Sax-o-phone
09/01/10 10:56 Filed in: Music
Close up of Sax-o-phone a sketch for the next painting.
the painting will be 5 x 7 feet. 2 saxophones jamming visual music.
the painting will be 5 x 7 feet. 2 saxophones jamming visual music.
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Uba Tuba Large
12/12/09 15:48 Filed in: The Intersection of Music and Visual Art
Uba Tube 48
12/12/09 15:47 Filed in: The Intersection of Music and Visual Art
Slow Mover edited
15/11/09 19:24 Filed in: Poems | Slow Mover
"Slow Mover"
by Stephen Shooster
Edited Susan C. Haley
Slow Mover Illustration (click to enlarge) 2009
There was a time . . . a roaring engine,
red and whites stripes, blurring to pink,
A Fast Mover . . . was my deepest need.
I'd roll down main street, revvin' at stoplights.
All heads would turn. All would envy my speed.
A Fast Mover . . . Me.
Then, my dad got news. Not the best,
A weakness in his arteries, a bomb ticking in his chest.
Within a week, my fast movin' world was still.
Upside down. Dad fights for his very life.
Mom and we brothers and sister play Scrabble in ICU waiting.
We fight for words to lessen our strife.
I let mom win every time to lighten her spirits,
Mostly because she's way better then me.
With a tube in his throat and heart exposed,
Dad's body cooled down.
We laughed irreverently in ICU waiting.
Nervously. Full-belly laughs.
We only held hope in our thoughts. No other choice.
Finally, eight hours later, dad, alive! Repaired.
Thinking back, all I wanted was a Fast Mover.
For dad, the only way back was through the chasm.
The only way back to our world, for him,
was through the deep valley, tested . . .
by a thousand challenges.
Bang! Restart the heart, stitch by stitch.
Thwack! Staples in the chest. Stitch by loving stitch.
Rolling down the caverned halls of O.R. into
the cave of 'step down', it's dark. He cant see a thing.
Attention flourishes, he hears noise. A subway assault.
"Who's breathing for me?" he thinks.
Lights flash. Drip . . . drip . . . drip
The enemy must have me tied down, he thinks
Kick! Nothing. No energy . . . sleep.
The only way back is through the chasm.
Bang! Awake again. Can't talk.
Drugs manage the captive . . .
You're awake, you're asleep.
Haze . . . noise . . . Who am I? Who's he? He thinks.
The robot in him responds . . .
"I must be captured!" Hands flail. "Must escape. Must warn . . .
Rest. Torture! Rest. Mind spins . . .
Marshaling strength, "I've broken my binds!"
No thought other then freedom. He jerks the tube
from his throat! Free . . . FREE!
Panic! I can't breathe . . . dying . . . trapped!
Medic! MEDIC! He sceams silently.
Saved! Oxygen . . . saved to escape!
Under fire. Head down! Taking fire. Grenade!
They got me! Captured. Truth serum. Can't . . . can't
fight no more! Delirium . . . Name, rank and serial . . .
Taking punches. I'm here, kind of . . . Delirium.
I hear fellow prisoners, "Get out! Get . . . RESist . . .
It's futile! Black shadows . . . Unconscious.
I'd be rolling, revving down main street, all heads turning.
A Fast Mover . . .
My buddies, they're saving me . . . away from the enemy.
Close call. Out of the cave. Weak . . . drifting. Sleep.
Safe for now. Re-group . . . Can't move.
Tired. Beyond tired. Stuck in the valley . . .
Dorothy? I call her name.
Strength returns. Slowly. Heart beating. Strength. Sleep.
Racing down main street in my Fast Mover. All heads turn.
Walls and toilets come into focus. Edge of the valley.
I see Dorothy. Kids. They get me on my feet.
So tired. They make me walk . . . walk anyway.
A walker, and teeth, and hearing aids, glasses.
I walk slowly, one step at a time, out of the valley.
The sun rises. Every morning, a routine.
Me, I get my slow mover ready for the new day.
One step. Another. I got my slow mover . . .
Who needs a fast car?
I got my slow mover . . . still. My dad. "Dad!"
His head turned . . .
Learn more about Susan C. Hanley at http://www.sucarha.com/
If you like this go to the following web site and sign up for the free newsletter for the infinite writer.
by Stephen Shooster
Edited Susan C. Haley
Slow Mover Illustration (click to enlarge) 2009
There was a time . . . a roaring engine,
red and whites stripes, blurring to pink,
A Fast Mover . . . was my deepest need.
I'd roll down main street, revvin' at stoplights.
All heads would turn. All would envy my speed.
A Fast Mover . . . Me.
