Friday, November 10, 2017

The Grieving

18″ x 24″
Oil on canvas
I suppose one could say that this is something of a throwback piece to my Theothanatos series, oh blimey… seven years ago now. As a showcase dealing with questions of mortality and loss, it could fit quite comfortably in there I think. I mean there’s even a skull. Actually, theres always a skull somewhere, its the common thread throughout my work, throughout my life even, and so It could be argued, my entire artistic quest has dealt in some way with that ever present shadow of the reaper. As Dali once posited, ” I have been living with death, since I became aware”.
What new to say with ”The Grieving” that I haven’t said before then?  To start (or end with) It’s death as the great democratizer, that singular force that is indiscriminate in its insatiable wake. A shared, cold and brutal reality that unites every living entity, regardless.  And so our progenitor, hairless and naked crouches, fetal like once more in a dark chasm. One is reminded of the dehumanized wretches at Concentration camps, or those former shadows of loved ones, diminished to an ailing carcass by toxic doses and chemotherapy treatments.  He could be anyone, or anyone of us. He will be.
We see him momentarily illuminated by fading light, which could be an extinguishing candle or the last ray of twilight as the coffin lid slides into place, but he is already, desperately lost to the beckoning depths of darkness. From his forehead sprouts a large horn, which he strains to scrape against the walls of the cavern, or even out of the picture itself, perhaps fruitlessly trying to excavate his way out, except he can’t there’s no escape. He could also be sharpening his final vestige of potency, transfixed by the dying sparks that spring as ivory scratches stone. It’s the grieving for an extinguishing life then, the final pronouncements of vitality in a concluding epilogue, done fast and lose in places before time expires.
Its a timely reminder in these dark days to fight against the dying of the light, and will be on show for the Requiem exhibit at The Dark Art Emporium from 11/11/17 throughout the month of November.

Saturday, October 28, 2017

Cave Painting

This one arrived via some caves in Oregon, on a recent road trip which weaved from San Diego to Seattle. Ten days of head trip as white plain Desert became craggy coastline,became lush towering redwood, became urban sprawl, with lots of small town stops and roadside curiosity along the way.
If the year has felt like a gradual spiritual and physical estrangement from this my adoptive country, it’s true to say that the beautiful diversity of its landscape reminded me of why I fell in love with it in the first place.
That and spending time with my wife Lani.
There’s an essence of some of the aforementioned spiritual retreat in this new piece-going by the working title “The Grieving”. Still very much at the stage where I am undecided if I actually like it, or if I want to crack it over my knee, but that’s pretty normal for me, and I’ll persevere regardless.
I mean I have to-it’s going to be on show at the Dark Art Emporium next month.
All Hallows in between, except the season of the witch has still to cast her spell over me. I fear perhaps the fear of the horror on capitol hill has eclipsed the haunted house on the hill for many this year , and I am waiting for tricks to turn over their treats. Still, my demons need homes kids-Art Prints and Books 30% off.  Remember the incantation BOOO17 on checkout

Monday, October 2, 2017

The La Bodega years

Just added a new gallery, comprising the period between fall 2014 and early this year HERE.
To be honest, I hadn’t really envisioned those years as a cohesive and self encompassing body of work. Because of the nature of group shows, it’s niggled me that since producing Purgatorium , I’d been unable to invest my vision in quite the same way-that the work had felt somehow scattershot or constantly compromised and manicured to fit within the restrictions of an exhibitions chosen theme.
It only occurred to me very recently however, that looking at most of the paintings produced during my time at La Bodega gallery, seemed in retrospect as consistently composed as any of my former series.
This may have something to do with the environment I worked in. In fact I know it was, driving every day as I did beneath the Coronado bridge, emblazoning huge colorful murals, both in scale and historical reverence. One cannot be affected by the social injustice and cause of the Chicano community, especially when they embrace you as one of their own so readily. Lest we forget that this happened within the context of the soon to be leader of the free world, casting the entire population as rapists, drug dealers and murderers, or the doomsaying editorials within the self appointed SD ‘art media’, constantly warning of white gentrification.

