Open Studio

Alas, the time has arrived! After a two years of constantly rearranging the back room of my house to accommodate whatever project was at hand; painting, sculpting, matting and framing, I now have an actual shop/studio. I can leave my tools out, let the saw dust pile, and skateboard down the hall, and most importantly, I can jump as high as I want and not hit my head on the ceiling. Exciting stuff.

My roughly 1,000 sqft. space is a part of a larger collective of crafting comrades in a 4,500 sqft. warehouse nestled between the railroad tracks and national cemetery in downtown Chattanooga. The players are Eric Smith(metal), Jessie Bean(softgoods & sculptures), Anderson Bailey(ceramics), Luke Padgett(film and moto stoke), and, obviously, myself. The space is called Artifact and to celebrate our collaborative excitement, we are having an open studio this weekend and would love to see anyone who might be in the area.

Did I mention that there will be guided tours via electric wheel chair and one on one hockey shoot outs?

Hope to see you there!

The Rest of Yesterday

"Beautiful Westland"

Well, here she is. A gigantic mural, if not in size then ambition, painted on the side of an old wooden depot somewhere in south central Kansas. "On a clear day," I was told, "if you climb a the top of that highest grain elevator there, and you have with you a really good set a binoculars, glass freshly polished, you can actually see all the way a them mountains." And, other than having to squint really hard, so hard I thought I might pass out, they were right. I could see those distant mountains, and how many different things they must have meant for all those who beheld them. A distant mirage that would bring hopes of a fresh start in a new land. A perfect hideout from their imperfect selves. Or a gigantic obstacle that reminded travelers of how far they still had to go to find their freedom. A bunch of 14,000ft. pains in the asses, if you will.

When I tried to think of what the distant and undulating horizon would mean to me someday, I could not quite place it. Would my journey there be blazed with the confident stride of a dinosaur? Would it be slow and calculated like that of a the bison-hunting plains indians? Or, rather, would my trail be one of smoke and iridescent mystery, billowing from my extraterrestrial spaceship called Enigma? No matter, ultimately the time in between would decide that I thought. All I knew, was that at that moment, I was a scruffy white guy, with squeaky boots, ready to ride. Bring on Westland, I thought, ...bring it on.