HOW TO DRAW A TURKEY
For those of you who don't get the reference, the title refers to the recent documentary about artist Ray Johnson- HOW TO DRAW A BUNNY. Ray was a bit of wierdo, with an up and down career, plenty of artworld friends, who had nothing to do with anything close to playing by the rules. I didn't know him but he was in the EV while I was there. A few years back he'd had enough, went out to a bridge near his Long island home, and jumped. One of his signature images was a wide eyed rabbit.
Yesterday Christmo the elder, Mother Star and Brother Smokey came across the New England hills to attend our Aunt Bobbie Devine's funeral here in Kerhonkson. I told them i'd attend only if Shewho (who was scheduled for a visit) didn't show. By 11:00 am I found myself teary eyed in the family pew. Funerals are one of the few places where Smokey and i can still be the youngsters in the room. I wasn't that sad, but i find it difficult not to get sucked in when the rest of the room is sobbing. Aunt Bobbie was missed by all. We had some cold cuts, coffee and cake afterward and I went home and fell asleep with a stomach ache. Star called and said Smokey had a queasey gut also. I think it was the ham.
I laid on the couch into the evening, watching TV. At about midnight I went to bed. Then, at 3 am I woke up with a start, the sound of a two stroke ATV whining in my ear. I looked out the window and saw the 10 foot flame of the neighbor's bonfire. The ATV circled it mindlessly. In my half sleep my first thought was to load the gun and pick him off in the fire light. My stomach was turning and my breath smelled like death. Thinking bettter of murder, I called the cops. Now i couldn't get back to sleep. For some reason i thought of Ray Johnson, wishing there was a local bridge high enough to give me some peace. Must've been that funeral.
Recently I've started guitar lessons. I hate it. After playing by ear for 4 years, writing song after song, I'm back at square one, stumbling over the frets and sounding like a 10 year old with his first guitar. It sucks to be reminded just how little you know. I feel worn out, rundown, squeezed through the ringer. Then, just to make it worse, i went on a website- ST911.org.- Scholars for Truth. These eggheads posit the theory that the 911 attacks were planned by our government and even the towers and WTC #7 were rigged with explosive squibs by George Bush's brother's security co. (who just happened to have the WTC contract). I usually don't go in for this kind of conspiracy theory stuff, but....... Could it be? Maybe it wasn't just the ham turning my stomach.
Tomorrow is opening day of turkey season. I have a drawing hanging in my kitchen of a running tom turkey. It's done in crayon on brown paper. I did it in 1963, copied from a hunting magazine, years before i even saw a turkey. How could i have known that turkey hunting would become a passion equal to my art? For the next month I'll get up before dawn, and hit the woods until noon. Over the years an old student of mine- Eddie, has video taped me hunting, holding churches, and talking about my work, documenting my appoach to lifestyle as art. Someday it will become some sort of little documentary about a guy who had plenty of artworld friends, had nothing to do with playing by the rules, was a bit of a wierdo, wrote this blog and lived for turkey season every year. Guess I better go buy some shotgun shells. If nothing's gobbling, the neighbors are fair game.
Yesterday Christmo the elder, Mother Star and Brother Smokey came across the New England hills to attend our Aunt Bobbie Devine's funeral here in Kerhonkson. I told them i'd attend only if Shewho (who was scheduled for a visit) didn't show. By 11:00 am I found myself teary eyed in the family pew. Funerals are one of the few places where Smokey and i can still be the youngsters in the room. I wasn't that sad, but i find it difficult not to get sucked in when the rest of the room is sobbing. Aunt Bobbie was missed by all. We had some cold cuts, coffee and cake afterward and I went home and fell asleep with a stomach ache. Star called and said Smokey had a queasey gut also. I think it was the ham.
I laid on the couch into the evening, watching TV. At about midnight I went to bed. Then, at 3 am I woke up with a start, the sound of a two stroke ATV whining in my ear. I looked out the window and saw the 10 foot flame of the neighbor's bonfire. The ATV circled it mindlessly. In my half sleep my first thought was to load the gun and pick him off in the fire light. My stomach was turning and my breath smelled like death. Thinking bettter of murder, I called the cops. Now i couldn't get back to sleep. For some reason i thought of Ray Johnson, wishing there was a local bridge high enough to give me some peace. Must've been that funeral.
Recently I've started guitar lessons. I hate it. After playing by ear for 4 years, writing song after song, I'm back at square one, stumbling over the frets and sounding like a 10 year old with his first guitar. It sucks to be reminded just how little you know. I feel worn out, rundown, squeezed through the ringer. Then, just to make it worse, i went on a website- ST911.org.- Scholars for Truth. These eggheads posit the theory that the 911 attacks were planned by our government and even the towers and WTC #7 were rigged with explosive squibs by George Bush's brother's security co. (who just happened to have the WTC contract). I usually don't go in for this kind of conspiracy theory stuff, but....... Could it be? Maybe it wasn't just the ham turning my stomach.
Tomorrow is opening day of turkey season. I have a drawing hanging in my kitchen of a running tom turkey. It's done in crayon on brown paper. I did it in 1963, copied from a hunting magazine, years before i even saw a turkey. How could i have known that turkey hunting would become a passion equal to my art? For the next month I'll get up before dawn, and hit the woods until noon. Over the years an old student of mine- Eddie, has video taped me hunting, holding churches, and talking about my work, documenting my appoach to lifestyle as art. Someday it will become some sort of little documentary about a guy who had plenty of artworld friends, had nothing to do with playing by the rules, was a bit of a wierdo, wrote this blog and lived for turkey season every year. Guess I better go buy some shotgun shells. If nothing's gobbling, the neighbors are fair game.
posted by mike osterhout at 10:41 AM
1 Comments:
I watched How to Draw a Bunny last night--saw your name in it in the scene where they were scrolling through the notebook he made--makes you seem a little more"real", tangible even...
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