Then, my dad got news. Not the best,
A weakness in his arteries, a bomb ticking in his chest.
Within a week, my fast movin' world was still.
Upside down. Dad fights for his very life.
Mom and we brothers and sister play Scrabble in ICU waiting.
We fight for words to lessen our strife.
I let mom win every time to lighten her spirits,
Mostly because she's way better then me.
With a tube in his throat and heart exposed,
Dad's body cooled down.
We laughed irreverently in ICU waiting.
Nervously. Full-belly laughs.
We only held hope in our thoughts. No other choice.
Finally, eight hours later, dad, alive! Repaired.
Thinking back, all I wanted was a Fast Mover.
For dad, the only way back was through the chasm.
The only way back to our world, for him,
was through the deep valley, tested . . .
by a thousand challenges.
Bang! Restart the heart, stitch by stitch.
Thwack! Staples in the chest. Stitch by loving stitch.
Rolling down the caverned halls of O.R. into
the cave of 'step down', it's dark. He cant see a thing.
Attention flourishes, he hears noise. A subway assault.
"Who's breathing for me?" he thinks.
Lights flash. Drip . . . drip . . . drip
The enemy must have me tied down, he thinks
Kick! Nothing. No energy . . . sleep.
The only way back is through the chasm.
Bang! Awake again. Can't talk.
Drugs manage the captive . . .
You're awake, you're asleep.
Haze . . . noise . . . Who am I? Who's he? He thinks.
The robot in him responds . . .
"I must be captured!" Hands flail. "Must escape. Must warn . . .
Rest. Torture! Rest. Mind spins . . .
Marshaling strength, "I've broken my binds!"
No thought other then freedom. He jerks the tube
from his throat! Free . . . FREE!
Panic! I can't breathe . . . dying . . . trapped!
Medic! MEDIC! He sceams silently.
Saved! Oxygen . . . saved to escape!
Under fire. Head down! Taking fire. Grenade!
They got me! Captured. Truth serum. Can't . . . can't
fight no more! Delirium . . . Name, rank and serial . . .
Taking punches. I'm here, kind of . . . Delirium.
I hear fellow prisoners, "Get out! Get . . . RESist . . .
It's futile! Black shadows . . . Unconscious.
I'd be rolling, revving down main street, all heads turning.
A Fast Mover . . .
My buddies, they're saving me . . . away from the enemy.
Close call. Out of the cave. Weak . . . drifting. Sleep.
Safe for now. Re-group . . . Can't move.
Tired. Beyond tired. Stuck in the valley . . .
Dorothy? I call her name.
Strength returns. Slowly. Heart beating. Strength. Sleep.
Racing down main street in my Fast Mover. All heads turn.
Walls and toilets come into focus. Edge of the valley.
I see Dorothy. Kids. They get me on my feet.
So tired. They make me walk . . . walk anyway.
A walker, and teeth, and hearing aids, glasses.
I walk slowly, one step at a time, out of the valley.
The sun rises. Every morning, a routine.
Me, I get my slow mover ready for the new day.
One step. Another. I got my slow mover . . .
Who needs a fast car?
I got my slow mover . . . still. My dad. "Dad!"
His head turned . . .
Learn more about Susan C. Hanley at http://www.sucarha.com/
If you like this go to the following web site and sign up for the free newsletter for the infinite writer.
Slow Mover
17/10/09 08:54 Filed in: Illustrated Manuscript | Slow Mover
Slow Mover 48” x 36” apx Watercolor and Ink on Paper with Metallic inks as well.
St. Lukes is a hospital in Houston that cares for the Coselli team, surgeons with a specialty in Aneurysms, bubbles in arteries.
Home of the famed Dr. Denton Cooley.
The central image is the patient my dad a slow mover (see poem in tags)
The 4 people are my two brothers and sister and mom
The artist, me holds the sign ' of life'
The surgeons hands frame the Steele on top his hands and the result effect all of us not gods but somehow god like
The image below the central one is an illustration of the heart. It has 2 bypasses
The numbers are icu monitors are intentionally cryptic
The design is blue and red, veins and arteries. The one on the right is the arotic arch it's diaphonously beautiful in it's base rawness it feeds the rest of the image just as veins mop up the expensed oxygen
Attached are the surgeons brain/head with head dress and lamp of illumination.
His breezy feet are to the left they are needed to keep him loose while working
The whole image feeds / reflects itself being self contained echoing ancient illustrated manuscripts and updating them with wireless devices it total the image becomes ... The soul, a story of a family where something obviously profound is happening... Yes the soul of the patient or artist. A cryptic testement to mankind.
