"Sidekick"

December 17, 2011.

Under the influence of such Sixties and Seventies jazz greats as Grant Green, Ramsey Lewis, and Donald Byrd, I continued sketching this vision of Adam's partner-in-crime, if you understand the pun behind the title of this drawing.

"Afternoon of April 20th, Part Two"

"Afternoon of April 20th, Part One"

"So Amazing"

Friday, December 9, 2011.

Following this drawing is an illustrated journal entry explaining my passion for the incredible dancers of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater:

"Parisian Thoroughfare"

Paris, France,
February 27, 2010, age 41
Aboard a Gray Line Paris Blue bus touring the city
Late that Saturday afternoon

From my Paris Grey notebook, February 2010

Ten forty-five in the AM.  VICK came! “He” finally arrived to sweep us off our feet.  Or at least showed up to give each and every passenger a lift to Pont l’Alma—-to the Musee d’Orsay (a young female acquaintance’s destination)—-to the Invalides (once an infirmary for the wounded among the French army soldiers)—-to the Champ du Mars-Tour Eiffel—-and out the tunnel, cutting across the city in the open air (“en plein air”) for us to marvel at the villages, skyscrapers, expressways, highways, forests…and the ghost of Jean-Michel Basquiat working his magic, mischief, and mayhem on the walls, bridges, rooftops, trains, and buses with his spray cans and paint brushes, thereby adorning, decorating, and redefining the RER-C Yellow line.  And trust me, Basquiat, once one of Andy Warhol’s proteges before he met his untimely end in 1988, certainly had my undivided attention.  Now really, how could I have avoided his overwhelming influence when it was staring me right in my face—-being in my face—-making me do an about face, turning my back to what others normally regard as art, “true” art.  Beautiful, tasteful…safe?  It was a smooth and relaxing ride on the train under the serene and idyllic and over the grimy and gritty, but it had to end for me on Virafloy, on the Rive Gauche, the stop I thought would direct me to the grand Chateau in Versailles.  Well, I stepped out into the brisk, blustery wind (a certainly cold snap), made a sortie out into the neighborhood, and ultimately found myself in the middle of a pharmacy, a grocery store, a church, a conservatory, and rows of small houses on a hill, all adjoining a network of narrow dead-end streets—-yes, dead-end streets—-seeing that neither one of them would lead me to the Chateau, but back to the Virafloy R.G. station! I was in a foreign environment within a foreign environment, a world apart from Paris.  A world apart from Paris’ bohemian past steeped in the Latin Quarter, from a neighborhood I’ve already come to know and appreciate.  Reluctant to ask a single soul in the village, fearing that my presence as the only Black man around (let alone American) would arouse both suspicion and wariness, I walked back to the station with my carnet of tickets in my pocket, my five euros in one hand, and my black Kangol cap in the other.  Of all the things I’ve experienced thus far in France, the incredibly cold and strong winds under the milky white skies were the only things that didn’t blow me away!


 

"Felicia"

December 7, 2011. 

In the course of my winter weekend break in Paris last year, I learned that both silence and solitude are essential for artists and writers if they want to execute their projects well.  And I found that to be the case this afternoon when a good friend stopped by to sit and chat with me, taking me from this drawing for a moment so I could devote as much time to her as she needed.  Again, time, for me, was of the essence.  So as my friend and I talked, I continued sketching, making sure that every detail was exactly as I wanted it to look.  Much to my satisfaction...and pleasure, it was! The result: a lovely lady in red. 

"Kyndra"

December 5, 2011.

Couldn't contain myself, not even for a moment, when I remain seated to finish this drawing of a socially conscious (and beautiful) young woman, who is seen donning an Afro and thrusting a punch...or rather a Black Power salute...unabashedly through the air, but only to show her respect for the men and women who came before her as well as her acknowledgment of their efforts to ensure the freedoms we now enjoy, but often (and sadly so) take for granted...

"Ailey's Comet"

December 4, 2011.

As the lovely young woman above unleashes her inner dancer, I recall the sight of a young man tearing down his own walls, shedding his own cocoon so the butterfly kept in his soul for so long could fly... 

"Before the men and women in the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater ended the afternoon with the brilliant and lush "Revelations" (1960), leaving their rush of spring fever behind with us, Vernard J. Gilmore, a native Chicagoan, walked out into a peaceful azure blue, getting ready to share with us his "Reflections in D" as the sunlight pervaded the window, casting its shadow on the young man's morning. 

As Mr. Gilmore moved rhythmically, defiantly, and passionately in the midst of the Duke (Ellington) and the Count (Basie) with nothing to fetter him, to frustrate him, to disturb his groove, to keep him out of his zone, I thought of Edward Hopper and his muse, a young woman resting alone on the floor in her boudoir, exposing much of her privacy (or what's left of it, anyway) to the voracious vultures among her visitors (or rather, voyeurs) as she posed with a trail of newspapers, of jazz records, of black-and-white photographs telling stories of her past (Spring Interlude, 1940).  Just as the woman does for anyone who cares (or dares) to invade her self, her space, her sanity, and her sanctuary, the young man put aside his insecurity, his inhibitions, and his idiosyncrasies for a moment to reveal to us his dreams, his desires, his fears, his fantasies, and his innermost thoughts that he once considered sacred, that he once wouldn't share with just anyone..."

From my Ailey notebook, April 2008.

"Full Split"

December 3, 2011.

On my way downtown, I was on the train, making this portrait of a lovely young lady in a full split until I heard the stirring, soulful sounds of Christmas coming from the mouths of high school students, which never failed to sail from the upper deck and into my ears, eventually bringing a smile to my face.  All this week, I heard nothing but traditional carols and contemporary favorites on the radio and the intercom, whether it was at work, at the store, or even on the buses and trains.  Christmas is definitely in the air, even as I write this letter.  Over a glass of red wine, of course!

In any event, I was at my table...with no one around me...at a Flat Top Grill downtown, penning this portrait over extra-spicy scrambled eggs (with spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes, a little garlic, a little red hot chili pepper sauce, a little cilantro, and a few jalapenos for a little kick), a couple slices of French toast (topped with chocolate chips, shredded coconut, strawberries, and blueberries), and a cup of black, regular coffee.  Just as I did a few Saturdays before.   

"Natural"

"Singing His Summer Song"

December 1, 2011.

Passion, not the cold, woke me up and got me out of bed this morning.  It got me up and into my seat so I could finish this portrait of a lovely young lady taking in the hot sun and the warm air on a beautiful summer's day.  Having listened to "Summer Song", a collaborative work from the Blackbyrds and the late, great Grover Washington, Jr., I thought that it would be an appropriate name for this drawing because it, meaning the song, captures almost everything I felt, saw, and experienced in the summers of my childhood.