Would this monster make a man (2014) 36″ x 48″-Oil on canvas
My own conceit had me promulgate the piece La Noche Triste, with its towering Coyolxauhqu over the murderous Hernan Cortez, as fitting tribute for a proposed mural, before the council and trustees of Chicano park.
Naturally, I was turned down.
Oh, how my own Anglo Irish truculence shrivels now in light of my audacity.
La Noche Triste -9″ x 12″ | Ink on card

Its within that framework then, that I now recognize that my world view had widened, gazing further as I was than the fluff in my naval. And that along with a stance that was more socially conscious, was an approach that contrived to marry my love of Otto Dix,Van Der Weyden and the brilliant primary colors of the Chicano murals themselves, and set them within alt historic and esoteric allusion. As close a relative as I will ever get to being Pop surreal, it was enough to finally gather the attentions of one of its former champions, Greg Escalante. (See Post Here)

The Devil-36″ x 48″| Oil on canvas (2015)

And though I shall always be grateful for my time there, the two hour commute to the studio no longer being feasible or a welcome prospect, the work represents an evolution in my art that not only stands alone, but in solidarity with the spirit of those years.

Aztec Ghost Groove -Oil on vinyl |12″ x 12″ (2016)

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Prints of Darkness

Samhain is upon us again, the witching hour, the feast of the great beast, hobgoblins and hubble bubble, or something like that.
There was a time not so very long ago when I bristled with resentment at being lumped in with all that. It felt so tacky, I mean every superstore in every mall has an aisle band wagoning rubber scare fare, plastic tombstone and inflatable gargoyle creature feature, and for thirty one days of the year I could look forward to being part of the self same novelty act.  De rigueur by proxy of my penchant for painting skulls and all manner of hellish progeny.
A side note, after complimenting my technique, I was once asked at a film festival by a woman of advancing years, if I painted anything less dark. The film festival in question was for horror movies.  On a similar train, I’ve lost count over the years, how often my work has been sought by a gallery, only to be featured as part of some Halloween showcase.
How I’ve laughed and died a little inside. I am a serious arteest after all.
The thing of it all is, I need not have recoiled at feeling so nailed down. After all, a cursory look at my bookshelf and film collection will reveal more than a passing interest in the macabre, weird and hellion. I am the fully formed product of the 70’s hauntology that my upbringing afforded me. And no one is more delighted to revel in the schmaltz on display at Michaels and the like this time of year.
All of this, is a roundabout way of me telling you that if the executioners black cap fits, then so be it, to which end, there’s a 30% off on signed prints and books in my online shop for the month of October, with the carrion call BOOO17 as the coupon code. Click the following link.
If you must bring demons home for All Hallows, then its generally better if they aren’t made in China.
Support living artists painting the dead.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Vault plug

Altar Ergo, 16" x 12" mixed media on aquarelle paper-$250

At varying degrees throughout the five decades of my life, I've kept a sketchbook in some form or other. And although the well leafed contents have varied from scratchy and barely legible scrawl, to what are now almost anthropological, meticulously rendered explorations of my process, it only struck me very recently, that what I had considered mere morsels before getting down to the meat and potatoes of the main event, consisted of some fairly interesting nuggets of head toffee. 

Pudding as an appetizer then.

Trying on a different skin. 9" x 12"-ink and wash on aquarelle paper-$65

To that end, and needs must as they are, I figured I would open the vault and make some of the archive available to purchase. 

What doesn't kill you. 10"x13"-Biro on paper-$150

Affordable for the bargain hunter and in some cases unique from my usual cannon of works, here then is a small collection of what is a growing vault of renderings.

Poe loses his head. 9"x 12" Ink and wash on aquarelle paper-$65

More to follow, so don't miss out.In the meantime see more HERE

Abraxas whipping up and omelett. 9"x12"-Biro on paper-$65

Friday, September 22, 2017


10″ x 10″
Oil on panel

Done for the upcoming annual Perfect 10 group show at La Bodega gallery, here’s an appetizer between the main course, but still something to chew on.
No, its not pheasant, it’s a symbolic manifestation of the Canannite owl god Moloch- that towering monument at the Bohemian Grove, where world elites convene each year to watch a man in robes perform a ritualized “mock”child sacrifice, while chanting an invocation called the cremation of care.
Everyone needs a hobby I suppose.
Opening tomorrow, September 23rd, from 5 to 10pm, the show runs until the end of the month.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Greg Escalante

