to do.

1. Buy supplies for backings. and that really intense glue.

2. Put backings on all ak portraits. gesso backs? booo.

3. FINISH AK PORTRAITS by April 1st!?!?!?!:
Donna Mack
Robert Mack
Cody Banks- sooo close.
English John
Zini- close.
Cissy

4. Photograph all.

5. Send to Homer.

6. Start more lamp portraits.

7. Finish current lamp portraits by.... May. (10 in all.)

8. Start new portraits in June of:
1Isabella- will.
2Justin- will.
3Grampa- need to ask. will.
4Tyler- need to ask. will.
5Buppy- will have to convince.
6

9. Think of the Boyfriend portrait series.
-is it retarded. or possible.
-Know why. and what it will mean as one series.
-Think of how it creates an indirect self-portrait. perhaps in titles.

10. Think of the 7 Allen Children portrait series.
- Dad-will, Cheryl-will, Susie-will, Laura-will, but in SC, Barbara- will, but in OK, John-will, Alice-will.
- only cohesion in relation.
- Each with an object in memory of...

11. Think of the Sangillo's portrait series. (swap places with #9)
- One bar creates a landscape of locals.
- How they relate to each other.
- How they/or the bar takes on the other. like the lamp.

12. Logo for Cindy. (swap to top)

13. Frame for painting at Dad's.

14. Nick's tattoo.


overwhelmed. oh man. oh man.

Willi, 24 x 36" Oil on Panel.

Willi is a regular at Karacters: a bar in Homer. He drinks brandy and water, or Miller High Life. The frail man can barely walk by himself, and his unlaced and over sized boots provide another obstacle for him. With his health and at 70 something, I wonder if Willi will be there when I return.

Hair sprouting from his collar, his hat, his ears, his nose, his brow, his neck and chin, it is only assumed he has eyes and a mouth. He settles nicely in the murky of the bar, usually only communicating through head nods and tilts- at least from what I saw, But locals really know Willi: the good, the bad and the ugly.

He used to live directly upstairs, above Karacters, until he drunkenly collapsed down the stairs one too many times, springing the door open to the bar like a jack in the box. Rhonda, the bartender, who would take the deserted man out to dinner on father's day even said herself, "I love Willi... but no bartender deserves to come in here to Willi, lying dead on the floor..." He was evicted. When his is very drunk, he has a squeel that he convulses randomly. It sounds like what a elephant/parakeet hybrid might sound like while orgasaming.

I was intimidated. Intimidated at his legendary status in this small fishing town. Maybe a 100 pound, legally blind, deaf, arthritic, poor, feeble man might have a different effect on most, but I sweat, stuttered and fumbled at the thought of approaching him. But I had to.

I walked up beside Willi's usual seat at the bar and ordered a Jack and coke, opening up my direction to him and raising my gaze with hopes he might make eye contact with me. He ignored me, but luckily the man sitting beside him, picked up on my open invitation: "What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Nervous. Make it good, B. You got your easel and supplies in your truck. You came here to paint Willi. Do it. "Well... I heard about this guy," tossing my thumb over my shoulder to Willi. He perked up. "Well don't believe anything your mother said!"

... Incredible. Perfect. Willi has got a real good sting.

He props himself up on on the bar by his bony elbows. His head looks doubled in size because of his beard and it sinks deep in between his shoulder blades. Pointy knees spread wide, with his sharp ankles narrowing on the cross bar of the stool. His boots look like monstrous fleshy plant leaves, shooting his sticks-of-legs upward. He is closed off from me, how appropriate. He melts into the dirty green panel and has two cold, natural light sources: a faint window directly across from him, and a stronger source on his back. His posture shows his rejection to the natural light. His posture shows a rejection to anything.

The Lamp Series

I've fallen in love again. A vintage magenta lamp has left me reeling with 14-year-old-crush feelings that hit me in waves. The unsteady, clunky wobble adds to it's charm. The gaping, jagged crack that leaks light is instantly forgotten in the warm glow of two orbs. The metallic sound of the key-like switch that 1) turns both lamps on, 2) only the top lamp, 3) only the bottom lamp, is dainty and polite. This lamp is the leading lady in any room, So begins The Lamp Series.

I saw the lamp at "Buppy's," during the annual garage Christmas party two years ago. It had come from Eddy's home, a close family friend who had just passed away. Even as under appreciated as it was, sitting on Bup's work bench that was glittered with oiled tools and auto parts, it burned vibrantly. Maybe it was this contrasting, first impression that won me over. The lamp went home with Dad that night, where it was lost for one full year until I found it again, crammed in the dark, jumble of the basement. I brought it back to 28 state with me. In my room, it is perched. I found myself taking photos of it. admiring it. Leaving the bottom orb on at night just so that I could wake up to it. Thinking about it at work. Missing it even.

