The House of Masks

O Hear The Angels Voices!

2012-01-01T13:08:00.000-08:00

So that does it for the year 2011. We can call that a wrap and toss it out with the rest of the year end refuse, bottles and cans. There is only the present where time is concerned. I can say that but then I seem to be far more interested in what has past. History, the bones of humanity and what mankind has left behind is far more interesting than anything I can see around me today. An ordinary drinking vessel from the 1700's might fascinate me but not this coffee cup from which I now drink.So to cap the year 2011 here at the House of Masks I created a military officer's helmet with an iron cross and shoulder pads modifying my east german uniform. Then I commenced to sample various german beers in considerable quantities. Not before long a spirit arose in me, one of pride and hearty merry making. I realized I was experiencing a sudden celebration of nostalgia. My thirst was great, nay unquenchable!... and I did break into song for the glory of the Lord.

Now all that is past history and I leave it behind me. Happy New Year!

Baron Von Betz, January 1, 2012

I hear the click-clack of your feet on the stairs

2011-12-10T15:59:00.000-08:00

Now I'm all out of beer.

I bought a 6-pack last night and only drank two of them on account of a few glasses of rum and egg nog drinks that were only meant to bring a little spice and holiday spirit into my existence. High on nutmeg. I lit some incense and made the rounds of my tiny apartment holding a smoldering sage/juniper smudge before me, blessing my humble abode and ridding my hovel of any lingering tricksters or troublemaker's. I had a job to do.

That job was to arrange an environment and conduct a photo shoot of that scenery for my annual holiday card. Oh yes, and place myself within it. Time for a little self-timer theater on a tri-pod.

Let's see...I'll need a bistro table and two chairs, a cheap mistletoe design tablecloth and a couple dozen empty bottles of various german beers to go on top. A small fir wreath, an army blanket, a reindeer mask, a cardboard box, a winter overcoat, a white shirt, red tie and gloves. A guitar on a stand, a drum and a pair of black boots (spit shined). Lights, camera. Enter The Baron.

The Baron wears a grey wool military suit with red vest and black tie. He arrives in a newly designed helmet of his own creation and is in grey woolen stocking feet. He has had a few drinks and is feeling the joy of the season. He is pleased with himself and his surroundings and farts indiscriminately. The Baron drinks his beer from a german stein and carries a tobacco pipe. He enjoys music, preferably Johann Strauss.

The photo shoot wasn't finished until "The Baron" sobered up and had a good nights rest. Today he has taken care of the remaining four beers as well as the remnants of a bottle of Irish Cream liquor along with his morning coffee.

Now I'm all out of beer. I'm sitting here on a small wooden chair and it's all quiet on the Northwestern front. It's dark enough to be 9 o'clock but it is not yet 5pm. It's cold outside but I have holiday errands to run and no more beer. I hear the side door of the building open and the footsteps of a woman in heels on the concrete floor passing by my door. Click-clack, click-clack, and on up the stairs. I followed her legs in my mind and reached up under her skirt...she sure smelled fine! Sugar and spice and everything nice...intoxicating. Women are like mixed drinks. They smell and taste good and can get you high but if you get too much of them they can make you feel sick. I need more beer.

Flee From Me Keepers Of The Gloom

2011-11-28T17:47:00.001-08:00

Lately I’ve found myself drawn with interest to the middle ages of my germanic ancestry. An age with a living god that still performed miracles. The down side being that the Church had the whole of society by the balls, and it liked to squeeze ‘em hard. But along with the Judeo-Christian God there still existed the pre-christian supernatural beings that performed their own good or evil deeds, like it or not. Nature spirits of all kinds, fairies and elves, goblins and the vampires and werewolves that are so celebrated now in our own time were just as real as “God” and his angels to the people of the middle ages. Wonderfully horrible times they must have been. Kind of like now only different.

Learning about the origins of all that and mythology in general has helped me form my own ideas about human nature and the spirit world, real or imagined. Yet I’m pleased and thankful to be a 20th century man. I would be boiled in oil and burned at the stake for the works of art that I create had I been born in the middle ages. I am a simple tinker, thinker, drinker and maker of craft with balls and you can’t stop me. Prost!

Just a little statement on the pieces that will be on display at The Lovecraft nightclub in Portland, December and January.

The carpet too is moving under you....

2011-10-09T16:30:00.001-07:00

And the years march forward onward to another birthday. If I remember correctly, I am 53 now. The average human being reaches maturity around the age 20. The average mammal lives to be around the age of 20. The average vampire lives...as long as the blood holds out and the sun don't shine. And I'm happy as long as the beer holds out. It appears I skipped over maturity and reached the middle ages seemingly quite suddenly.

"All will be well, if, if, if, if, if, say the green bells of Cardiff"

Oh my Guinness, I'll have another birthday.

How can you say, I go about this the wrong way?

2011-09-18T19:21:00.000-07:00

I rolled the TV cart over to the end of the futon and plugged it in. Then changed into a pair of red flannel jammy pants with white snowflakes for comfort. What luxury to spend the evening laid back watching the remaining episodes of Twin Peaks. I had a bowl of vanilla ice cream too. The cherry pie ran out during Season One.

I've had epic dreams this weekend. Not so pleasant dreams but not exactly nightmare quality dreams as one would expect in the Twin Peaks landscape. The many details, twists and turns of my nocturnal adventures have faded to black but the recurring matter of concern is that I am lost. I have somehow arrived at a place and I don't know how to get back home to safety. Or if I am at a train station I don't have the means to purchase a ticket and must make an appeal to strangers for help as in the dream where I am riding my bicycle and suddenly find myself in Seattle. Quick edits and a large cast of characters, mostly strangers but occasionally family appear. I recall last night in my dream trying to mentally trace back into my past. An effort represented by a filthy, cluttered stairway, to determine at what point I took a wrong turn in life and became lost. Then at what point did I concede that I was lost and give up hope for ever returning to the land where people know where they are? Like trying to find your contact lens amongst the garbage in a dumpster. I have attempted to trace these steps consciously throughout my life and have always come up empty headed for answers. Is the Idea to create Art? Or is Art the vehicle that takes you to the Idea? As in dreams, nothing makes a bit of sense. So I make Masks. Maybe I'm not such a lost dreamer after all, no more lost than anyone else on this planet. It could be just a feeling that made an impression on me in my infancy that I will never be able to shake off. As my 53rd year approaches it would make sense to concede with a grin and bear the ride in good humor. I suppose that's what I have been doing all along. Though the ride is not always so pleasant, neither is it nightmarish, except on occasion.

I remember reading an essay by Schopenhauer long ago; a man rumored to sleep with a pistol at his bedside and carried his own drinking cup. But whom I consider to be a great man. We have but one consolation in this life; that there is always someone worse off than we are. That is one little detail I have posted on the refrigerator door of my mind. Thus I conclude; eat, drink and be merry in your flannel jammies. The Definitive Twin Peaks box set is recommended as is the cherry pie.

Life I Love You, All Is Groovy

2011-08-13T15:51:00.001-07:00

I grew up in the suburbs of Kalamazoo, Michigan. It was a new subdivision and houses were still being built around my neighborhood. Huge basement foundations dug in the ground that boys could jump down into and play around in. Giant mounds of earth piled high fueled with dirt clod ammunition for fighting. Open fields to camp out on with pup tents and sleeping bags. Crab apple tree's to climb and eat the small sour apples that made your stomach ache. And corn fields. A few years later a place to sneak cigarette's, beer and cheap wine, but that's another story of my sordid adolescence.