I suppose that its the natural order of things, that the older one gets, the more depleted the inner circle becomes. As Flaubert once remarked “A friend who dies, is something of you that dies”
Still it sucks.
In the case of Greg Escalante, it really fucking sucks. And whilst I can sadly never claim to have been ‘tight’ in the chumminess league, for the short breadth of time that I did know him, I got the sense of someone who was genuinely altruistic, someone who was as cool as a latter day beau Brummel, but didn’t brandish any of the icy heirs and graces, one might expect within the art scene.
A few of the short stories of immediate reminiscence I have then.
Though we’d been introduced once in passing many years ago, like a lot of aspiring artists I’d hoped to get on his radar, but for whatever reason, nothing had really stuck.  Hopes dashed then, and just as I’d all but called ‘time gentleman please’ on any  future aspiration in that regard, fuck me if the man himself didn’t wander into La Bodega gallery one day, and spying my art through the window, make a beeline for my studio.
Looking around at the art lining the walls, with that rare kind of awe you can only hope to imagine a doting parent might exact, he stopped short to see me sitting gobsmacked in the corner, before extending a hand with the humble and self-effacing introduction -‘Hi, I’m Greg, and I’d love to put you in my next show’.
Later, after he’d left to go next door to the Mexican restaurant ISalud,  he returned to rave about the tacos, and show me a video he’d taken on a recent trip to Galway, because he remembered I’d said I was homesick.
In the weeks that followed he sent me a video message, turning the pages of the promotional spread in Juxtapoz for the show, Dark realism/dark surrealism. I was thrilled and honored, and in the background, he made a whistling sound like a firework ascending. Which is kind of apt when one thinks about it, because he certainly put a rocket through the post Rothko/Pollock dribble that dominated the white box, until low brow shone a beacon like a neon diner on a midnight highway.
And now he’s left the diner, before pudding some will say, but still he paid the bill and even left a generous tip.
He’s on the road to the next destination.
His fedora and his many other hats will be sorely missed. I certainly doff my cap to him.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

Paradise Lost and Found

Yes-yes, it’s been over a month I know.
So where have I  been?
Hitting the books and burning them. Misfiring in every direction. Having an existential crisis every five minutes.
The usual then.
Maybe its the albatross of turning fifty, the inevitable dulling of the flame, time waiting in the wing, impending nuclear war, this humidity, or maybe I just suck-I don’t fucking know-but for two months, scrawl as frantically as I might, page after page-nothing jibed for the new series.
So it’s true to say something felt amiss in Paradiso-like discovering an angry wasp nest in the garden. No really, I’m not being metaphorical when I say that. It hangs beneath the awning outside the bedroom window, growing bloated and more angry like a festering boil daily. It’s mere presence a blight in my peripheral minds eye, to the point that every few hours I  relieve myself from what I am doing to check it’s progress.
It’s been like the buzzing in my head, an insectoid creepy crawl beneath the skin. Every corpuscle telling me to its time stir up the hornets nest, regardless if I get stung.
Also, did I mention this fucking humidity?
Abandon all hope then. Or at least the last two months.
Time to shed moleskine, sharpen pencils, start afresh.
If only because one should be naked and unadorned when being reborn in Eden.
So what you are seeing is the first seeding, a gollum emerging from the mud-or at least the burnt umber.
Now if we could just do something about this humidity.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017


Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other. To him was given a large sword.”
Revelation 6:4