A statement of appreciation for the surgeons and the team at St. Lukes who saved my dad’s life and perform miracles on a daily basis.
It takes two to communicate via wireless device.
Mom and sister in prayer at the foot of the bed
the central image is surrounded by stars and landscape the stuff of life.
Here the Aortic arch is represented upside down feeding the images, giving life to the drawing.
Here the heart is show with extra arteries, bypasses.
Slow Mover
16/10/09 23:21 Filed in: Poems | Slow Mover
Slow Mover
by Stephen Shooster
Once upon a time
I wanted a roaring engine
with red and whites stripes
a fast mover
I would roll down the main street
revving my engine at a stoplight
all heads would turn
a fast mover.
Then one day
My dad finds out
he has ticking time bomb in his chest
A weakness in the artery.
within a week my world is upside down
finding my mom and brothers playing Scrabble in the ICU waiting room
While my dad fights for his life.
I let my mom win every time,
to lighten her spirits. (and because she's way better then me)
with a tube in his throat
and heart exposed
Body cooled down.
We laugh irreverently, nervously, but full belly laughs.
We only held hope in our thoughts, no other choice.
Finally 8 hours later... alive.... repaired.
Thinking back all I wanted was a fast mover.
Now for my dad the only way back.... is through the chasm. The only way back to our world for him was through the deep valley. Being tested by 1,000 challenges.
Bang... Restart the heart
stitch by stitch
Thwack Thwack Staples in the chest.
Stitch by loving stitch, pronto.
Rolling down the cavern into the cave
its dark, he cant see a thing...
(the cave is the ICU the first step after surgery, no windows, lots of attention)
He hears noise. A subway assault.
He thinks, "Who is breathing for me?"
Lights flash drip, drip
He thinks, "The enemy must have me tied down."
Kick nothing... no energy... sleep.
The only way back is through the chasm.
Bang, awake again. Can't talk. (Drugs manage the patient a little of this and your awake, that your asleep)
Haze, noise.
He thinks, "Who am I? Who is he?
the robot in him responds.
He thinks. "I must be captured."
Rest, torture, rest.
Hands flail, he thinks "I must escape. can't talk, can't warn my buddies.
Marshaling strength I have broken my hand cuffs"
He thinks with no thought other then freedom, jerks the tube from his throat,
FREE, I I can't breath, dying, trapped, medic!
He thinks, saved! oxygen, saved.
He thinks, regrouping, have to escape. Under fire. Keep your head down. Taking fire. Grenade!
They got me. captured. Truth serum. Can't Can't fight no more delirium.
Name, Rank and Serial .... slurrr
Taking punches. I'm here, kind of... delirium... I hear fellow prisoners, “get out I tell them get out... Resist.”
It's futile - unconscious.
I would be driving down main street all heads turning
a fast mover...
Roarrrr
He thinks, "My buddies... they are saving me. Carrying me away from the enemy. Close call. Out of the cave. Hope they damaged those guys. Weak ... drifting... sleep.”
He thinks, "Safe for now."
Whew close call, re-group... just cant move. Tired beyond tired.
Nursing me back still stuck in the valley.
he thinks "Dorothy, I call her name... guide me."
my strength returns slowly, heart beating.
Again my fellow soldiers, rescue me. Drag me to a field hospital. More nurses strength sleep.
Racing down main street in my fast mover...
All heads turn.
He thinks, they sent me back to a real hospital. Walls and toilets come into focus. I must be out of the valley. I see Dorothy - "Hi."
Dorothy - "Hi" back
and kids...
they get me up on my feet... so tired
they make me walk.
hand me a walker
and teeth
and hearing aids
and glasses
I walk slowly
One step at a time
tired,
sit,
sleep
need help to move, anything.
the sun rises... they hand me my
teeth
my hearing aides
my glasses
my breathing toy
every morning a routine, draw blood...
Me, I get my slow mover ready for the day
One step... another.
I got my slow mover
who needs a fast car.
I got my slow mover... still... my dad.
by Stephen Shooster
Once upon a time
I wanted a roaring engine
with red and whites stripes
a fast mover
I would roll down the main street
revving my engine at a stoplight
all heads would turn
a fast mover.
Then one day
My dad finds out
he has ticking time bomb in his chest
A weakness in the artery.
within a week my world is upside down
finding my mom and brothers playing Scrabble in the ICU waiting room
While my dad fights for his life.
I let my mom win every time,
to lighten her spirits. (and because she's way better then me)
with a tube in his throat
and heart exposed
Body cooled down.
We laugh irreverently, nervously, but full belly laughs.
We only held hope in our thoughts, no other choice.
Finally 8 hours later... alive.... repaired.