Keeping it sweet in Battle Creek, Kellogg's and Post factories were cranking out sugary breakfast cereals for youngsters such as I. Saturday morning cartoon's with Fruit Loops, Frosted Flakes, Apple Jack's, Rice Krispies, you name it. After a bowl of Cheerios, there at the bottom of the bowl would be a small pile of sugar to scoop up and eat with the remaining sweetened milk. If it happened to be a bowl of Cocoa Krispies or Count Chocula then you'd have chocolate milk to drink afterwards. But the first thing to come out of the box was the "Prize Inside!". Cheap shit, always. But it was Free and something to get excited about. Often eating cereal with the box placed on the table in front for reading material. Yes, those were the days my friend.

Presently, I found a small piece of scrap leather with white fur and after placing it on my styrofoam armature's head I thought "hey look, it's Andy Warhol!". I have never attempted a celebrity mask before. All I can seem to come up with are hideous, fanged, bug eyed demons. So why don't I lighten up and add a little sugar this time?

For such I took a stroll down the cereal aisle at my local grocer and consequently down the Memory Lane of my youth. My Lucky Charms. I knew there was no way to get a mask out of a can of Campbell's soup or a box of Brillo. And besides, packaging today isn't what it was in the mid-1960's. But I saw a box of Corn Flakes on the shelf that had very sparse graphics and seemed to harken back to the simple good o'l days and I figured my head would fit inside the medium size box. So I bought a box of Corn Flakes. That it was on sale; 2 for $6.00 sealed my decision.

I made the mask using 3 photocopy transfers of Andy with a photo by Ron Galella. I placed random pieces of colored acetate underneath and glued them to the reinforced box. Cut out holes for the eyes and mouth and the piece of white leather fur glued on top. Andy was a little corny anyway so I think he wears it well. Trix are for kids.

And now, to get back to the dark side and my Groovy Goolie masks where I feel more at home. All is groovy. Just add milk and sugar. (yech!)

In Places Small Faces Unbound

2011-07-30T12:28:00.001-07:00

This morning I went for a ride on my bicycle for no other reason than to come out of my dwelling where I had spent most of the previous day and late into the night working on a portrait mask of sorts. I met with some success and celebrated with a beer. And one more after that. I slept well.

I came to a halt at the Park Blocks. There were a few children playing but it was otherwise a peaceful place to be in the early morning. I looked down and noticed there were many small pieces of fallen branch and twigs. I gathered a handful and put them in my basket. Finds like these can end up becoming tooth and fang, even horns if it pleases The Creator. What am I but a pair of eyes and hands?

On the ride back home I thought about all the frightening and beautiful human faces I had seen recently at a street art fair. "...some laughing, some just shapeless forms". Yes, I should perhaps come out of my dwelling more often and take a closer look at the society I live amongst. But it can become frightening and exhausting and I seem to enter into a stupor after a while in such crowds. It felt good to ride away from there in the dark night and back home again. I brought a bottle of beer with me for comfort when I got home. To tell the truth, I'd rather stay home drinking beer with The Creator and working on masks until late into the night. Something magical like that.

One last thing I'd like to mention. The Byrds, like The Kinks, are everything a rock band ought to be. Praise The Creator!

Record company man, I won't be coming to dinner

2011-04-30T12:11:00.000-07:00

I once had an LP back in my Blues record collecting days. It was on Rounder Records and featured the elder Blues veteran and former Mississippi Sheik Sam Chatmon. Probably recorded in the 1970's I'm guessing. Sam lived a long life for a Bluesman. On the cover was a clear glossy photo of an old Blues dandy sporting a cap, a Rip Van Winkle beard and a cheap guitar. It was a selling point for anyone in pursuit of the pure thing. Blues is an old art form. I might even go so far as to say it's dead. It's hard for me to trust any contemporary Blues "entertainer", though I'm sure there are exceptions and pure things still left in the world somewhere.

As for me, I am neither a Bluesman or an entertainer but I am getting old. So if you hand me a guitar and ask me to play something I just might grow whiskers and reach for the key of "C", in the evening when the sun goes down.

Slippin' away, sittin' on a pillow

2011-03-06T14:05:00.000-08:00

Ah, home sweet home, where the buffalo roam and the demons and the anima play. I've often wondered through the years, and I have a good many years behind me now, when is my life going to start coming into focus? When will I be able to look at what I'm doing and how I'm living and be able to say to myself "this makes sense"? Not to say that I haven't had my moments of clarity now and then. And I do what I do because I follow my personal interests and that in itself has to make sense even if I'm still not quite sure what it's all for and about.

Therapists will often direct lost souls like myself toward the creative arts as if there were some hidden message in the subconscious that will reveal itself through artistic expression. I personally have not received any such messages. I look into the eyes of a mask and I say "Speak you beast!" but all I get in return is a mute and mono-expression, a blank stare that returns with the wide-eyed question "Why?". Masks come into being somehow, and I am the one responsible for having created them and for destroying them. It's a lofty position to be in and there are many imperfections in each of them. Accidents that occurred for better or worse during the process that simply had to be accepted. Creation, if we simplify it to be the image of a bearded old tinker in his workshop high in the heavens...the lonely old man with eternity on his hands who has thought of nothing better to do with his time than to create human forms, fill them with souls and set them in motion on the earth to see what becomes of them...if this is my position with the masks I am creating then it is up to the mask to identify itself and do something with it's life. I'm just a tinker (though clean shaven but I'm working on the sideburns for now). The mask has got it pretty good after all, it doesn't suffer, it is merely the expression of suffering. How else can I say it but with glue and paper?

All this is beginning to take shape in my mind in some way, in some very slow moving way which would require an eternity to reveal itself clearly. But if I am understanding my own words here, the mask must be fleshed out through performance in human form, captured on video and subject to close scrutiny like a caged monster in the psyche. Heavy shit. But it's really all non-sense. I have nothing better to do with my time is all.

Blue Days, Black Nights, Doo-Wah, Doo-Wah

2011-02-25T18:15:00.000-08:00

My toilet is one of those o'l tymers that will flush for eternity unless you give the handle a wiggle afterwards. But once you know the drill you learn to live with it and it's otherwise a fine piece of porcelain for a rental. I generally do my business on the throne and be done with it. Never one to tote a newspaper or magazine to read during my movements. Yet I consider myself a thinking man and the throne has long been known to be a place where a man can be alone to do some pondering if not meditating all the while. The bathroom. That very personal and intimate space. Parties are for congregating in the kitchen as we all know, but once the shit house door is closed it's all yours. And that's where I received an idea for a video which you might say I shat out or pissed my time away on. But such is the nature of art. Waste.

If I'm reading at home I'm kicked back on the futon, propped up with pillows with a lamp by my side. Those are hours well spent I must say. And lately I've been flipping through a book on the spiritual readings of Edgar Cayce. I don't personally subscribe to the christian system as he did but I found his unique process of channeling through the Super-Consciousness to offer advise to his seekers quite interesting, and the advise itself even more so. Lord knows I can use all the advise I can get. I've always been inclined to seeking myself but it's all so much scratching at the surface. Or a form of mental entertainment. Reincarnation, that sort of thing only strikes me as a fancy or rather a horror story. Who in their right mind would want to return to earth for another lifetime? Looking back is worth a laugh but future reincarnation is for ego's who can't bear the concept of annihilation so let's just not mention it ever again. Ever.

We all do the best we can to get along throughout our lives. But it's comforting to know there's going to be an end eventually. That final plunge. Our only consolation in life is that there is always somebody else worse off than we are. And why should I complain, for christ-sake I have a room to myself and my own toilet! Thank God! Otherwise I could not have made this video. The Head is all yours.

