Drawing skulls of Saint Valentine like mad. Spent the better part of last evening working on a pointy one and a freaky, out of proportion one. Poor Saint Valentine...with his skull on the altar surrounded by roses in a state of dying. The smell I can conjure up of dust, italian chiese, and the wierdness the land of italo catholics surrounds itself with (which I adore) of medals, and smells, and symbols and high and low art...all in one place. Poor R. I think he thinks I have totally cracked. But the lure of ink, the line and the sharp and brush versions of pitt pens beckon. My sirens calling....not to dive deep into the water to drown...but to dive into the ouiji board of impulses and see what the "automatic writing" (as in the Shaker ladies that did that sort of stuff with their dreams) provides. There is a thrill to not knowing what your hand connected to your head will produce. Probably not good enough for prime time..but none the less, relevant to me. I have no idea which cubbie this stuff comes from. All I know is that is a rich and deep vein.

Am excited by the offerings the local Ink Shop has to offer. I sense I may (and possibly K or A or Both) may indulge. Here is a tip of the hat to the brilliant Gary Kelley--and the inspiration that both he and Whitney Sherman provided for us to think about getting the work out there in different deliverables than paintings and jpgs.

The work continues. I am possessed by octopus (octopii) in addition to the skull-duggery. Wow. Are they wierd or what?

LA over Xmas....the home team is ecstatic.