Hello out there..

Hi folks (if anyone is still out there)!  It's been a long time - I know.  No excuses.

Well, a few.

One of them is I've been working awfully hard at the day job - long, rewarding and challenging hours.  That plus other things means that generally I have had no time or energy to craft the kind of post that this Blog was used to.

So if you remember me and you are still here to drop in, I've started posting at Instagram.  It's easier. I just photograph the art with a sentence or two from my phone.  Of course I need the time to make the art.  Sigh.

If you were here for the writing, sorry, no time for that, for now.  Except at this very moment.

So here's a poem I wrote recently (makes reference to the day job and that is how all-consuming it all is.  And, spoiler, the job is not art-related).


Not

Not artist.  Not lawyer.
Not husband, not father or son.
Not writer or poet.
Not the skin, not the bones,
Not the guts in between.
What is there left when all is removed?
Maybe that is me..
Or perhaps it is not.


So if, like me, you now hang out at Instagram, I am @danhkent or https://www.instagram.com/danhkent/

I am excited and a little lost with all of the talent and creativity I am finding there.  Which is a good thing.  It is stirring the pot, which has been tepid for quite a while.  And that's a good thing.

Concerning the Koi

6" x 6" acrylic on board "The Koi" Click HERE to purchase $100.00

Sitting at the edge
of the pond and
contemplating

the koi,

I am captured by
their color,
ensnarled in their
swirling.

I am calmed.

As I sit
in the massive
shopping mall
on the concrete
edge of the koi pond,

I feel frenetic
bodies
all about me:

sallying,
bullying and
stirring the air

Sometimes for gain,
they perform
the unthinkable.

7" x 7" watercolor on 140 lb. NOT paper. Click HERE to purchase $100.00

When koi are released
into the wild,
they lose their
spectacular color within

a few generations

and don the dull cloak
of the carp.

They stir the soil,
making their watery home
muddy and
unattractive
to everyone else.

Undrinkable.

Sometimes for gain,
they perform
the unthinkable.

Captivity
becomes
the koi.

*****************************************

Here's a photo for Shadow Shot Sunday:

Dark Ladder

"Dark Ladder" acrylic on 8" x 10" canvas

In the fading light I examine my walls, scraped bare,
Some, but not all, of their guts exposed -
A stew of colors, a few palatable, others putrid;
Glues from coverings best forgotten;
Telltale signs of holes and gaps and vulnerabilities.

Yet the scattering, the dissonance, is attractive to me.
It is perfection that is disturbing.
I think of this as I scale the ladder in the dark
And apply my first coat of
Smooth, aromatic white
Paint.

* * *

PAINTER'S NOTES:  Mari of Colour Blob who, by the way, is doing beautiful work of cold - very cold - winter days, commented and asked how I got the texture in the painting, whether it was dry brush, so I thought I'd add my response here because the result was a surprise to me, and the process of painting was a bit of an adventure:

The painting began with an exact, almost photo-realist painting of the ladder. I am impressed with but not a big fan of photo-realism. It was properly done, but uninteresting, and I did not like the colors or the composition. So I stuck it in a drawer where it stayed for months. 

The other day I pulled it out, felt wild and wooly, and decided to start painting over it in a very free manner. Some was wet and some was dry. I was all over the place. I believe I was mostly wet first, and then went dry on top. Not sure. I thought I was going to ruin it frankly, and I didn't care because I didn't like the first "draft" and could always use the canvas again. Maybe that is when you do the best, I don't know. 

Then I pulled out the tool that I have truly begun to relish in my acrylics (which worked very well for me in another painting - not quite finished - that I haven't posted yet) - a rubber sculpting tool that looks to all of the world like a spatula. It could be viewed, I guess, as a soft painting knife. I love what it does. That may be some of what you see. 

Thanks Mari!

Gobble, Gobble

Ink and watercolor of Mexican Restaurant in large moleskine
(Double-click for clearer image)

Yes it's turkey for breakfast,
And, well, turkey for lunch. 
And it's turkey for dinner ..

See, I've got a hunch
That although turkey is good on Thanksgiving day,
And though the day after (the next), I can
Say the bird's best - 
That I'd rather have Mexican
On all of the rest.

And how about you -
Do you feel the same?
Do you now feel that turkey is
Your middle name? Do you now feel
That turkey is the food that we eat,
That your belly's expanding as you sit on your seat
And eat turkey each hour because that's how you feel -
That if you are what you eat, then you'll be next year's meal?

If you feel that way,
Then gobble with me,
And watch out for knives,
And for Black Friday deals.
And waddle away to a place that is safe,
And watch what you eat in upcoming meals,
Because maybe, just maybe, if it's
Junk you consume, like hot dogs and
Hamburgers, pizza, and fries,
You'll reach next Thanksgiving,
And next year survive.

One Day

Ink and watercolor in moleskine

A day that sings softly and subtly,
Its tune a gentle breeze,
Its lyrics whispy white clouds drifting.

A day disguised as any day,
That winks in delight, and waves
One hand as though it dons a magic cloak.

Beside me you rest as I sketch the day
And the children, the cotton candy, and trees,
But all that I know is you, your touch and your smile.

When lifelong companions are one day old,
And under the spell of a day,
We remember together that day, and no more than one.

In Memory of Taylor Nicole

This year my daughter Taylor would have been sweet sixteen had things been different. But she was born with a defective heart. Despite heroic efforts on the part of the medical team at Jackson Memorial Hospital, and a successful heart operation, her lungs would not adjust to the corrected blood flow.

My wife and I were changed by her short life. There was beauty, and there was horror. We were enriched, and we were broken.

This year during a Spring cleaning, I found a poem that I wrote on May 10, 1994, within a month of Taylor's death. It is raw, and speaks of the separate struggles that my wife and I had to endure. People cope and mourn in altogether different and sometimes seemingly incompatible ways. That we grew to understand this was the reason, I believe, that we survived the loss as a couple, when many under similar circumstances do not.

Until this poem was found, nobody - not even my wife, had read it. The last line of the poem seems to point towards where we are today: we find much to appreciate and enjoy about our lives. I was tempted to extend the line length, and change a few words here and there, but it is probably better to present it as it was written.

So let this poem be a tribute to Taylor's memory, and a testament to all who lose a loved one and especially a child, that you can and will make it beyond the loss, with time.

In memory of Taylor Nicole Kent
(March 11, 1994 to April 18, 1994)

Sweet angel,
The family trembles.

Rocks crumble
Beneath your short existence,
In aftershock.

The mother's dream
Inexorably
Slips through
Trembling hands.
The father drops to his knees
To recover what he can.

Time falls heavenward.

Lifelong companions
Thrash,
Amidst merciless rapids,
Unable to grasp one another,
Except
Occasionally.

The mother drowns in
Your assaulted purity:
In you, the candle,
The innocent flame,
Hacked
To pieces;
In you, the baby's breath,
Smothered
By her own traitorous
Lungs.

The Father is dragged
Downward; his kicks,
His struggling arms,
Amount to nothing;
He breathes alone.
He buries himself in
All things living,
Excavating
The pain of your absence
From them.

He enfolds himself
As a cocoon
Around your brother, and
He touches your mother
As a precious jewel.
Light, deflected
From the prismatic well,
Is dim,
But an occasional flicker
Or spark, makes him dare
To Hope.