She's Not A GIrl Who Misses Much

2011-02-16T21:10:00.000-08:00

Who wants to fill the world with silly love songs? Not I. But how else are we to explain these situations (notice he avoids using the word "relationships" and substitutes "situations". What does he think, that life and love is some kind of skit to be played out?) these, uh, events that occur when two people start laying hands and everything else they own on one another?

It opens into a dark space where you have never set foot before. You step forward, often enough with both feet and immediately take the plunge. There goes the floor! Booby trap! Falling, falling...you are aware that you are going to fall and die, falling...when suddenly you roll over and begin to fly! Now you're really flying! and begin to laugh aloud. You can laugh aloud way up there because no one can hear your laughter. Scream if you please. You are way up there flying in the clouds. So you start to show off doing somersaults and nose dives in the heavens with your arms outstretched. But you're going pretty fast now and it's hard to control your steering. You begin to wonder just who is controlling this thing anyway? Now you're quite sure that you have somehow lost control and are spiraling downward to the earth for a crash landing. Better take courage, this is going to hurt. Here comes the earth....your feet begin running like in a cartoon before you touch down. Somehow you're down on your feet and hauling ass. No! There you go up in the air again just a little ways and for a short time. You return to earth but it's okay. You look around and there is no one in sight, but you feel like a frightened animal and danger lurks everywhere. Keep your eyes peeled brother and try to get off the ground again and back up in the air where it's safe. Then you realize you're lost and have no idea where you are.

That's a silly love song from my world to yours.

Jef

I Want To Close My Eyes And Be Like The Rest

2011-01-15T13:44:00.000-08:00

Two weeks into the new year and I must take a pause for a moment; while the clocks race full speed ahead. By now I should have examined my stock, collected my thoughts and laid out my plans and aspirations for all I wish to accomplish in the year ahead. I have delayed this long for not wanting to bear looking at my poor stock. My thoughts are still rather scattered and I find that I am without much ambition of any kind. I pace the floor listening to the irregular beats of rain falling outside and the steady humming that goes on inside my empty head. What I shall do today and beyond today is an uncertainty. But full speed ahead nevertheless.

What I seem to be lacking is a calendar. A number of days. If I am to believe my present wall calendar it is still December of the year 2010. But I know better and I take a closer look at it now. It shows a Hokusai woodblock print of a Japanese man and woman walking precariously on a rope bridge with the caption: "The suspension bridge between Hida and Etchu, 1834". The man walks ahead with an enormous burden of what appears to be a crop of grain on his back. The woman walks behind him balancing a smaller burden on top of her head. They appear to be about halfway to their destination where a trio of goats perhaps are grazing on a hilltop. A fitting image for the last month of the past year I think. If the man loses his footing and falls to his death it is almost certain the woman will follow to her end. If they arrive safely on the other side they may have to kill the goats in order to survive, or they may love the goats and find a marketplace for their crop and sell or barter for their gain. Who the hell knows! Hokusai. But surely not I for I am in a state of pause and suspension myself just now with irregular beats, seashell humming and the shuffling sound of my own footsteps pacing a wooden floor. 1834..where was I?

I was a King. I must have been...King of the Idlers. My Idle Kingdom was nothing so splendid as for appearances because there was so little need to be done. My subjects were as disinterested as I and laziness was something of a virtue amongst us. We didn't need no stinking calendars or aspirations. All was complete and had been forever more.

O show me the way to the next opium den.

O don't ask why, O don't ask why

How much time have I lost? Wasted in thought while the clock races on. Listening and reflecting. Pondering this and that. Imagining things and dreaming a crown of gold. Looking out the window now wondering what I shall do beyond this day and in the year ahead. It is dark. What must be done? How far behind in the human rat race am I? And is it even worth caring about at this stage in the game? Such is the burden I carry. Large perhaps but not so heavy really. It's made of nothing but the seasons. Just ahead is a hilltop where cattle graze and birds fly silhouetted against the clouds. I will close my eyes and begin my journey there without calendar or timetable.

So let it out and let it in

2010-11-18T18:34:00.001-08:00

Although it's been cold and raining like crazy for two days straight, I've felt exceptionally well all day today. And for no apparent reason that I can think of. I chalk it up to the position of the cosmos and that prior to today I've been feeling rather lowly of late so it's just a matter of nature balancing the ups and downs and every dog must have his day. That sort of thing.

But one finds oneself in a state of wonder to feel free and lighthearted, playfully joking with co-workers like a young pup. How is it I find myself here? One possibility I reckoned was that I recently purchased new underwear. Just a little something for the self-esteem and I will just go so far as to describe them as black, boxer briefs. Nothing so fancy as say designer boxers or some of the other undies on sale that might have been more fitting in cut and style for the ladies. I keep forgetting that (some) men are sex symbols now too and deserving of thong undies to prance about in for their significant others delight. Good grief.

So let it out and let it in...sometimes you feel like a nut...if you feel good, do it. If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands! And if you're in doubt or having a string of bad days , buy yourself some new underwear and tell it to the world. Shine on.

Where Have All The Good Times Gone?

2010-11-11T20:28:00.001-08:00

No matter where you go or what you do, that Bitch we call Life, that Mutha Nature, is going to be there to stomp on your balls with 6" spike heels, no matter what. This is just a simple observation I feel my 52 odd years on the planet qualifies me to make.

I'm not complaining. I like having my balls ground into meatloaf and on a daily basis. The difficult part is to endure this suffering whilst maintaining a smile upon my face. As if to show the world the supreme pleasure we should all take in life's suffering, and be thankful for it as well. After all, life is short, so take every opportunity to enjoy a kick in the nuts while you can.

I try my best to play along and have a good time. It's just a little different for me. Really, I'm enjoying this.

The way I see it Barry, this should be a dynamite show

2010-10-01T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in a bar having a pint while waiting for the bar owner to arrive to discuss putting up some masks in his business for the month of October. It's early in the evening on a week night so there aren't many people about. In the middle of the room two men are seated at a table, one of whom may have arrived drunk or may have started drinking much earlier than I had and was well on his way to oblivion. He kept calling his companion "Senator" in a loud voice. That is what caught my attention at first. I'm all for it Senator! Ah well, you can no longer smoke in a bar but you can at least still drink. And I'm all for it.

I turned around in my bar stool and checked the bar clock again. My man was late but it didn't matter so much. I had time to relax and enjoy a beer. I turned around when the the front door opened and let a flash of light into the room. There standing before me was a big man wearing a blue t-shirt and a grin. He held out is hand and said "My name is Barry". I shook his hand and said hello. Then he said "I'm alive" and patted me on the chest like an o'l pal and walked away.

You can't smoke tobacco in a bar any longer but you can play chess with words and that was quite an impressive move made by Barry. In fact I'm still thinking about it now. Why did he approach me to tell me he was alive? Was it nature's way of reminding me that I should be thankful that I am alive? Eventually my man arrived and apologized for being late. We settled our business and agreed it would be a good thing to have some masks in the bar next month. I'm all for it Senator!

Take Out The Papers And The Trash

2010-09-04T09:28:00.000-07:00

Acceptance is nice. I can't expect people to buy my excess masks. I wouldn't buy the stuff I make either, even if I had the excess money. That is not to say I don't consider my masks are not worth the going price for a work of sculpture, but as it is with art; who needs it? But I submitted this mask to a Recycle/Reuse show at a lowbrow gallery and it was accepted. "Nice!" I thought. Maybe I can get rid of this thing. Sounding more and more like a man burdened by his own creations.

