just mixed up a huge batch of Cadmium Yellow Medium and unbenounced to me had left a 2 inch chunk on the underside of the passenger front seat. I had a pretty good conversation with the guy and dropped him off when I had to make my turn off. As he left, I noticed a giant chunk of Cadmium yellow on the back of the lower leg of his jeans (which was his only change of his clothes) I didn't have the heart to tell the guy, but wished him luck. I felt a little sorry for the next car that picked him up.

The most memorable experience was on the way to New Haven from Old Lyme. I was on 95, and it was a downpour of rain. By downpour, I mean biblical deluge. I saw this guy come out of the bushes on the side of the highway with his thumb out. I couldn't imagine any worse luck than this guy had trying to hitchhike at a time like this. I immediately pulled over. When he got in the car, I realized the bad luck was mine. Wafting toward me was a wreaking stench of piss. When I looked at the guy I couldn't tell if he was male or female. He had a high pitch voice. I started a conversation, and he basically told me his life story. He said he was diagnosed as mentally unstable and got money from the government each month to live on. He said he usually spent it on booze and crack when it was available. He said the crack gave a good jolt to the nervous system. He was trying to return to his sister's, because he had been homeless for the last couple months and couldn't pick up a check without having a residence. After we conversed a little he asked me what my name was. I told him and then asked him his name.

He said, "Christopher Michael Hobbes is the name my parents gave me, but that's not my real name. I discovered my real name 3 years ago, early one morning."

So I asked, "What's your real name?"

He said, "you know how when you learn the alphabet, there are 26 letters, but each letter has a sound? For instance, the letter A sounds like ah, and B like buh?"

I said, "yeah".

"Well my real name isn't Christopher Michael Hobbes, It's Cuh, Huh, er, ii, Sss, Tuh, ah, Puh, Huh, eh, Er"

When he said this I couldn't believe it! Inside I was cracking up, but there was part of me that admired this nut for coming up with it and believing it. He said he had never told anybody his real name, that I was the first. When we made it to New Haven, I dropped him off. He was sad to go. When he left he wanted me to remember his name. It was very important to him that I not forget his name. I have to admit I have a soft spot in my heart for the guy. Christopher Michael Hobbes (you few readers that have an ounce of hope and dreaming left in your hearts, do me a favor and sound out Chris's name as he wanted it to be.)