Oil on Canvas
36″ x 48″
And so a bloodied harbinger, one of John of Patmos’s magic mushroom induced four. Like a butchers castoff wrenched from the pit of Hades, gallops the crimson steed stripped of its artifices. Give it up then for deaths own points man, here to cleave empires into ferocious war and division. Hooray!
Here he is, sporting the latest fall fashions- jodhpurs and jackboots, along with a swordfish head resembling a Klansman’s hood or a papal Mitre: a false crown for hell’s Borgia general: the preferred head dress of demagogues and blood thirsty zealots. There’s enough in the capes fountain to quench them I believe.  And if there’s any doubt as to which festering dark stable unleashed our Mr (D)Ed, then a blind, rabid diamondback coils from the animated corpses cold dead fist – Gadsen’s relic co-opted as every risible little bumper sticker-now waving into view like Satan’s own spewing cock.
If after all of that, you missed the carrion call of our horseback messenger, the lightning bolt clutched aloft also trebles as a Sig rune, cross and spear of destiny. Talk about the unholy trinity of Swiss army knives eh?
No prizes for guessing what fireworks awaits at the finish line, but I’d wear sunblock if I were you.
Yes, I realize I’m posting this on Independence day, but look-I began this one on 12,21,12- the Aztec dooms date-so  this piece was forged for these end times.
So here we are, July 4th baring down upon this once great nation like funerary pallbearer-one more last supper culminating in a glittering firecracker of whizz bang and char grilled offal.
How depressingly apt, eh?
Two plus millennia that includes a historical cannon of almost mythological prowess-names like Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy echoing through the grand halls of history, all diminished by the wet, shrill, reverberating fart of a coiffed, bloviating, bowel, tweeting in an ill fitting suit. An ignoble and all too fitting end I suppose, if only because the American dream has become a nightmare.
Nostrovia Comrades.
If we’re all still here come November, it’ll be on view at Copro’s upcoming Underworld group show.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

George and the Dragon-a bicameral battle.

“O, what a world of unseen visions and heard silences, this insubstantial country of the mind! What ineffable essences, these touchless rememberings and unshowable reveries! And the privacy of it all! A secret theater of speechless monologue and prevenient counsel, an invisible mansion of all moods, musings, and mysteries, an infinite resort of disappointments and discoveries.”
― Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind

“George and the Dragon-a bicameral battle”
oil on canvas
16″ x 20″
I alluded in my last post that there was something of an ode to the current plight of my dear old Blighty. The bitter rancor that has been the seismic divide post austerity Brexit. That’s there of course, the mythic ‘saint’ George fighting the scourge of  some um-diagnosed disease on the provision the bedeviled populace convert to Christendom. Dragon or savior, hell or heaven, do or die. Take your pick, socialism or fascism, infidel or jingoist, sinner or slave. You get my drift.
Also there of course, is the pretty explicit nod to those internal battles-those primal beasts summoned from self loathing cauldrons, shrieking destruction back at us from reflected, churning waters. Our Janus head peering from a cracked, darkened mirror.
Moreover I feel, it acknowledges the undefinable, fuzzy area between the states of consciousness and what Julian Jaynes coined as the bicameral mind.  It’s the legacy of metaphysical transformation through the artist’s experience, or at least my own.  That razors edge labyrinth we walk, traversing domains of the known and the unseen. Automatons to our visual and hallucinatory impulses, and yet mindful of the physical world that constrains us.
It’ll be on show for the forthcoming Heavy Metal, 40th anniversary group show, from July 15th at Copro Gallery.

Monday, June 19, 2017

Dragons breath

It’s just a detail of a work still in progress, but regular followers can probably already guess the punchline to this one. I suppose it could be read as a partial homage to the upheaval back in old Blighty, for what I am provisionally titling ‘the eternal bicamerel battle of George and the Dragon’. It’s going to be one of the pieces for the Heavy Metal show next month at any rate. I say one, as there could be another, depending on available wall space, but I’m having fun with it.
It flies in the face of the fact that the heat is utterly unrelenting right now, despite a particularly long and damp winter. It’s like the dragons breath on my neck, and the makeshift garage/studio is becoming uninhabitable, except for the occasional lizard that slinks in.  Dried spider carcasses hang from gloopy webs, and the brushes slip between my perspiring fingers.
The mountains pall seem undimmed and deer graze in the long shadows cast by the trees in our yard regardless. It would be like a wide eyed spectacle from some fantasy were it not for the literal scorched earth intruding over the airwaves, like a mosquito’s swarm.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Heavy Metal fortieth exhibition at Copro

Copronasan GalleryBergamot Arts Complex,
2525 Michigan Ave T5,
Santa Monica, CA 90404
July 15th 2017
As an artistic rites of passage, there was no better for me and my generation. In the late 70’s and early 80’s, Heavy Metal was the adult version of 2000ad, and I used to covet every opportunity to leaf through a well thumbed copy whenever I could from my classmates. At the time, I was never able to own one myself you see, firstly because it was as rare as hens teeth a to bag a copy in Liverpool, and secondly because my Mam wouldn’t have approved if I had.
If only she’d known what my old man kept in the attic.
Of course I made up for it years later-Moebius, Bilal,Vallejo all those legends.
So it goes without saying I’m beyond honored to be part of this exhibit-the fortieth anniversary at Copro, July 15th no less, alongside some modern day legends.
More details as I have them.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

Riding a dark horse.