While reading the fine print of the gallery's loan agreement a fiendish smile came over me as it was stated toward the end:

"If you do not pick up your pieces within 30 days after the agreed upon date, your piece will become the property of...to do with what the studio pleases"

I had happened upon a no-lose situation it seemed! Like a parent dropping off their bratty child at the daycare center and never returning to pick it up. That sounds terrible. How could I think of such a thing? I once considered this Rooster mask one of my prime show pieces.

It was a full headed mask that I labored over many hours during the holidays one year. I remember it well now. It was fashioned over a chicken wire frame with paper laminate. It's beak laminated over a clay mold and attached. The outer shell was covered with wood shavings. I wove several strands of colored raffia for it's upper mohawk, red lampshade ears, bug-eyed mini colanders for eyes and green frill removed from a throw pillow as trim. I also attached a poncho to the mask as a costume portion. I used a plain rug I bought at a thrift store which I cut and sewed up a hole in the middle then stenciled the design on it with fabric paint. I made a six foot tall wooden stand for it to rest on carrying the design of the mask onto the painted stand. It was a glorious and imposing piece all said and done. And my apartment just wasn't big enough for the two of us (not to mention all the other masks as well).

Having art in a show is not exactly free of expense either. Even a lowbrow gallery has it's nominal acceptance fee to cover its costs. I rented a Zipcar for an hour to deliver the goods. And I chipped in with a couple bottles of wine for the opening event. The cost wasn't so much but the price paid for the vanity of being in an art show. Ugh! I mingled around a bit sheepishly and drank enough wine to feel comfortable. Eventually I found a chair near a woman playing an orchestral harp and sat listening to her music while eating fancy mixed nuts from the snack table.

The month wore on swiftly as they do and I was not looking forward to bringing the mask back home to roost. I was enjoying the extra breathing room at home and the Rooster mask was becoming that little brat at the daycare center that I did not want to go pick up and bring home. Should I become incurably aloof and forget to pick it up to the extent that it becomes property of the studio to do with as it pleases? In the end I called the gallery and made them an offer which I hoped they would not refuse. Would they or anyone they knew of be willing to take the Rooster as a gift? It took another week but one of the gallery's interns accepted my gift. Nice! And that is the story of how one artist gets his work out of his apartment and into the world. Cocka-doodle-doo!

Set Me Free, Little Girl

2010-08-21T18:31:00.001-07:00

At a party among friends, most of them couples and I the lone wolf, it was asked of me why I went about, as it is my custom without another? And it began thus:

It’s always viewed upon as this problem area. “Gotta find a girlfriend”, you know. But on another level I seem to be quite content not having a girlfriend. I tend to get stressed-out easily in relationships and with my love of inner peace and harmony I figure it’s a problem I can do without. But I have this beast inside me that doesn’t understand plain english nor the higher ideals of the intellect. This beast just stares back at me with wet eyes as if to say “when you gonna get us some, eh?” “...like today?” “Tomorrow?”. And all I can say is “I’m sorry”. “Not today, not tomorrow or the next day. Perhaps not ever.” “As much as I’d like to help you, I cannot.”

Beast: But couldn’t you just get us a hug somewhere’s? A nostril’s portion of female? A nose hit? A handshake? Come on, feed me something! I’m dying over here!

Me: Sure, you know I have friends who are women but they’re all coupled up with my men friends. You can’t get your rocks off on that. I don’t know any women this side of the Ukraine who are available or interested so be off with you. Go chew on a stick!

Beast: Look, I ain’t going no where. And you ain’t going no where. So we both gonna sit right here and feel miserable until you get us some action. And I never liked yer looks neither.

Me: Great! So we’re going to sulk and brood are we? Can’t we just enjoy our freedom and peace of mind and go on about our business? It’s so much easier, even you must admit that.

Beast: Well yeah, you gotta point there. But damn it, I get bored. I ain’t never took to book learning like you. Yer sitting around on your dead ass reading ain’t doing me a bit o’ good.

Me: Oh really? You seemed to get a kick out of that last one by de Sade; Philosophy in the Boudoir?. Try an tell me that book didn’t do you some good? heh-heh!

Beast: Alright,...I did get a charge outta that. But it just got me madder to be locked up here inside you and I ain’t had nothing to eat in months. When you reckon on joining the human race, eh? Get in touch with yerself!

Me: Me, in touch? I am in touch! Far more than you could ever comprehend you nincompoop!. The more I learn about your base motives the more I’ll be glad when we part ways for ever!

Beast: Well at least we agree on one thing there! But until then can’t you at least try to scrounge up something besides porn for your little buddy?

Me: Hey, I do the best I can for both of us, but my resources aren’t much to speak of. My world is civilized and material and there are many rules to abide by. Requirements, expectations, obligations, all manner of criteria that I must meet before having the seal of approval stamped on my forehead. You have no idea what I have to go through for you! And all I have done is not even close to being enough to qualify. That is why I say “I’m sorry, I cannot help you”. It’s not as if I don’t want to. You want another beer?

Beast: Yeah, that’d be great. Sorry I got up on my hind legs. I guess I just kind-a get a little crazy now and then. You know how it is.

Me: Yes, I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I understand. Now relax.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” I stammered. “Oh, well I guess I just haven’t met the right one yet” Which is all anyone wants to hear.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend

2010-07-24T08:17:00.001-07:00

Standing in a parking lot one early morning I was taking photo's of the sky. It occurred to me while I was at my place of work that I could use some photo's of the sky. But then I thought, it's July and the skies are clear and blue and often enough flooded with light. A lover of clouds and the sky living in the Pacific Northwest tends to get spoiled by having so much perfect grey light and beautiful swarming cloud formations to ponder. But wasn't it overcast on my way in to work this morning?

I dropped what I was doing, found my camera and headed for the exit. Yes, I was running an errand. To view the sky. And to my delight above there were faint light grey cloud formations sitting very still. I walked out further and down the sidewalk searching for a view unobstructed by utility lines and building facades. Look both ways before crossing! I found a spot in a parking lot as I mentioned and stood there for a moment scanning a southeasterly view all to myself. The sky, like a mirror reflection of the ocean, and I myself, alone. It's easy to drift off like that when you're sky gazing. You start mumbling things to yourself, phrases that sound as if they might mean something but really don't. And you might for a moment fancy yourself a poet of some sort, and you start to smile, even softly chuckle by the thrill of it all.

Just then one of my co-workers walked right past me. I gave a flinch thinking that she would surely stop and ask me what I thought I was doing standing in the parking lot at 9:30 in the morning taking photo's of the sky this way and that. Was there a UFO lurking about? And to make matters worse I didn't come prepared with an excuse for my behavior. This was going to be a quick and easy errand, to grab a few images of the sky and take them home. Thankfully she walked swiftly past jingling her car keys and got inside her vehicle. Now I was a little offended. This woman and I have been on friendly terms for years so it couldn't have been that she didn't recognize that it was I standing there with camera pointed toward the heavens. Could it have been that she too was an on errand and didn't have time for personal confrontations of any kind? So what if there is a strange character standing in the middle of the parking lot taking photo's of the morning sky? He has every right to take as much as he likes. As long as he's not in the way of my leave taking he can do whatever he wishes. But she might at least have said in passing, "hey Jef...(weirdo)". And if she had stopped to say hello I would have calmed down eventually and confessed that I needed some images of the sky for an idea that just occurred to me.