My sage green walls surround the magenta color. The nine ornately engraved silver serving trays, pinned neatly on the wall to the right, partner the brass trim. Donnie's 4 x 4' study of cool tones and relativity stands against the left wall, on my dark brown wooden work bench, dialoging with the lamp all day long. An over sized mirror stands at the lamp's attention on the opposite side of the room. My white baby dresser is directly behind the lamp, reflecting the magenta color even more. Then the floral. The hand painted beach roses around the orbs are so delicately wrapped around, and like fluid. Yellow and pink blossoms. gracious and lovely. The sound of how the porcelain feels: hollow, fragile, smooth.

Then I moved it. On top of my record player. on the kitchen table. the bookcase! in the pantry! It didn't matter where it was moved, the lamp would completely transformed every room in a similar way a good daughter does to any father. Exactly like that. softening. gleaming. complimenting.

The lamp has an ability to correct any surroundings. space. Contradiction in the environment: uneven ceilings, dirty radiators and barren walls are alleviated aesthetically by a magenta gem mined from the 1930's. Wild. a wild love affair not for the faint hearted. one large triptych of the dinning room. one dual portrait of the lamp and a chair. a large portrait. a large close up. will set up in the stair well. maybe the bathroom too? and maybe in the empty china cabinet. cant be an odd number though... another dual portrait with the plates too? yeah. yum.

Diana, 36 x 24" Oil on panel.

Our first stop was New York. We pitched our $15.99 tent along side Lucy and draped the tarp over for extra coverage. I was impressed and surprised at our initial good thinking. Diana would continue unpacking camping supplies as I got the fire going. Then rain. Hard rain. and lightening that shook the ground and made our nylon tent seem like nothing more than... a nylon tent. It was this time, in the midst of electricity jolting through the hot, dark, heavy air, that Diana turned to me and admitted that this had been her first time camping... ever. We had a lot of miles ahead of us.

She is the Boston girl and I am the Maine girl. She is more scared of rabid animals in the woods, and I am more scared of strange people in the city. She is more useful with a map, I am more useful with a jukebox. Her: darts, Me: pool. Her: vodka, Me: whiskey. A dynamic duo to say the least.

Our cabin was sufficient. Small, cold and dirty; it was everything an Alaskan cabin is supposed to be. We liked it. We really, really liked it. My family acted as though they had stepped foot inside a great Alaskan pioneer landmark. If admission was charged, they would have happily paid. Diana's parents, however, never would have thought to slow the car down. The looks on their faces, when Harry and Sharon climbed into our cabin: scoffed with shock and horror. Sharon waited in the car from then on out. But Diana has never let her parent's preference for luxury and comfort mold hers. I commend her for that.

She is more traveled than most Americans. A book worm. A good pair of sweat pants is key. Greek. So Greek. She calls her dad Har, short for Harry. (And when her dad sneeze it really sounds likes he is saying, "AH-SHIT!") Level-headed, except when a bird/bug flies/hops/swoops anywhere near her vicinity, then she reacts spasmodically.

Smart, beautiful and classy. She carries a confidence that makes her intimidating to men. When and if they do muster up the guts to speak to her, they had better make it good; she is not one to flatter or even appease a sloppy introduction. However, a well-read gentlemen with an easy smile stands a good chance.

She works at "The Italian Home" with kids with behavioral disorders. This is going to make her a really good mom one day. Her job requires a toughness that she delivers well. This will make her a good mom, but a tough one. Her husband will be the softie and the cook. Her home will be practical and worldly- splurging on useless things like fancy china wont be a priority to her, instead, authentic relics, weaved tapestries and bulky boxes from all over the world will adorn her home. There will always be ice cream in the freezer.

Her portrait next to the others may seem out of place: the others are hard, rough and worn where Diana's is soft, composed and elegant. But this is how Diana contrasted in the midst of Homer, making it not only appropriate but necessary to present her comparatively. Her face is the most developed of all the portraits so far. bold thalos, veridian, ochre and burnt sienna. Bright white too. Hair back, with a pretty scarf. Finished.

Albert, 24 x 36" Oil on panel.

"I remember the first time I saw Albert, he was 20 something and I instantly had a terrible crush on him. He was tall, with a handsome dark beard. He was a rail- wearing white jeans, a white shirt, and the very same purple hat he has on now. He hasn't changed a bit." -Mavis.

He carries the cross word in his back pocket. Shirt always tucked in. He has a custom drink, simply called "An Albert," at his favorite bar, the Salty Dawg: vodka, o.j. and a splash of grapefruit. cherries. He likes a tooth pick.