Thinking back all I wanted was a fast mover.
Now for my dad the only way back.... is through the chasm. The only way back to our world for him was through the deep valley. Being tested by 1,000 challenges.
Bang... Restart the heart
stitch by stitch
Thwack Thwack Staples in the chest.
Stitch by loving stitch, pronto.
Rolling down the cavern into the cave
its dark, he cant see a thing...
(the cave is the ICU the first step after surgery, no windows, lots of attention)
He hears noise. A subway assault.
He thinks, "Who is breathing for me?"
Lights flash drip, drip
He thinks, "The enemy must have me tied down."
Kick nothing... no energy... sleep.
The only way back is through the chasm.
Bang, awake again. Can't talk. (Drugs manage the patient a little of this and your awake, that your asleep)
Haze, noise.
He thinks, "Who am I? Who is he?
the robot in him responds.
He thinks. "I must be captured."
Rest, torture, rest.
Hands flail, he thinks "I must escape. can't talk, can't warn my buddies.
Marshaling strength I have broken my hand cuffs"
He thinks with no thought other then freedom, jerks the tube from his throat,
FREE, I I can't breath, dying, trapped, medic!
He thinks, saved! oxygen, saved.
He thinks, regrouping, have to escape. Under fire. Keep your head down. Taking fire. Grenade!
They got me. captured. Truth serum. Can't Can't fight no more delirium.
Name, Rank and Serial .... slurrr
Taking punches. I'm here, kind of... delirium... I hear fellow prisoners, “get out I tell them get out... Resist.”
It's futile - unconscious.
I would be driving down main street all heads turning
a fast mover...
Roarrrr
He thinks, "My buddies... they are saving me. Carrying me away from the enemy. Close call. Out of the cave. Hope they damaged those guys. Weak ... drifting... sleep.”
He thinks, "Safe for now."
Whew close call, re-group... just cant move. Tired beyond tired.
Nursing me back still stuck in the valley.
he thinks "Dorothy, I call her name... guide me."
my strength returns slowly, heart beating.
Again my fellow soldiers, rescue me. Drag me to a field hospital. More nurses strength sleep.
Racing down main street in my fast mover...
All heads turn.
He thinks, they sent me back to a real hospital. Walls and toilets come into focus. I must be out of the valley. I see Dorothy - "Hi."
Dorothy - "Hi" back
and kids...
they get me up on my feet... so tired
they make me walk.
hand me a walker
and teeth
and hearing aids
and glasses
I walk slowly
One step at a time
tired,
sit,
sleep
need help to move, anything.
the sun rises... they hand me my
teeth
my hearing aides
my glasses
my breathing toy
every morning a routine, draw blood...
Me, I get my slow mover ready for the day
One step... another.
I got my slow mover
who needs a fast car.
I got my slow mover... still... my dad.
Talent Farm II
The Talent Farm
The plow is pulled by the endless procession of oxen reflected in the water of life. The plow creates musical notation as the blade runs through the earth. The Earth is full of music and colors. A lock turns through time and numeral give way to older numerals. A snake twists into a guitar.
Deerfield Beach Historical Society
05/10/09 10:58 Filed in: Art Show Poster
A big thank you for sponsoring a show of my work by the Deerfield Beach Historical Society at the Old School House built in 1920.
My work filled the old school house teaching room. All the old chairs, maps, backboards and books are in tact safe in this little jewel case of a museum.
I work was all displayed on easels so as to not touch the walls. The show was billed as 3 generations of Shooster Art to connect it to the historical societies mission. Displayed was the art of Harry Shooster, my uncle (90) and my daughter Carly Shooster’s art (14) plus all my latest works.
The show was a joy, a connection to a few old friends that have not seen in years, and most importantly a way to bring my work to the public which has always been a dream.
My wife played a huge part in making this happen. Later that night we went dancing for the first time in so many years I cant wait to go again.
Corning Museum
Corning Museum
Studing under Cappy Thompson for a joyful week of intensive focus on Grisaille Painting. This is the type of painting you see on ancient stained glass. Its a Grey and black line that is painted with lead paints and then fired into the glass. Its a dangerous medium require careful handling of materials. The results are a timeless.
Here you see Vigilance painted inside of a long column vase.
Here you see Pot Belly Stove Painted backwards into “Tin” Glass. Their is only one side you can paint upon so you have to use a UV light to see which side the glass was made upon and then use the “clean” non-tin side to paint. If you want a real treat go visit Cappy’s Site at www.cappythompson.com you will see that see was commissioned to do the Seattle Airport Glass wall. Its a huge installation and done in the same style as these examples.