There were masks that I felt obliged to discard a few months ago. I didn't have room for them any longer and one of us had to go. And since I was the great and powerful creator of masks I exercised my divine authority of destruction to any mask that had outlived it's purpose in my world. It also allowed me an opportunity to test the durability of the masks by standing and stomping on them, pulling and crushing them to pieces. Subjecting them to all manner of violence. Death! Yes, it was death that occurred to me while I was busy at work.

The physical presence is gone. It's somewhere scattered in a landfill. Should I really have had it cremated instead? That is what I would have wanted for myself. I am a cruel God. But by design I have given this mask a place in the heavens now where it may rest for all eternity and in loving memory. Amen.

Three lullabies in an ancient tongue

2010-04-14T22:10:00.001-07:00

I dreamt I was standing before a firing squad waiting for the call to fire. Suddenly someone before me threw a grenade or small bomb which exploded in flames in my face. It did not kill me but greatly distorted my features. My head was now enormous and hairless and there were two deep cavities on either side of my head with my face located in the middle.

I walked away from the place where I was standing and began roaming about the area which seemed to be an underground temple carved out of rock. I noticed there were multitudes of gold statues standing in rows on the floor. Many of them bore my present likeness.

Then I was once again standing before the firing squad, naked this time and as my natural self. I cupped both hands over my genitals to shield them and closed my eyes waiting for the call to fire. It was silent and I began to imagine what my end would be like. I assumed initially there would be some momentary pain and that I would most likely be shot in the torso several times and perhaps the head. I would lose my breath and die. But the call to fire was never announced.

A Yardstick for Lunatics

2010-02-28T09:20:00.001-08:00

I have always been puzzled with the arbitrary value in works of art. Or if they really have any value at all except for the person who fleshes them out. Others may argue that art is a precious and priceless thing. I create things for no other reason than it gives me something to do and to reflect upon. But it's a habitual driving force unlike a mere hobby and things begin to get crowded in my creepy little apartment. I recently required a remedy.

It has only been in the past year that I've attempted marketing for show and sale in order to be rid of some of my craft and cash-in on the process. Not having the heart to just throw art in the trash. And I have surprisingly sold a few. But I struggled greatly with the price tag. There I was attempting to sell something that I myself would not buy. And even if I were interested in possessing a certain work of art I might consider parting with $50 at the most for it. But works of art must be greatly over-priced to make them seem as though they have value. And if an artist is schooled and savvy they can create a concept or theory behind the work of art and give it an even greater value. In this way the art buyer perceives that he/she is getting a bargain on the deal. A one of a kind handmade work of precious art. What they're really buying is a large piece of the artists ego. All sales final, no returns, no re-sale value. Unless you've purchased a genuine Picasso then you'll always have money in the bank. Few artists can claim to have a Pablo sized ego.

I have created a concept now and it doesn't cost anyone anything. It's a real Mother because it comes out of necessity. I have created myself into a corner. Upon further inspection I found I did have the heart to throw away many older masks and other art junk. Ashes to ashes, pulp to pulp. But I had other "babies" which I still cared enough for not to snuff-out and which I thought perhaps someone might take them in if they were abandoned on the street. "Orphaned Art: It's yours to take home" is my calling card. It's kind-a like an Easter egg hunt. Others may argue it's littering. I can't argue with that. But come on, who doesn't like surprises? Everyday life is far too dull and perhaps as an artiste I can do something about that. Such is my ego. If you happen to find this giant bottle cap rattle with it's jingle bell mohawk, give it a shake and have some fun with it. That's the value in it. Otherwise place it in the proper receptacle and send me the garbage bill.

Well I'm not the worlds most physical guy

2010-02-22T20:27:00.001-08:00

I had to make a phone call this afternoon to a local institution. The receptionist who answered my call was still working on her english which immediately put me in a position where I felt I was calling to assist her by being patient and understanding. Trying to understand what information she was attempting to give me. I figured I was catching the gist of what she was attempting to explain so I simply thanked her and ended the call.

I appreciate comedy when life presents it, but I don't always know when the game is on. Life can be so terribly serious at times, but these moments arrive to remind me that it's really just for laughs, so lighten up. What's the worst? You die? No, you're not getting off that easy. The game would just begin again only with a different cast. You die slowly and painfully? ...okay that's the worst. I simply want to end the call when it comes to that. Hang up and drive. And be sure to wear some flowers in your hair.

"I have a friend I've never seen...."

2010-02-19T21:18:00.001-08:00

I just spent the last hour or more in the kitchen where it's warm draining a bottle of 2-buck Chuck. It's too late now to go get another bottle so I spent some more time bouncing the cork against the wall and catching it. It was a friendly game. Sometimes the cork would spiral off the wall and I'd have to be on my toes to make the play. Other times it would be a routine pop-up, 1-2-3. "Okay, you're up next" I said to my imaginary opponent and wandered off into I guess what could be called my dug-out to write this down. "But only love can break your heart...."

I had a dream, Joe

2010-02-11T09:17:00.001-08:00

Yes, I had a dream. I was on my bike and I had turned on to a main thoroughfare in a large city and I was stopped at a light in traffic at mid-day. I was wearing a large golden crown that I had made as with everything else out of paper mache. I looked up ahead of me and in a building with a large open window I saw a figure looking out at me. It was the figure of a man dressed in a robe. He was obviously staring at me but I tried to ignore him while waiting for the light to change. Then I saw him bring up a pair of binoculars to spy on me. This annoyed me somewhat but I continued to wait for the light. Then he brought one pair of binoculars up in his right hand and another pair in his left hand and I could see he was delighted with the vision. It occurred to me then that what he was interested in was my golden crown. I could see him smiling even at that distance. It was then that I realized this man up in the large open frame window was no ordinary man, but The Pope. Ah, I should have known! And of course my crown was what caught his attention. Maybe he wanted one just like it? So as he peered at me through his binoculars I smiled and waved up at him. I have nothing against the dear o'l Pope, after all he is just an ordinary man dressed in religious finery. Then the light turned green and I rode on ahead.

I came to the building below the window where the Pope was and a woman wearing a fur lined hat who I presumed to be of some royalty greeted me and beckoned me inside for tea. There were many other people gathered around us but she escorted me inside and we and many others went down a flight of stairs into a dining area. The dining area was red and dark mahogany and sectioned off into many private rooms. I had somehow lost track of my company in all the commotion. I walked into one room after another only to find a group of people at a table none of whom I recognized. And I became distraught.

I'm not going to bother trying to decipher the symbolism and bring some order and understanding to these bits and pieces of my subconsciousness. That would make as much sense as trying to assign intent and reason to biblical symbolism. But if the crown fits, wear it and sleep tight. Dream on, Joe.

But what's puzzling you is the nature of my game

2010-02-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

Existentialism for Beginners. Was the first title I checked out from the public library. I am not an intellectual any more than a fan boy for comic books but I figure you have to start somewhere and these books are published for people in the middle like me. But what struck me about the book was that it reeked of Patchouli oil. So much so that I had to return it. I stopped off at Schopenhauer while I still had a few nose hairs left.

The Eternal Husband. Was the next title I checked out from the library. A collection of short stories by Dostoevsky. I held it up to my nose after taking it off the shelf and it too had been scented with patchouli but this time with some reserve. I figured as long as I held it at arms length it wouldn't be quite as bothersome.