Back in the saddle on this one then.  Pushing my charge to the finish line while I manifest the next series.  If memory serves, I began this one at a live painting event at the Ruby Room in San Diego, on what was purportedly a Mayan predictor to the end times-12/21/12. Of course, it turned out to be the usual load of apocalyptic bollocks, but given the current state of world events, one wonders whether the countdown to midnight was merely set in motion on that date.
Each day feels like a dark revelation in new levels of madness now, a hangman’s breakfast for a world ever on the precipice of some fresh horror, all delivered by a bloviating buffoon tweeting diatribes of inanity and petty gripes, like an indignant, salivating ape lobbing feces.  And whilst my beloved England comes to grips with another night of deadly attacks by radicalized zealots, the true modern day terrorism it seems is on the collective psyche.
For one of the envisioned pieces, I’ve been researching Jonestown and Heavens Gate, and though I’ve grazed the draw of cultism before of course with the Man/son series,  it’s been unnerving not to draw parallels with the ease by which the masses can be so easily subjugated here.  As if the contemporary pied pipers are political and pastoral pontificates, enchanting with arias of disenchantment, hypnotizing the dogmatically obstinate. In these dark days, it’s hard not to feel like all is lost, like the experimental petri dish marked mankind has mutated into some monstrous pathogen.
Which reminds me, I watched my friend Chet Zar’s wonderful documentary “I like to paint monsters” the other day, and he said something in it which really struck a chord, and to paraphrase, it was that dark art makes sense of a dark world that doesn’t. It’s a moving and hugely inspiring film if you haven’t seen it (please do), but it reminded me that the artists role is more important than ever, and that I’ll keep doing my part to fathom the unraveling shitstorm, in the event that we make it for future generations to disseminate.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Cereal Killing

There are moments when I feel like I’m more of an anthropologist than a dauber. I have to remind myself that the genesis of any new series always kicks off like this though, relentlessly poring through acres of text digging for clues, trying to line up all the executioners. It’s exciting and frustrating by equal measure.
And what a rabid band of cut-throat miscreants, rapscallions and sea dogs I’m conjuring to inhabit my Eden, beginning with no less than genocidal pioneer-Christopher Columbus. He makes Manson look like a Scooby Doo villain. If only hadn’t been for those damn kids.
It’s a lot to unpack, and at times I feel like I’m eating breakfast between Dan Brown and Alex Jones.
Should I order waffles or fruit loops?

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Making a little Eden

No, I haven’t shuffled off this mortal coil.  Not yet. A moral one perhaps, and rather fittingly for these end of days, it’s more of a spiral than a coil, but I digress.
If I’m honest, hitting the half-century mark has felt like a need to hit some sort of reset button. David Van Gough version 5.0. Software updates to include curmudgeonly scowling at the car radio, dodgy knees and a complete  shutdown by 11:30pm.  “Forget that I’m fifty cos you just got paid.”
So in between the manna of commission duties, I’ve been brewing. Stewing. Boiling. Scrawling. And for all the buzzing in my head, it feels like I’m preparing a soup made of flies. Next on the menu, Paradiso’s Fall. If Purgatorium was the entree of a three-course meal, this one is the main. It’ll taste strangely delicious, trust me.
Of course, it’s meant retreating again, closing up shop at La Bodega, dispensing with the three-hour daily commute and wandering no further than the canvases in my little-converted studio/garage down the hill. Not a soul other than the ones that haunt my visions. No sound, other than the whispering pines, the cackle of crows, and the usual voices in my head.
In these dark days of endless noise and looming annihilation,  it’s as close to Eden as one can hope to get.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Half a century away