Albert lives modestly but comfortably, as most all Homerians; in a camper tucked away amongst his bountiful collection of shrimp pods, crab pods, cars and trucks, trailers, barrels, buoys, nets, old safes, disco balls and Buddhas. High speed internet and cable equip his 15' camper. He offered his yard filled with weeded, and rusted treasures, as a free place to set up camp for Diana and I for as long as we needed. Every morning we would wake up to the most beautiful view of our entire lives: the ocean yards away, eagles over head and the dusted mountain ranges on the other side of the bay. The tailgate always slammed down hard, announcing our survival of yet another Alaskan night of free whiskey in the late night sun. When we woke, we would creep to Albert's outhouse slowly; hoping to god that we wouldn't awkwardly run into him as he was coming out. One morning I wasn't so lucky. Wearing what I wore the night before, hair- a speechless mess, vision- blurry, and flip flops, I stumbled in the direction of the outhouse when I saw the door start to swing open... I wanted to avoid any kind of painful early morning conversation so I quickly turned around and pranced back to the truck. "I see movement!!!" he yelled, buckling up his buckle, his reading glasses on. He had been doing the cross word. in the john. "Got to use the outhouse?"

He made an out door shower from a telephone booth and a 500 gallon tank of water heated by the sun. He offered it to us a number of times. We of course said that we were fine with using the gym showers, "Besides," Diana searched for a polite excuse, "I like like a long, long shower and I don't want to use up all of your water." Within a week he had filled up his tank and told Diana she could take as long as she wanted to. "No, thanks."

A lot of men lose confidence with women as they age but at 60-something, Albert proves that he has always played the game; and he's good at it. No one woman could ever satisfy him. always smirking. always watching. always forming an opinion which he passes off as a tested and proven fact with somewhat shady references. One night at the Dawg he stopped all conversation to announce he had just experienced a life changing moment: Diana had finally let her beautiful hair down. I loved this...how taken back he was by her. I loved how inappropriate he was. He later would bring this experience up over and over again. Diana would roll her eyes and look away in an attempt to bridle his compliments that began to border line "too much" with the more "Alberts" he drank.

I showed Albert his portrait, in progress. He looked at it, stroked his beard, and smiled a little. I was unsure of his reaction until he called over his buddies to show them the portrait. As they were looking, he says "I am actually surprised at all the white on the beard...." revealing a perhaps bruised ego. I think it was good for him.

Albert has the means to fix, rig or make anything. Resourceful. Rich, too, I think.

He uses one of his trailers as a movie rental for locals. racks and rack of all genres of VHS line the inside. On the door, a clip board: "Name, Movie, Date." No charge, just bring it back and borrow another.

Locals call him, "The Gate Keeper of the Spit" because of his location on the spit. He owns a tow truck/crane thing and does odd jobs on the Kenai. His fishing boat is called "The Vixon" and has a pink flamingo perched at the top. His deck hand is Johnny. Albert says Johnny can get crazy out on the ocean and thinks he smokes too much "of that green." Diana and I walked along the docks to meet him one morning. He was wildly hacking up whole octopus and baiting buckets of hooks for Albert- they were setting them tomorrow. You might think he may hack more lightly and carefully when two girls come wandering along to chat, but he continued splattering brains and slime on our coats without reservation, talking about the one time he had to strangle an octopus that had found its way on board. "When those fuckers get on board you just gotta kill the shit out of em. I grabbed some line, jumped on it and strangled it just like this." He made the tight, quick gesture with the line, bulged his eyes and gritted his teeth.

From his Wednesday poker nights to his Asian lovers, Albert is fascinating. "Did I tell you about the time a woman literally tore my shirt off my back?!" he said. "I still have the shirt... as proof." He also sells yoga pants. a multi-faceted Homer gem, he is.

The last night we were in Homer, Albert invited Diana and I into his camper for some crown on the rocks. It was a tight fit, amongst his collected things. He had 9 pairs of glasses on his table. We visited for a while, talking about the recent murders that had happened in town and watching a strange pheasant that ruffled it's fluffy and fleshy breasts on youtube, which he was amazed by. "Keep an eye out for them... You will be going through New Mexico and that's where they are." Albert kept trying to convince Diana to show him her tattoo. He was getting too forward, as he does when he drinks too much. She didn't give into his insistence and he settled for a good squeeze from the both of us.

Albert's portrait was painted in his poker shack. open, natural light beaming from the left, and reflected and scattered light on the right. Wearing his usual: a purple Greek fishermen hat, and a green button up shirt with a neon blue tee under. He looks handsome and important.

Zini, 24 x 36" Oil on panel.

His lifetime involvement in organized crime has always kept him on the move, but for the past 5 years he has been in Homer, earning his first honest living as a cook at the Otter Room as a 40-something year old. He loves it and now sleeps through the night.