God bless the public library. During these trying economic times I now get most all of the books I read from the library. And I no longer spend money on CD's or DVD rentals. My library card is my ticket to ride. But have they taken to hiring on Dead Heads soaked with patchouli to stock books? Now the public library is no highbrow institution. My general rule is to get in and get out without touching anything other than the books. They now have disposable sanitary towel dispensers you can cleanse with after your visit. You just never know who's been reading your copy of Dostoevsky's short masterpieces before you. If a book smells good then learn to trust your nose before you feed your head. Peace out.

I believe we're on the Eve of Destruction

2009-12-31T09:19:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning like a farm hand, which is to say that I rose out of bed before my room began to fill with sunlight. Even 7:30 AM is farm time for me, when the real farm hands of America by then have done with their chores and have had their morning meal. But is there really such a person as a farm hand anymore? Well it sounds romantic in a way so I got myself out of bed and made a pot of coffee for myself.

"There's work to be done in the coming year, that much is certain" I thought as I put one arm through my peacoat sleeve. It had been raining all morning and that brought the temperature up in my room which made it all the easier to get out from under my wool blankets. I had downed one quick cup of black coffee and I needed a walk in some fresh wind and rain.

This is the final day of the year 2009. I won't go into that so much, there isn't a whole lot to say really and why look back now? Whatever seeds I tossed down in the past year will either sprout and bring forth fruit or they will dry up and turn to dust. It's no wonder I have so many dust bunnies drifting around the corners of my room and particularly under my bed where so many seeds of desire have turned to dust. Now I sound more like a poet than a farmer. Work is work, even art is work and I must find work soon in the new year whether it be toiling in the muck or in office drudgery. Hell is alive and well. I'll drink to that and to the rising sun of the coming year.

Wanna tell you I love your way

2009-11-16T23:07:00.000-08:00

One fine day while I was standing at the corner of 10th and Alder waiting for the Walk light to turn, my attention was drawn to a young man directly across the street also waiting for the light to turn. This young man was wearing a set of Mickey Mouse headphones and seemed to be having a difficult time standing still while he waited. He began yelling rather loudly and I quote: "Come on baby light my fire!". And he repeated it again in the very same loud manner. Finally the Walk light appeared and we crossed the street at the same time and once again "Come on baby light my fire!" as he made his way to the streetcar stop. And then finally at the top of his lungs "Try to set the night on fire!" could be heard for several blocks.

Now I consider myself a sort of pop music aficionado so I am familiar with a certain song titled "Light My Fire" in english and espanol. But I admired this crazy young man's spirit for shouting it out with all his might while the rest of the world sat quietly waiting for the streetcar to come along...waiting for love to come along. I wondered, aren't we all yelling "Come on baby light my fire!" whether unspoken or cried out all day long each day of our lives?

Today I was walking around downtown plugged-in the to earphones from my ipod. Perhaps you heard me at the signal waiting for the light; "Ooooh, Baby I love your way,...everyday" in a mellow tone. Yes, that was me. True story.

I wasn't lookin' too good, but I was feelin' real well

2009-11-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

Sad to say but the party is over for this Shriner Clown and Halloween 2009 is in the archives. Tea and ibuprofen is being served in the lodge. Secret handshake is required. Tricycle parking is in the rear. Let us pray.

All the leaves are brown....

2009-10-25T12:50:00.001-07:00

I woke up this morning quite late, sleeping on and off. Dreaming on and on. There is no hurry on a cold and rainy Sunday morning. With a pot of coffee brewing I ate two very ripe pears for breakfast standing in the kitchen in my underwear. After a hot shower I filled a travel mug with black coffee. I packed my pipe and tobacco in my coat pocket, plugged my ears with headphones and locked the door behind me.

Out on the sidewalk there was just a slight drizzle of rain but the air was fresh and satisfying and I felt good. I passed a telephone pole where someone had posted a flyer in protest of an x-rated film showing at a theater near-by. Accusing the local promoters of being Pimps for Porn and calling Porn "Spiritual Swine Flu". I had passed the theater the night before on my way to the bar and noticed a "Sold Out" sign on the door. I wondered if Porn was not a remedy for Sexual Repression Swine Flu? Just an educated guess. I found my bench on the sidewalk near the medical center where the street car passes by and filled my pipe with Highland Whiskey tobacco.

The wind was calm enough to enjoy watching the curls of smoke float and dissolve in the air and hearing that beautiful intro to California Dreaming coming to me through the headphones I realized what a beautiful Sunday it was going to be. Amen.

Must be the Season of the Witch

2009-10-16T16:16:00.001-07:00

Being unemployed and without the structure that a nine to five job provides I often lose track of what day it is. Is today Wednesday or is it Friday? Is it the 12th or the 16th or the 28th? I may have to Google it to get back on track but like most apes I can smell Fall in the air. I see it in the trees and feel it in the chilly breeze which blows in through my window. I welcome Fall and enjoy taking deep breaths of it when I am outside. I just seem to feel better in the Fall and Winter months. But there is one enemy which the fall months spawn...The Leaf Blower!

This humanoid creature which stalks the earth with a gasoline powered engine on it's back spewing forth toxic exhaust and the most obnoxious noise known to mankind must be avoided at all costs. Yet it is often not possible since he often dwells on neighborhood sidewalks and city squares where many must tread on their way to and fro. The Leaf Blower is a source of intense aggravation for anyone within a two block radius of his annoying motor powered presence and must be eliminated! Or sent to concentration camps for re-education with a Leaf Rake!

Such is my curse on the Leaf Blower who comes to spoil the peace and beauty of the fall months. Beware!

If I Ain't Dead Already....

2009-09-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

I must confess, most every person that has walked this earth and which I hold in high esteem is deceased. I have always been one to look to the past for answers and generally speaking the people whom I hold in high esteem are writers, artists and musicians. It's like the funeral scene on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's. It's getting better all the time.

And the Day of the Dead is another reason to mask-up and be somebody. Saint, Soul, Sinner or Songster. I am not now, nor have I ever been a member of the Catholic Party but a party is a party so count me in among the living and bring out Yer Dead. Oh and pass me one of those sugar skulls to suck on will ya?

But this mask is made once again out of glue and paper, burlap, leather, colanders, computer chips, artificial grapes, brass ornament and a feather. RIP.

I feel inclined to blow my mind....

2009-09-05T19:44:00.000-07:00

So many masks and so few occasions to wear them in public. I have never been one who enjoys drawing attention to himself. None of this going to the bank to cash a check wearing a mask for laughs. So unless it's been agreed upon that we're all going to get dressed up and wear masks, then the masks will remain on the mantle until further notice. Unfortunately that notice comes but once a year on October 31st at Halloween. And it's not yet time to give notice.

But occasionally some brave soul(s) will take it upon themselves to organize a masquerade party of sorts at some other time of year. I suppose September is never too early to start thinking of Halloween, start salivating for Halloween. If I knew what was good for me I'd relocate to a region that supports Carnival, Day of the Dead and Halloween. I need to find My People!

Until then I have found some people locally calling for masks at SCRAP (School and Community Reuse Action Project) for their fund raising masquerade event. I was only too happy to gather some scrap materials together and form them into as much of masquerade mask as I could. My donation to the cause of recycling. I have always left the typical Mardi Gras style masks to the Pro's who do that sort of thing so well. But with a tin can lid, a bag of dominos, sheepskin, tassel fringe, embroidery thread and wood beads I think we're ready to join the parade. Tipitina, tra-la-la!

See Me, Feel Me, ...Lick Me?

2009-08-19T09:33:00.001-07:00

But don't bite me. I grew up in the 60's and spent my teen years during the 70's, and there is nothing I can do about that now. I guess I'll always be something of a Gomer with a corny sense of humor. Shazam! Too much time spent in front of the TV with the Beverly Hillbillies and Hogan's Hero's. A cast of a thousand pop culture loonies that won't Get Smart. And I am a product of all that which is Bewitched and lost on a deserted island with the likes of Gilligan and crew. Is it any wonder I have failed to make anything of myself?