Studing under Cappy Thompson for a joyful week of intensive focus on Grisaille Painting. This is the type of painting you see on ancient stained glass. Its a Grey and black line that is painted with lead paints and then fired into the glass. Its a dangerous medium require careful handling of materials. The results are a timeless.
Here you see Vigilance painted inside of a long column vase.
Here you see Pot Belly Stove Painted backwards into “Tin” Glass. Their is only one side you can paint upon so you have to use a UV light to see which side the glass was made upon and then use the “clean” non-tin side to paint. If you want a real treat go visit Cappy’s Site at www.cappythompson.com you will see that see was commissioned to do the Seattle Airport Glass wall. Its a huge installation and done in the same style as these examples.
Guitar on Fire
16/03/09 17:26 Filed in: The Intersection of Music and Visual Art | Highlights
Guitar on Fire
Shoosty
Watercolor Pencil and Ink 14” x 19”
October 16th, 2008
This is a painting about guitar. The neck is bent in cubist style making the instrument unplayable but this adds to the playfulness of the overall composition.
Heat and Ice border the sides as Cassidy and her twinkle toes holds the guitar on her back. the notes become an upside down head and a series of fish become notes which become cherries. Fire burns on the top o the guitar and buttons with flowers are flying while some are the tuners for the neck.
Cassidy sits on an oriental rug.
Lots of metallic ink makes this image jump.
Uba Tuba
Uba Tuba
2008
shoosty
The original is a 14 x 19 inch water color pencil and ink
Highlighting the deep sound of a Bass Brass instrument, the Tuba, makes a distinctive sound.
Uba Tuba represents the Co-Evolution of Music and Art Theory. You can see the sound. Van Gogh’s ear becomes an easily recognizable symbol that begins the journey. It is both an ear capturing music and a visual element related to modern art. The ear that listens, the ear of passion of the famous artist. The lines connecting the two main tuba shape represent the fret of an up right string Bass. The broken shape obviously cant hold any strings but no matter it is he echo of the instrument altered through the art concept of cubism that matters here. And these frets have multiple meanings as the lines to hold notes on a page as well and music wave coming out of the tubas.
The flower buttons we introduced in Jam Band, 2008. The buttons represent the tuners on the instrument but the have been released allowing for flight. The buttons harken back to the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour.
This image ekes with sound waves everywhere. Deep Sound is obviously in the Bass range.
The name Uba Tuba comes from the sound a tuba makes.... UBAHHH...
Jam Band
08/09/08 15:29 Filed in: The Intersection of Music and Visual Art | Watercolor and Ink | Music | Highlights
Jam Band
Giclee
Shoosty 2008
Here is a wild organ with feet gas pedals and gauges to show the power. This is combined with trumpet and french horn with a small guitar or violin in the center.
The tuners are flower buttons and the neck of the string instruments is curved in a cubist way. You may not be able to play music but it sure sounds like your having fun.
This is an ode to Jam Bands. Bands that using improv as the central method of creating music. Unplanned, playful, the music creates shapes of sound that are then crafted by the players.
Upside down head notes and strings the double as music sheet, an animal clawed foot and a crazy clock with chinese numbers.
Jason and Jaime Shooster are the artists kids. they are great improv artists. Carly’s eyes become the keeper of the prize.
Van Gogh’s ear is nearby to act as art element evoking impressionism and as the symbol of hearing or sound.
Music Theory and Art Theory converge
screaming confusion
07/09/08 21:21 Filed in: Poems
Screaming Confusion
By Shoosty 11/19/2001 In memory of Bertha Alter 1908-2001 The winds of time churn up the dust that we came from The dust is thick and I cannot see My sight is muddled with tears An angel has touched me for 10 years and I did not know it I have been in the presence of genius, pure mind power That walked slowly I am hurt I want to scream, to shout about the loss I want to reaffirm my life. Make new commitments and keep them To protect, to shield It is better to know less then to touch the shell of an angel Escape, Transcendence, Freedom It is a common disease. We all have it Mortality Give pause; reflect on the person at the store whom you don’t know They are buying groceries to feed other angels Pain, Anguish… uncomfortable trappings of the flawed science of medicine There is always hope Yet, it is inevitable The peace we seek is not peace it stirs up the rest of the angels They are not angels when they are together They are too baseless… to unfeeling An angel is always considered “one” When you speak of angels you speak of many “ones”, The reason is they don’t interact, just reflect love and kindness The reason does not matter The act of kindness they project is there glowing silence and flight It is an inspiration I am lost, confused, reawakened I love my family and friends. Work offers no challenge that cannot be overcome. Nothing compares to my grief Even miracles are mire shadows in the awe of the giver and taker Even miracles are speechless We seek harmony; it is strange that to seek harmony we preach vigilance and train for fighting Isometrics
Go and See - Tsenerene
07/09/08 21:19 Filed in: Poems
Go and See
Tsenerene
shoosty 2007
dedicated to Leon Schagrin,
survivor of Auschswitz
I saw soldiers march into my town and want to be one.
