Whats in a rose?

“Dad, dad, are you all right”… I heard… when I opened my eye my daughter was leaning over me with one of her friends standing next to her looking around in a puzzled fashion.  Having a working studio in my home had its advantages, I could spend days at a time on projects undisturbed and my family was used to me focused on projects that I would get lost in them sometimes for long periods of time.   This time around was different however, I had been in my studio for five and half weeks before my daughter came down to check on me.  She was always the concerned on as my wife had lost interest in all of my art and photographic skill a very long time ago, she had her own interests and rarely did the two of ours ever combine.

My daughter on the other hand was just as talented as I am if not more so she would use the studio when she was not distracted with boys, or the bothersome things in life like homework.  But because I would spend so much time, long stints of it on projects and I had a potentially crippling disease my wife installed a closed circuit video monitoring system.  This done because of the persistence of my daughters concern, despite my never ending re-assurances. “Why the hell spend money when we could use the computer camera and the World-link?  Oh wait that’s right I forgot your father has to be different, has to be against…”  “MOM! He needs privacy” my daughter would argue… she was persistent and my wife disgruntled and bitter had a system installed that I would only allow on when I was sure it was not tied to the world link.  Only after a switch was installed so I could turn it off when I needed to.

“Dad!  Snap out of it~” my daughter snipped… “What happened down here?  Where did that rose come from?  Come on sit up here lets get you something to eat” She continued.

As I slowly gained a bit of consciousness I looked around my studio, I could barley recognize it.  Canvas drawings every where, paintings in process, drawing pads filled with sketches all of the same woman, her eyes, mouth, nose body limbs there were thousands of sketches, paintings some complete some in process… I don’t remember, I don’t remember vary much of any of it… I remember a woman coming over for me to photograph her… and at that moment I realized my left hand was in pain, intense pain!  Looking down I was holding a single red rose, so tight it’s thorns had pierced my skin and were buried deep into the palm of my hand and two of my fingers.  My daughters attempt to remove the rose from my hand was successful but the thorns were dug in so deep that they broke off the stem and remain pierced in the flesh of my hand.  “You stay here I am going to get something” my daughter spoke to her friend… When she returned she took my hand and forced my palm to open only to find the thorns had gone and the wounds they created completely healed. 

“Dad, what has happened down here what is going on?” she asked with a tone of seriousness and fright in her voice. 

“She was just here, she was just in the studio!  Breathe in you can still smell her perfume” I blurted.   “Can’t you hear that beat going on, she came in the studio, seems like a long time now, but can’t you hear it? She was just here… this rose, this rose—“I stopped in mid sentence because the rose had fallen onto a canvas that was laying on the floor and when we looked down at it, the rose the deep red rose I had “just” been holding was not now dried and deep black the color had gone from it just as my memory had.  “I can smell some perfume” my daughter’s friend chimed in.  “It smells really good” she finished.   “Don’t worry about that for now lets just get my dad cleaned up I am getting worried about him!”  She went on wiping my face with a wet cloth while her friend walked about looking at all of the work that had been created during the last several weeks.   “This one looks like—would you please just go up stairs and get my dads lunch” my daughter interrupted.  Clearly she was concerned and while I wanted to reassure her that I was ok all I could do was observe her actions as she walked about, fussing with my cloths, wiping paint off of my face, rubbing oil into my chapped hands.

I could hear her talking asking questions, I could sense her frustration with the fact that the only reaction was my eyes following her every move, never taking them off of her.  I could hear the beat in my head, my heart pounding faster and the intensity if the scent tat filled my studio gaining strength with every passing second.  I motioned to my daughter to move the canvas with the rose to a near by table, she knows that when I see something and want to preserve it for a future project to do as I ask without question.  She carefully picked up the canvas moving in slow deliberate fashion to a nearby table being careful not to disturb the rose’s position.  Turning back to me I could see her moving her lips, talking mouthing the words “dad, I am worried about you… I love you” but I could hear nothing but the continued beat of Ginger playing my head.  I tried to respond, I tried to force the voice in me to respond… “I am fine, and I love you too” but nothing came out just my eyes looking back at my daughter, her eyes looking deep into mine.  I had eaten and felt a bit stronger; I slowing got to my feet and gave my daughter a hug as if this would help re-assure her that I was ok.