If I’m honest. I never thought I’d make it to my half century. I imagined the long shadow cast by the reaper over much of my life, would have caught up with me by now.
Twenty years ago, I might have invited it to.
Ah, the nihilism and self-destruction of callow youth eh?
Still, I made it regardless, far happier, blessed and fortunate than any other dauber from the back jiggers of Liverpool might have reason to hope for.
Hindsight has also provided me the knowledge that as much as times change, some things remain the same.  For myself, it’s been that unrelenting need to make art.
Which is why I thought it might be quite nice to put together a little video retrospective of work from the  70’s to present day. Also notable I suppose, is that for the very first time (and possibly the last) it includes a little musical accompaniment composed and performed by myself throughout.
Looking back over the body of my work these last few weeks, it’s been interesting to note that regardless of any evolution in style or technique, there’s been a common thread through my work that has remained constant: those same niggling questions of mortality, and it could be a coping mechanism for the ‘comprehensible darkness’ as Jung called it, or simply because I am ‘still a kid at heart’ as my wife-Lani says, but I can’t deny the almost neurotic obsession that has been there from childhood scrawl to sprawling canvas.
I imagine it will be that way until the darkness swallows me.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Illusion Magazine article

“His paintings are complex, for where there is kitsch and playfulness, there is also discomfort and violence, together gesturing towards an inevitable end for the bodies and cultural eras they depict.”
Hayley Evans-Illusion Magazine
Whilst I am sequestered on commission duties, here is a superbly eloquent article about yours truly. Thank you Hayley and Illusion mag. The title alone “Rot and Transformation” could be a career manifesto:

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Fake News Schism

“Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly — they’ll go through anything. You read and you’re pierced.”
― Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
6.5″ x 8″-Mixed Media on Ingres paper
Its just a sketch tossed off in a couple of hours, the culmination of feeling like one’s head has been encased in concrete for six months.
Except to say, it encapsulates entirely the tumult of these politically divisive times, where falsehoods are legitimized as alternative facts, where lies are filtered through a monocle of partisan bias, where reality has no cachet because everything does.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

The Tower

Oil on canvas-20″ x 24″, $1,500
And now for something completely different.
Commissioned as part of an Astral themed 78 Tarot project, this one was something of a fun diversion, combining  all the sci-fi elements that would have utterly enamored my ten-year-old self. It’s something of an homage I suppose to all those 2000ad Future shock covers I would pour over for hours, in the hopes of one day becoming one of their retinue of Art droids.
That never happened of course,  and I’m much happier digging the dark furrow I currently do, but as 2000ad turns 40 and I hit my half century next month, it’s worth acknowledging the influences that informed me.
I’ve knocked together a cover of how it might have looked for shits and giggles. One can imagine a Tharg future shock that might accompany it. Something perhaps about ET’s sending space monkeys back in time to populate humanity.
Below is the obligatory bumf to go with the Tarot booklet
“Humanities aspiration has been one that has forever fixed it’seyes heavenward. If the stars were ciphers to map our destiny, then the looming edifices throughout history seem constructed as a means to reach them. Perhaps it is man’s desire to be closer to the source, Godlike in his eternal spiritual quest to elevate himself from mere mortality. And yet, like the fall of empires past that litter history, man’s arrogance and indignance seem’s always beset by self-destruction and the primal need to reconstruct the natural order.
And so Gods of old are supplanted by interstellar Gods, the desire to fill the void of fallen doctrines (as in the dead hollow tree) with the hope that we are not alone in the universe, that something larger than ourselves stands forever on the periphery, pulling strings. And yet our limited knowledge and ineptitude leave us stumbling around like simians in space, our search for enlightenment, stunted by fear of the unknown, ever ready to crack the skull of a different race with a nearby stone, because our need to feel superior in the microcosm will always usurp any progress, and lesson that could be learned. And as with the ouroboros, we are lost in the cosmic cycle of death, symbolized by the crystal skull.
The Tower then, is a parable of facade, an ephemeral artifact manufactured by the conceit of ego, built on the sands of eternal folly, that could come crashing down in an instant of catastrophic epiphany.”

Sunday, February 5, 2017

Conjoined 7

So on the day millions of women from around the world took to the streets against the new dark ages and muddy California Skys cascaded a tumult in accord, a little corner of Bergamont station was marking these times of dark herald, with Chet Zars Conjoined 7.
I could tell you of phantoms and hellions from every corner of the underworld, of mystical dervish shadows from  Hades bubbling craters, but it would be better if you saw it for yourself. After all, Darkness should be the visual anecdote of storytellers, not the reality manifested in halls of power.
Thank you to Gary and Chet, my fellow artists and everyone who braved traffic and downpour , the show is on display through February 11th.