Go out and see for yourself.
I have new roommates, guests thrust upon my home, I like them.
Go out and see.
They have rifles and let me play with them.
Come out and see they are well made not like farm tools.
Soon they leave. I will miss them. We became friends.
If you hurry you can see them leaving toward the Russian “front”.
I saw new soldiers come and visit with shiny boots and medals.
They look smart as fresh paint
Come out and see.
These soldiers are like werewolves, they change from human to animals whipped by Cerberus a dog with many heads.
They don’t like me, or my family or my friends.
I never see them laugh ‘cept in a condescending way.
You should see, if you don’t you might not believe me.
I heard a shot and now when I wake up I don’t hear Old Blue, the rooster, anymore.
I wonder if the monster, Cerberus, gobbled him up feathers flying?
If I come and see it might be me next time.
The monster is frenzied,
I guess blood does that flowing from a harmless pet.
I heard shots like others hear a summer storm.
Repulsed they make me see. I have been chosen not for any other reason ‘cept I look more like them then my brothers and friends. I have been chosen because I am 13 and don’t know any better. It helps to have a horse and a wagon. I don’t complain ‘bout my back just my stomach.
I wish I was asking you to come and see a little paradise, my family eating and laughing.
Go and see
It’s cold and grey. The monster grunts and commands “Pick up the mess my rifle has left”. No thought that it is flesh and bones. “Pick up the mess now”
If you don’t know one will take their belt off. No one will ask you twice. You have been chosen to pick up the mess or become part of it. Your choice. Your free will to live or die. Empty shells that used to be my neighbors lay waiting.
Come and see
Insanity is the monster. It kills only to count. Just numbers. The war machine is run by accountants using deadly currency. Just Numbers.
It says schizophrenically “Tomorrow will be a great world, just today we need to clean up with our rifles.” The prayers of those people are like daggers that laugh at us like we are powerless. It hurts to be ridiculed. We must eradicate them they are not like us. “Tomorrow is what we live for, your children”. The monster commands “Kill thousands and have the little beggar boys clean up your mess”
He has a shiny red wagon. I mean wooden and sturdy with a good horse. One day all the children of the motherland with have red wagons not wooden sturdy ugly ones. “first you must do what I ask” the monster groans with efficiency. A machine gun laughs finally – finality – the final solution for your laughing at me. “Now clean it up!”
The monster speaks short sentences. I don’t even think it thinks. How could it? If it could if would turn its cleaning tools upon itself. Unthinkable what it is doing. Where is Cerberus? How can we stop him we are unarmed?
Who will kill him and release these painful souls contorted for all time by there actions? Then can never return to family and friends. There worst enemy a simple mirror. If they look in the mirror they will not see anything, monsters, ghosts. If they happen to catch a glimpse of themselves they will not believe what they have become. Kids themselves on a few years ago.
Go and see.
I was once told to go to the headquarters. The head of Cerberus in my small town. It was not a head at all just a pus filled sore far from the barking monster.
Keep your shiny boots on. Good homeland boots thank G-d I have these to keep me far from the vermin. He thinks to himself, smitten.
Lucky he has no mirror or he might not see a face. But his boots are shiny and he keeps them polished. Cerberus and his friends like polished boots better to command its headless hordes.
You can’t come and see. They have only beckoned me, a 13 year old driver with a strong back and a sturdy cart.
The night is cool, refreshing. Good to cure open sores.
The “pus”-with-boots barks at me. Its Cerberus speaking from 100’s of miles away. The “pus” is not human he can’t even look in the mirror.
We go for a ride. Clop, clop goes the horse. He is a good horse. The fresh air could heal a sore… but not this one. This one is infected far too deeply. It’s in the body and most of the mind. Not much left. We see my friends, no not friends just two teenage girls, walking. We give them a ride. Maybe they can help to heal the “pus.”
The “pus” hates itself. Cerberus says “find me 10,000 souls, I am hungry and only eat souls, they are not like us, they are not human” said the three headed dog. “I will reward you with a bone or you can join them, your choice, your free will. Just don’t look in the mirror (Because it will be empty)”
The girls laugh and smile, we give them a ride. Maybe the giggling will jiggle something human. Maybe there is hope. Two couples mismatched “Pus”-in-Boots and Fairy Goddesses giggling.