Before anymore could be said I walked my daughter to the door of the studio gave her a gentle squeeze on her hand and I think, though I am not sure, I smiled at her as I walked back to a canvas where I could breath in the scent, the incredibly captivating aroma that directed me to the canvas I must work on next…

I heard my daughter tell her friend “we need to leave him to finish this work; I am worried I have never seen him this deep into a subject before, we have to check on him often”.  Her voice getting quieter and quieter standing in front of a canvas nearly as tall as I am the image of Ginger looking at that rose… no more voices in my studio I glance up and I am in her presence. The window, the rose on the ledge she is standing in front of me, perfect, still…

“Welcome back I’ve missed you, shall we finish this painting?” she said as she stood in the candle lit room perfectly still, the light shimmering off her smooth skin, the curves of her body visible only when the candle would flicker with a breeze.  Palette and brush in hand I spent what seemed like a life time on this canvas, studying her in every possible way with my eyes, every detail, every inch of exposed skin…

Breathing in deep breaths, realizing that the beat in my head was the gentle whisper of her voice repeating, something though I could not make out the words, it was comforting to finally know that it her voice causing the sound that I could identify it…

Breathing in deep breaths with every brush stroke, the curve of her back as she turned away from me, the hint of a breast she covered with one hand, her hair hanging down in front of her face leaving soft shadows across her neck and shoulder, I was frantic to study every square inch of her for the fear I would look up again and she would be gone, I would be back in my studio…

Breathing deep breaths, as I watched her body move in unison with mine as I breathed in she would as well. As I exhaled she did, as if we were one single point of energy… taking in deep breaths, her scent so mesmerizing, so intensely seductive, her perfect form and the motion of her body with every breath, in unison with the beat playing in my head…

What was she saying?

Breathing in deep breaths…. The candle light flickering my hands moving paint on a canvas, taking in deep breaths in unison with Ginger, in unison with her beat playing in my head, breathing her in deep into my lungs.  My hands painting the perfect woman while the rest of mind and body had been entirely consumed by her scent… by her beauty by her perfectly formed body while we both took in deep breaths, the motion of our lungs were one in the same, her beat playing in my head…

What was she saying?

Her name was Ginger

This maddening affect she has…

It has been several weeks and I find myself becoming more and more immersed in her with every brush stroke. I draw another canvas and her eyes capture my attention they will not let go…

It has been several weeks since our time in the studio and I can somehow feel her presence, I don’t know what it is but my mind spins with thoughts, the brush strokes in an instant are complete and another night has gone.

It has been several weeks and her name was Ginger, she waltzed into my studio like a breath of fresh air and has spurred a creative moment in the history of one painter like the storm of the century… her eyes glance back from a pale white canvas and hold an eternity in them…

Her name was Ginger and the thoughts rushing through my mind while painting her one night like a crazed man …hell who knows maybe I am, maybe this is just one of those wild dreams that you never wake from… painting like a crazed man wanting to know the meaning of her name, Ginger, a spice to be sure, a spice that was so intense that at one time it was considered a drug and regulated… the old days but every name had a meaning!

Ginger what was yours?

This “world link”, used to be called the Internet, now something altogether new, everybody with a video camera pointing at them at every computer… hell not me! I despised them! Privacy, to be alone with my clients in my studio is what they paid a premium for… but Ginger, she waltzed in unannounced asking for a time to be photographed, the obsession started the day after, but her name meant something… the world link gave me the following information:

1 thesaurus results for: Ginger
Roget’s II: The New Thesaurus
Main Entry: spirit
Part of Speech: noun

Definition: A lively, emphatic, eager quality or manner.

Synonyms: animation, bounce, brio, dash, élan, esprit, life, liveliness, pertness, sparkle, verve, vigor, vim, vivaciousness, vivacity, zip

It described her to a “T”!

