Sometimes I dream of toys I lost as a child. And I know it’s just age and allergies, but I imagine the heaviness beneath my eyes is from storm clouds ready to burst.
Every feeling comes with a diagnosis and guilt at it’s audacity. Some of us are just raw and learn to like the sting.
I find myself saying I’m sorry for not containing enough light. Winter is on it’s way, and with it, less sun. That always frightens me. I don’t have enough light for myself to bask in and for sure, not enough to share.
I can feel sad over a painting I haven’t painted yet. It’s like mourning over someone you’re afraid you won’t get to meet. When composing a still life, I hate to use purchased objects. I want to find or be given them. Picked flowers or a gifted bouquet, for the meaning. I want them to have stories and to have lived a life before finding their way to me.
It’s no secret that I like playing with the idea of rabbit’s feet, myths and luck. I was toying with doing an illustration like this for a while, and if you scroll down posts you’ll see a similar sketch in my moleskin.
While looking up rabbit’s feet on pinterest, I found the above pictures and used them as inspiration. It’s a combo of a rabbit, the lucky rabbit’s foot superstition and Japanese Maneki Neko/good luck cats.
I’ve uploaded my Not So Lucky print to Redbubble and Society6. Hope you dig it!
It’s face was the used pages of a diary,
all bleeding ink and bent corners.
Voice like a scratched record,
no one to listen to it.
A dried ink pen for a spine,
chewed up brittle plastic.
With a brass locket for a heart,
hung on tangled chain and empty of sentiment.
It peered at me with mica-flake eyes,
squinting into fluorescent light.
I paid it with a copper penny to suckle,
closed the drawer to no complaint.
My memory smelled like cedar and lint,
felt like a knuckle in the eye.