“Drive” barks the distant head Cerberus with shiny boots, “up that road”. I don’t like it.
Come and see … Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, Neighbor, and Time Traveler – that’s you reading my story. Come and see for yourself.”
Laughter, the faceless monster has names I know them but I am just 13 a child, a driver, a strong back. I do know them and will never forget. I have to hide my knowing to survive.
Come and see. You must! You owe it for generations to come.
Everyone must learn the truth about this factory of killing.
The laughter stops abruptly, the monster starts cleaning. The girls become just bags of bones. The monster was out for a cool night stroll with my horse and me practicing de-humanizing. I am 13, a child. I have a strong back they bark to put it to use.
The road I don’t like leads to the Jewish Cemetery.
What a strange driver I am. Too many one way trips.
I visit here often. Being young I get stronger my emotions turn to leather.
Come and see
Tsenerene
shoosty 2007
dedicated to Leon Schagrin,
survivor of Auschswitz
I saw soldiers march into my town and want to be one.
Go out and see for yourself.
I have new roommates, guests thrust upon my home, I like them.
Go out and see.
They have rifles and let me play with them.
Come out and see they are well made not like farm tools.
Soon they leave. I will miss them. We became friends.
If you hurry you can see them leaving toward the Russian “front”.
I saw new soldiers come and visit with shiny boots and medals.
They look smart as fresh paint
Come out and see.
These soldiers are like werewolves, they change from human to animals whipped by Cerberus a dog with many heads.
They don’t like me, or my family or my friends.
I never see them laugh ‘cept in a condescending way.
You should see, if you don’t you might not believe me.
I heard a shot and now when I wake up I don’t hear Old Blue, the rooster, anymore.
I wonder if the monster, Cerberus, gobbled him up feathers flying?
If I come and see it might be me next time.
The monster is frenzied,
I guess blood does that flowing from a harmless pet.
I heard shots like others hear a summer storm.
Repulsed they make me see. I have been chosen not for any other reason ‘cept I look more like them then my brothers and friends. I have been chosen because I am 13 and don’t know any better. It helps to have a horse and a wagon. I don’t complain ‘bout my back just my stomach.
I wish I was asking you to come and see a little paradise, my family eating and laughing.
Go and see
It’s cold and grey. The monster grunts and commands “Pick up the mess my rifle has left”. No thought that it is flesh and bones. “Pick up the mess now”
If you don’t know one will take their belt off. No one will ask you twice. You have been chosen to pick up the mess or become part of it. Your choice. Your free will to live or die. Empty shells that used to be my neighbors lay waiting.
Come and see
Insanity is the monster. It kills only to count. Just numbers. The war machine is run by accountants using deadly currency. Just Numbers.
It says schizophrenically “Tomorrow will be a great world, just today we need to clean up with our rifles.” The prayers of those people are like daggers that laugh at us like we are powerless. It hurts to be ridiculed. We must eradicate them they are not like us. “Tomorrow is what we live for, your children”. The monster commands “Kill thousands and have the little beggar boys clean up your mess”
He has a shiny red wagon. I mean wooden and sturdy with a good horse. One day all the children of the motherland with have red wagons not wooden sturdy ugly ones. “first you must do what I ask” the monster groans with efficiency. A machine gun laughs finally – finality – the final solution for your laughing at me. “Now clean it up!”
The monster speaks short sentences. I don’t even think it thinks. How could it? If it could if would turn its cleaning tools upon itself. Unthinkable what it is doing. Where is Cerberus? How can we stop him we are unarmed?
Who will kill him and release these painful souls contorted for all time by there actions? Then can never return to family and friends. There worst enemy a simple mirror. If they look in the mirror they will not see anything, monsters, ghosts. If they happen to catch a glimpse of themselves they will not believe what they have become. Kids themselves on a few years ago.
Go and see.
I was once told to go to the headquarters. The head of Cerberus in my small town. It was not a head at all just a pus filled sore far from the barking monster.
Keep your shiny boots on. Good homeland boots thank G-d I have these to keep me far from the vermin. He thinks to himself, smitten.
Lucky he has no mirror or he might not see a face. But his boots are shiny and he keeps them polished. Cerberus and his friends like polished boots better to command its headless hordes.
You can’t come and see. They have only beckoned me, a 13 year old driver with a strong back and a sturdy cart.
The night is cool, refreshing. Good to cure open sores.
The “pus”-with-boots barks at me. Its Cerberus speaking from 100’s of miles away. The “pus” is not human he can’t even look in the mirror.