As a child his mother taught him how to read cards. He got very good at this and it became the first way he earned money.

He moved to Alaska to be with his dying girlfriend for the last few weeks of her life. After she passed, he just stayed. He has serious reservations about leaving Alaska because he isn't sure if he can come back across the border to the US.

His fast talking Albanian accent is thick, making him easily funny to me. Zini calls all women "babe." Like any European man he has a particular sensitivity in talking with women, or, an ability to be or appear to be captivated by her. He can convince you of anything. Zini is a man of his word. He promised a day trip to Seldovia, a town across the Kachemak Bay- but without a boat or a plane I assumed it just wouldn't happen. I was wrong. Means do not make a man, his word does. I am sure he made a fabulous criminal and lover.

He comes off pessimistic and blasé when he drinks. Becoming nasty, arrogant and short, he dwarfs difficulties of all measures by toasting his usual: "It's two tears in a bucket- Fuck it. Salute!" I feel glad that I never saw a whiskey-drunk Zini, I think.

His best friend Bill, who Zini calls "Hill-Billie," is the bartender at Duggan's. Bill goes to the Otter Room every Thursday for rib-eye night and Zini doesn't charge him. When Zini gets off work, Bill repays him with free beer at Duggans. I like their exchange system.

Out of all eleven portraits I started in Alaska, Zini was the only one who was truly excited to have his portrait painted. Zini immediately hit his pose professionally and never broke eye contact. When painting someone, the person either retreats or proceeds. Most are uncomfortable, awkward or embarrassed and retreat. You have to pull things from them as subjects and search. But Zini just pushed his insides out unapologetically. No censors. Open and raw. Red.

His hair is salt and pepper and curly. His eye lids are as heavy as the bags under his eyes. Gravity pulls at all of his facial features. Always a 2 day scruff, usually wearing his Time Bandit tee "because it was free." Shorter than most men, his tucked in shirt pronounces his hard pot belly that protrudes above his hips, making his pants hang lower than they should. He walks with his toes pointing outward a little, bopping from side to side more than normal, always keeping the same gate that is a little faster than most. He swings his hands like they are heavier than he would like them to be. He likes his heavy hands in his pockets often and moves his head and neck around while he talks. dark eyes. shapely brows, an almost perfect cicle on the end of his nose. a wide grin. missing teeth. Clown like. His face is close to being finished, most work needs to be done around him on the grill and counter that surrounds him.

Carcase is finished- and my crush on him just got a little bigger.

Carcase, 36 x 24", oil on panel.

Roughed, scarred, sunned, gnarled. his hands tell. Kirk, exclusively known as Carcase in any fishing port in the state of Alaska, survived three sinking crab boats in two years. In those same two years his wife was diagnosed with cancer, she divorced him, took his two girls to the lower 48 and re-married. And of all the pain he has had, the day he told a mother her son had drowned in the Bering, still fests and throbs: calming his usual boisterous and blustery manner for a few real and resting moments.

He frequents Duggan's, the Irish bar in Homer. He explodes through the doors, just as his Ford explodes into the dirt parking lot: loud, crooked and rusted. thin, but broad shouldered. blond. wide, ice-eyed. pupils dilated. He hasn't drank for years but his daily concoction of uppers and lowers ignite his intensity. He commits- and in every way; from his two girls to his tidy pool shots. I wanted to remember and repeat every word he said.

He shaved his usual scruff for me, "his painter." I wished he hadn't, but wondered when the last time he shaved for a woman was. White shirt unbuttoned, gold chain exposed but tarnished. no chest hair, and a killer, killer moustache. I painted him, as he drank his black coffee and nervously fumbled with his box of Marlboro's, and wondered if his broken, swollen knuckles ever got stuck in the tiny of his coffee cup ring.

Carcase always orders food to go, but always eats the food in the bar. I asked him why he didn't just order it in: "Well- You never know who is going to come in and you might have to leave."

His unbridled electricity concerns tourists in the bar, but locals know the only concern would be if the electricity sputtered. His energy threatens the ease in everyone around him, all the while aching you forward to him. just a little closer. cautious. intrigued and thirsty.

He has always been in love with the bartender at the Down East Saloon, but she has gone between Carcase and another for years. He always takes her back, eagerly. Outside of her, his confidence on the ocean is as great as his modesty with the opposite sex. But- unbeknownst to him, his potent and lusty charm slips through his softening demeanor as I plea for my "sloppy" pool shots to count.

Bright, cold, strong natural light making strong contrast. sharp, bold and direct. Mostly monochromatic: thalo blue. cobalt constructs and marine with van dyke envelops. muted orange barely reveals the bar surroundings: the bar phone and a life preserver behind him, reading "Homer, AK". Hands heavy. almost done.