Her name was Ginger and my studio still smells like her, the obsession began the day after our shoot. I have never seen her during the day and she contacted me only once since to ask about another shoot “if you don’t mind I would prefer a late evening shoot” she said. Stumbling on my words my reply was “I am here to serve you and will arrange my studio for whatever time you need”

Her name was Ginger and when the phone went dead after the conversation was complete, my head started to rush, the thoughts, her eyes, the smell of her wafting through my studio and she had been gone for several weeks. I never knew a mans heart could pound that hard without exploding. Several weeks seemed like an eternity but a night painting her eyes…another night spent staring into her eyes, studying her lips, another long night that will be over in a split second of this eternal obsession…

Her name was Ginger…

Dangerous curves

One of my favorite writings, this is because of someone in Germany, as it should be:


In a moment of madness,

A moment of pain I close my eyes…

I walk into a big room with a single light on… under that light is a sofa with what looks like a female figure on it… as I walk closer I realize it is you, long black hair in this subdued light beaming from a single source hanging above a dark brown leather sofa. 

The figure lying on this sofa has curves!  Beautiful curves that glow in the single light that hangs from above.  There is no form to walls floor or structure, just this beautiful figure lying on the sofa.  Your head is resting on the arm and your out stretched body follows the form of the sofa to it’s length, yet you are so light, fresh I cannot stop trembling with you in this light…

As I walk closer to you, you turn and look, soft eyes, caring eyes in my direction.   You motion to speak but I stop, and you do as well… no words, no sound, just the quiet hum of distant sounds moving about called earth… your hair hangs down over the arm capturing the light from the single source, flowing in cascades of dim colors down toward the floor.  Stunning in its form, free form of shapes… that beautiful face of yours, I know this face… have it hanging on the walls of my studio…  Care and deep investment beam from this face of yours, care and intent, care and desire… beam from this face of yours.

I am standing about four feet from you, the sofa, I see the curve of your breasts, your hips, stunning hips… must be why yours have already been painted by me…

Scanning your body in this subdued light I notice the small fold of skin between your breast and arm that is catching my attention… I noticed it in one of your photographs and believe I mentioned it to you… here is my chance of just a simple taste of what you tell me vanilla and lavender.   I am not sure if the gentle kiss leaves the taste because you put the notion in my head or because it really does taste that way but I succumb to it and know there is nothing else, this taste fills every sense, every portion of me…

I conceived of Dangerous Curves a very long time ago, with no one in mind, until now… I know what your breasts look like the incredibly perfect shape, your nipples; just a hint of them in this light but to me all of life is within them… because of them… Your perfect breasts are providing just a hint of light that shows how they curve.  Makes me stop and admire you for a moment, like a painter studying his model for his next masterpiece.

I love your hips!  They have form and beauty that will not let my mind go!  You don’t believe me on this but your hips are the design that men desire, I desire… your hips show a shape so feminine and desirable… The light forces shadows in most areas and a glowing luminescence along the top of your body… those shadow areas… dangerous curves, light and dark, dangerous curves that will take me through the night, shadow areas that I desire to see, hold, be next to…

Dangerous curves, your dangerous curves are addicting, overwhelming, desirable!  Your dangerous curves make me nervous when phoning, make me strong when I imagine them, make me desire them when I see photographs of them and I realize that the conception of Dangerous Curves was because of you, years before we ever met…

The reason they are called dangerous curves... this sequence happened while I was driving to work one day... a split second of thought and I nearly got killed, because of those Dangerous Curves... but the trip was So well worth it :~)

The white room

This was written during a very long stretch of very intense migraines, the photographic series below was critically claimed when they were first published back in 2008/9.  I lost all of the originals during a data back up crash and am left with these ver low resolution images.

I’ve created this place inside of my head
It’s the place I go to worship the dead
The white room is a safe comfortable bed
A place full of gloom and dread.

My white room does exist
The images and desires in my head persist
The white room is a real place
In the white room you can be without saving grace.

The white room is where your fears come true
It is also the place where others see the real you
Being in the white room can rip you apart
Or others seeing you in there will break hearts.

So as you look at the white room in my head
You should choose any other color maybe blue or red
The way you see me in my white room open and real
Will give you a very small glimpse of how life makes me feel…

Sunday Worship in the White Room

Everlasting atonement in the White Room

No peeking in the White Room

Sex in the White Room

Love and jealousy in the White Room

Grim realities in the White Room

The White Room takes you in

Alone in The White Room

Working on the white room series:

Photo credits for these two: Shelby Denton

Road Rash Rubber

Here are a few from the various photo-shoots I've don over the years with Road Rash Rubber, and yes that's me in 3 of them.  I figured after hearing all the complaints about wearing the rubber I would try it. 

They all were right :)