It is a great wonder that I am still alive considering all the Hostess Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, Zingers and Suzy Q's that I ingested during my youth. Not to mention starting the day with Cap'n Crunch, Count Chocula and Lucky Charms. If you are what you eat then that makes me a silly rabbit.

And fumbling along into adulthood I never met my Dream of Jeannie or my partner Agent 99. I seem to have spent my life dozing off at the Shady Rest Hotel while all the Hooters of Hooterville were running around without their Petticoats. But in a way I wouldn't have had it any other way and I often suffer a longing for the past. For this Owl mask I traveled to three neighborhood convenient stores before I found what I was looking for; a Tootsie Roll Pop. After taking the photo I unwrapped the Tootsie Pop and commenced licking. One, Two, Three (I lost count) and right on down to the inner Tootsie Roll. Then I threw it away. At my age you're liable to lose a filling or even a tooth chewing on a Tootsie Roll. Surprise, Surprise, Surprise!

Hang on to your Ego

2009-08-12T22:33:00.001-07:00

As I have said before, I am not much for traveling. But one thing that does appeal to me about it is having all your belongings in one bag. I am speaking from a male traveling perspective of course when I say one bag. It's nice while trotting from place to place knowing that all you have to do is hoist one bag over your shoulder and you're off. There's a sense of vagabond freedom in that. Maybe I should have been a hobo instead of a mask maker and general laborer. When returning home from a trip I enter my apartment to find all the clutter of my life and a hundred empty eyes gazing at me inside the House of Masks. Ugh, what have I created? Please go away!

So when invited to make a charity donation and to a worthy animal cause I pounced on it like a bird dog. I have never had a pet of my own. Not as an adult anyway but growing up my family had a Brittany Spaniel named Butch, a German Shorthaired Pointer named Henry and lastly a Beagle named Barney. All good dogs I assure you. I have always made friends easily with animals throughout my life. I wonder what they see in me. Is it my aura? Maybe I smell good? Who knows what animals experience. I made a hound dog mask that I am donating to a local animal hospital charity auction. I'm sure he'll find a good home. He don't eat much and that's one less material possession for me. Okay, I'll be a little sad to hand him over to a complete stranger, but I am surrounded by loving masks at home. I sometimes wonder what they see in me, and I'm sure if they had a consciousness they would question my bringing them into the world in the state they are in. But who knows what a mask thinks about? You have to try it on to find out.

Said the straight man to the late man....

2009-07-31T22:21:00.000-07:00

When I set out on this quest to realize my own identity through mask work I thought it was going to be fun. You know, getting to know oneself, mask to man. But I'm starting to feel like a teenager on a bad acid trip. I know, it could be a case of Deja Vu or a flashback and it could be that I have never really grown up and got with the program (oh really!) One thing is for certain, I listened to a lot of Prog Rock growing up in the 70's when I should have been doing my homework.

Getting an education from Dr. Fripp is not like getting an education from Dr. Jung, but it is more enjoyable. I seem to need ideas set to music, i.e. "Jesus loves me, yes I know, for The Bible tells me so." A completely forgettable and meaningless verse were it not for the rhyme. So here I am at age 50 still trying to piece things together and make some sense of...of...my being here? And this is what I come up with.

"Cat's foot iron claw, Neurosurgeons scream for more, at paranoia's poison door...21st Century Schizoid Man" A completely forgettable and meaningless verse unless you happen to be a teenage Prog-Rocker and can sing along. And leave all hope for self-realization behind.

Homework: Mask of papier mâché and paper laminate, straw waste basket, leather, ribbon, patch, tassel, goggles, pvc fittings, oil paints.

She wouldn't have a Willie or a Sam

2009-07-26T21:29:00.001-07:00

I thought I would take this opportunity to get up on my high horse SelfPity and ramble on about my troubles in romance or rather the complete absence of romance in the life of one solitary yet chivalrous Knight. Aye, but when I read through my list of complaints they always come off sounding rather lame and Un-Knightly. Or I get sidetracked and begin revealing my minor kinks; women with hairy armpits and body odor turn me on. I have that in common with Napoleon B who preferred his Josephine unbathed or so I have read. So what of it.

Truth to be told I must consider myself fortunate not to have a romantic conquest at this time for I am bravely trying to fight my way out of the unemployment line. Armed with a resume that is none too sharp and shiny I am practically on my knees to any shit job employer who will have me. I am definitely not making rank or bank enough to go courting any ladyship at this time. For to sup with me at my table would be a very humble affair of cabbage, brown rice and cheap beer. Alas.

Somewhat to my credit I am not rogue enough to introduce myself as Henry VIII and put on a show of regal airs in order to steal a dinner and a kiss then apologize for having left my wallet at home. No, I am too honest, faithful and true for that kind of misadventure. And thus I lead a life rich in romantic fantasy. Oh the dirty, hairy women I have loved in my storybook dreams!

Attire: Knights head piece. Paper mâché and wood pieces with headband inside. Finished with oil based paints.

What a Field Day for the Heat

2009-07-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

Summer is in full swing now and the heat is on. It's pith helmets and khaki's from here on out and I'm looking for the beer necessities. Call me Bwana, The Great White Mask Maker. Though I am not one for a Safari so much. I have never caught the travel bug like some people. It seems of little importance to me if I never see what remains of the jungles of Africa or the Pyramids of Egypt before I fly off to that final resting place that Papa Ernie found with his pencil on top of o'l Kilimanjaro. In that yarn Papa tells us of a guy on safari with his gal of the moment and their servants; whiskey and soda's, gangrene and death hanging around the campfire disguised as a hyena. No thanks Pops, I'll stay home alone. Besides while trying to ward off the grim hyena all the guy dreams about is the women he's quarreled with, the fist fights, whores, nights of drunkenness and his beloved Paris. And failure. Those are the important things in life after all.

But now and then a man likes to bare his chest as well as his trunk, let his mind run wild, and go places he's never been. In short, he wants to become an elephant. And never leave home or go out into the noonday sun.

Contents: Paper laminate, papier mâché, hose, fur, knobs, leather, hardware, oil paints

Everybody Loves a Clown...sometime

2009-06-25T20:37:00.000-07:00

Well that's how it started out and unintentionally I might add. It began to appear as I worked along that the time had come to make a clown mask of some kind. I just let things happen you know. If the mulch wants to become a clown then so be it. I'm not particularly into clowns but I'm not going to knock them either. I don't want some serial killer clown coming after me for poking fun at the whiteface discipline. After all I make masks and that's right in the 3-ring ballpark of silly things to do. So spare me.

But the mask sat there unfinished for months and months and I began to wonder if the circus had left town. I don't want to mention the tears of a clown here but neglect is one thing that can bring around a frown. I fancied various ideas and thought I'd try to stay true to traditional clown design and colors but eventually I realized I had no love for the clown concept. And love is the key ingredient in mask making or any form of creation. I am here on this planet because...(lets not go there).

A comment was made to me recently that all my mask creations looked like me. I did'nt punch the fellow but is that why it occurred to me to attach two bamboo horns and a sheepskin beard to create some hellish trickster rather than a smiley clown? Am I more at home in Hell than a 3-Ring Circus? Let's not go there either. Say goodnight Tricky Dick.

Features: Papier mâché, bamboo, sheepskin, metal drains, plastic pieces, oil paints.

