Verne Bluebird

The days are getting short. There is a chill in the air that can only signal the approach of winter. Flocks of birds fly overhead in an urgent rush to find a warmer place to wait out the cold winter. This is how it has always been. The internal call is too much, and there is no sense in trying to resist.

Verne doesn't feel the call. Verne doesn't feel anything. The bite of the wind and the frantic flights above mean nothing. The events of this last summer were too much, and in an attempt to rid himself  of the pain he allowed himself to become lobotomized. The cold means nothing to Verne. The short grey days are but a glimmer of the gloom he currently feels.  He will be content to let winter ravage his small feathered body. The eternal draw of immediate comfort and warmth do not appeal to him.

Don't feel bad for poor Verne. While he knows he is destined for a time of suffering, he also knows that soon enough there will be the warmth of Spring.

Hanging on tightly

 I can't believe it is already mid September. The last two months have been a blur. Many of you already know about the death of my son Eric in July, but for those who missed the news I offer this as an explanation for my online absence. Simply put, I have been thinking of other things (to say the least). I have felt like I am caught in a rushing tidal wave, and just about the time I feel like I might be able to pull my head above water, the next huge wave hits. I have found myself exhausted mentally, physically, and creatively.

 This guy is a piece I have made since Eric left. I find it very representational of my current frame of mind. I am holding on tightly to my sanity, trying my best to recover and knowing there will never be a true recovery. My son is gone. He was a kind and creative person, a true gentleman and an old soul. He believed fiercely in education and often showed extreme disdain towards those who seem happy to go thru life blindly oblivious to their own self absorption. He was silly and serious at the same time. He loved to read, and often shared his favorite books with me (although sometimes I didn't quite share his taste) He was a natural artist. He had a talent for drawing that I have never posessed. He could put his vision onto paper effortlessly, and was often seen lost in a sketchbook. Eric, you are missed.

 This piece was destined for Ghoultide Gathering in Chelsea, Michigan. I have, unfortunately, made the decision that I will not be able to attend. It was an honor to be invited, and it has been very difficult to face the truth that it just isn't in the cards this year. My sincere thanks go to Scott Smith of Rucus Studio for his encouragement of my artwork. I am not entirely tapped out creatively and look forward to using my art as therapy. Perhaps next year I will find myself ready.

Pumpkin with lantern

Revisiting one of my old characters in preparation for the Ghoultide Gathering.

Fighting

I've been fighting my way back into the shop this week. My creativity comes and goes, and my sessions are very short compared to normal. At this point I don't know what normal is, so am grateful for every opportunity to return to a somewhat regular routine. Sculpting and creating has always been an escape for me, offering a chance to enter another reality if only for a short time. 

It seems some things are too large and horrible to escape from.

 Anyway, here's a new creature I finished this week. I am not ready to delve into his story, but I am sure there is something he would like to tell.

Perhaps later.