That Summer feeling is going to haunt you

2009-06-20T11:24:00.000-07:00

Ah, here it is, Day One of Summer! The windows are all open, the breeze sweetened with honey, the birds sing tweet-tweet and yet there is no sun. It's summer in Portland, Oregon and I would'nt have it any other way. I hate summer. Were it not for maintaining the delicate balance of our ecosystem I would have summer stricken from the seasons providing I had the mythological authority to do so. The oppressive heat and blinding light seem to sap all the life energy from my soul. It's sleepy time down south all summer long and all I can do is curse the wretched sun. That lucky o'l sun. Call me a grumpy old Norseman if you like but already on Day One I have been swatting at flies in my apartment with all the effectiveness of a shadow boxers punch. Oh yes, on the bright side, this shadow boxing is good exercise and Odin knows summer is a time of healthy activity and scantily clad Norse Goddesses! Is there anything finer than an ice cold frothy pint on a hot summers day? Nay! So bring on the summer months if you must. I am prepared to do battle in a new pair of dark sunglasses befitting of a Norse God. And with a mask like this I'll have plenty of room on the sunny, sunny side of the street. Living is easy.

Gear: Mask of paper laminate, papier mâché, glass eyes, brass ornament, wood pieces, twine and oil paints

All I have to do is dream, drain, dream

2009-06-11T20:31:00.000-07:00

If there is a subconsciousness swarming down below that reeks and bubbles and keeps us tossing and turning during the night when we should be resting our poor aching minds, then there should also exist a drain through which all the dirty waste of our conscious hours flow. This is mere speculation on my part, not being a learned man by any means. (As a craftsman I am however allowed to make things up.) But like most civilized men I get out of the shower in the morning and look at my face in the mirror and decide whether or not a shave is required. If it happens to be a day where I may be required to appear civilized then a dab of foam and a razor is produced. I often thank the Lord I was born a man. If I otherwise felt compelled to perform this shaving task on my underarms and my legs I would surely be the worst and certainly the hairiest feminist in the civilized world. Real Sideshow material...The Amazing Hairy Chested Woman!

Speaking of Sideshows you ask. What's with this new mask? Is this how you perceive yourself? May I ask you to consider if all Art is not a self-portrait? I have heard it suggested before and I have to wonder on it myself with some misgivings. I have to look at my haggard face in the mirror each morning and ponder...to shave or not to shave? And staring down into the sink as scummy foam and stubble formerly from my face disappears down the drain I have to wonder...where does it all go? The subconsciousness drain? And will it come back to haunt me in waking dreams? It surely has.

Contents: Paper laminate, papier mâché, goggles, metal nodules, metal drain, oil pigments. Flush your troubles down the drain...Roto-Rooter.

I am not but a misfit

2009-06-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

I hate to bring up an old Christmas song here on the first day of June. I think a person can be shot for such a crime. But I feel safe here behind the shield of the internet so I will continue in the key of C: "you can't fire me...I'm already layed-off...I just don't fit in". Yes, a little artistic liberty with the lyrics but that's the name of the game. Make it your own. You want to be a dentist, go right ahead. I'll stay here and make toys, er-uh, masks...with teeth. For the life of me I have never been able to think of anything I'd rather be doing. And I'm qualified to do little else. Maybe I should move to the North Pole and light my corncob pipe.

Instead of looking for a job I know I don't want today, I stayed home and worked on masks in my underwear. The days are getting warmer now and wet papier mâché dries more readily when it's placed on the window sill with the breeze blowing in. Keeps the neighbors guessing too. (What's he building in there?) Here at the House of Masks we are always seeking the radiance of self-recognition in the other, whether it be the cosmos or Santa Claus. Well it's hit or miss but here's something new right off the assembly line.

An Ogre since I have to give it a name. And one in need of a pair of dentures, if only. Constructed of paper laminate and papier mâché, fur, gems, twine and wood pieces. Smells like Christmas in June. Happy Holidays.

If I could fly like birds on high

2009-05-29T13:18:00.000-07:00

When I mentioned to my sister that I was working on what appeared to be some kind of bird mask she commented that I seemed to make a lot of bird masks. Looking around The House of Masks as I write I don't know if that's so true. One, two, three, maybe four could pass for some kind of bird creature but not of any distinct class. As it is with dreams and myths we accept what is presented to us even if an eagles head has a lions body with wings and talons. We say "Hey look, it's a Griffin!" and try to stay as far away as possible. And so it goes with works from the imagination. Like the Wizard of Oz I reach into my bag of scavenged goods and proclaim "you shall wear this white mohawk and become a bird of sorts". Wings as we know are not necessary for once you place the mask over your head you are a bird of sorts and that's for you to sort out. How you are going to get down is not my problem. But in a bestiary I think I might feel a little more secure if I could take flight at a moments notice from any variety of ground dwelling monstrosity. So yes, I may continue to make more bird masks just in case.

This fowl creature is constructed of paper laminate and papier mache, fur, plastic bottle caps, green acetate and wood pieces. Finished with gesso, sand and oil pigments.

Welcome to my Monastic Nightmare

2009-05-26T20:50:00.000-07:00

"For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them". That was from St. Matthew 18:20 and here I go playing creator again. Yes that's yours truly in the midst of them. Ten monks gathered together as one solitary Monk-ster.

Lord knows I tried the Christian life for a while in my early 20's but I found I'm much happier being with a St. Pauli Girl than any St. Matthew, Luke or John. I still have my hermit ways about me though. I seem perfectly delighted spending my solitary days and evenings in the House of Masks playing the part of the great and terrible creator. And taking no phone calls from below. I sincerely believe I could spend the rest of my days in this little sanctuary of a studio apartment as long as there were regular deliveries of beer and groceries. My library is sufficient and yes it includes that great work of mythological prose The Holy Bible. Lord knows I have enough music to last a lifetime and my guitars as well to put my arms around. But what of Adam's rib? The cutlet sized consort as Joyce put it. Right. So much for the cloistered life.

And what of the totem monk mask itself? The structure is a cylinder of chicken wire laminated with kraft paper. It stands 40 inches tall and rests on the shoulders. Attached to it are ten masks also of paper laminate and mache, each with blue marble eyes and open mouths out of which a rubber worm emerges. Don't ask why, just accept it...for it is written. The hair bands are of sheepskin I believe and finished off with oil pigments.

Here Comes the Sun King

2009-05-26T00:17:00.000-07:00

The Sun King, a Priest, the name of a Beatles song and now I find with further research the nickname of Louis XIV of France who ascended the throne at age five and believed in the Divine Right of Kings. No need of a transformation mask for Louie, he was born to be King. But works of art require titles and the more clever the title the more the work of art is enhanced. It seems to lend a launching pad toward understanding what the work is supposed to be about. I read recently that e.e. cummings did not like to title his poems. There was no explanation for his aversion for titles but I wish I could avoid naming as well. I seem to settle on the most simple and obvious as the best choice avoiding any poetic nonsense. But nevertheless, lame.

But never mind, what of the mask itself? My father saw it before I added the paint job and said it looked like bread. As to that "most parts are edible" but I would not advise it without plenty of milk. The mask is made of paper laminate and papier mache. It's attached to a wood brace and features eight additional mask "planets" orbiting around "the sun". So yes, I think we can say it has a planetary theme. But it was never in my mind to create the stars and the heavens that you could wear on your head at the outset. It was simply a matter of materials coming together. And then The Big Bang! Or how do the french say...Voila! The Sun King is born. Heat at 350 for 20 minutes and serve.