We go for a ride. Clop, clop goes the horse. He is a good horse. The fresh air could heal a sore… but not this one. This one is infected far too deeply. It’s in the body and most of the mind. Not much left. We see my friends, no not friends just two teenage girls, walking. We give them a ride. Maybe they can help to heal the “pus.”
The “pus” hates itself. Cerberus says “find me 10,000 souls, I am hungry and only eat souls, they are not like us, they are not human” said the three headed dog. “I will reward you with a bone or you can join them, your choice, your free will. Just don’t look in the mirror (Because it will be empty)”
The girls laugh and smile, we give them a ride. Maybe the giggling will jiggle something human. Maybe there is hope. Two couples mismatched “Pus”-in-Boots and Fairy Goddesses giggling.
“Drive” barks the distant head Cerberus with shiny boots, “up that road”. I don’t like it.
Come and see … Father, Mother, Sister, Brother, Neighbor, and Time Traveler – that’s you reading my story. Come and see for yourself.”
Laughter, the faceless monster has names I know them but I am just 13 a child, a driver, a strong back. I do know them and will never forget. I have to hide my knowing to survive.
Come and see. You must! You owe it for generations to come.
Everyone must learn the truth about this factory of killing.
The laughter stops abruptly, the monster starts cleaning. The girls become just bags of bones. The monster was out for a cool night stroll with my horse and me practicing de-humanizing. I am 13, a child. I have a strong back they bark to put it to use.
The road I don’t like leads to the Jewish Cemetery.
What a strange driver I am. Too many one way trips.
I visit here often. Being young I get stronger my emotions turn to leather.
Come and see
Tribute to Miles Davis
Tribute to Miles Davis, 5' x 7' Giclee
Original watercolor and ink 19" x 14"
Shoosty 2008
The Birth of Cool - album
The Prince of Darkness - nickname
Key over key - one of his musical signatures was to play a melody over a melody. This is equivalent to Fine Art movements like cubism, and surrealism.
Signature Copy - notice the x. Is this an activist symbol?
Polished with art elements such as Van Gogh's ear, a cubistic couch, Chagal like flying objects, and a Glass Onion for good measure.
The Invention of Locks and Chains
05/09/08 02:18 Filed in: Museum | Watercolor and Ink
The Invention of Locks and Chains
Shoosty 2008
Originally drawing at the Oriental museum in Chicago the two central characters come from an ancient column and are reproduced with no intention of making changes except in the colors.
Later I went home and invented a story and embellished it with a bent guitar head and more.
the story goes like this...
the invention of locks and chains
To enslave and Emancipate
Great music comes from severe excruciating agony built on the backs of slaves.
it still goes on (today)
Singing the blues
Chrysomelidae
29/07/08 16:13 Filed in: Insects
Hymenoptera
29/07/08 16:09 Filed in: Insects
Self Portrait at Univeristy of Florida
15/07/08 23:38 Filed in: Photo
Self Portrait
15/07/08 23:26 Filed in: Oil
Self Portrait with Carly
I painted this while looking in the mirror. Later Carly did her own drawing t became part of the composition
Oil on masonite board and gesso. 12” x 12”
Painted with small squares as the impressionistic mechanism the work has a distinctly alaskan indian kind of way about it. Being that the surface is treated as a decorative panel like a totem pole. While working on this my baby Carly was intrigued and I ended up drawing her into the background. Later when not looking she added some elements of her imagination that I decided to keep.
Self Portrait 2000
Shoosty
Bull Headed
Bull Headed - Shoosty 2007
From the Oriental Museum in Chicago the giant bull sculpture that is over 20 feet tall and thousands of pounds is reduced to a painting.
Watercolor and Ink 14” x 19”
Bullheaded 2008
This was sketched at the Oriental Museum in Chicago. The original statue is huge. It must be 20-40 feet tall. and extremely heavy.
Once the image was drawing I invented a story and completed the painting.
Bullheaded
Love / Hate
Rage / Peace
All the kings men
mythical
style / power
yes / no
fearless
Jamming / Wamming
Assertive
Groovy
notice the flowers at the bottom. Later they become buttons in the paintings that follow.
An Adventure of a Knight and Gryphon
07/09/07 16:46 Filed in: Museum | Watercolor and Ink
shoosty 2007
14 “ x 19” Watercolor and Ink
sketched at the American Natural History Museum at the Dragon exhibit the dragon slayer and the Griffon were full sized.
Later I invented a story to go with the sketch.
Stories, rich in fantasy?
What part is true
Stories doors to romance adventure and good stew.
Over the camp fire a heritage rich in experience to share with all of you.
Final copies were sent to the Natural History Museum business office as gifts. I received a letter basically saying that they have their own artists. It was pretty cold.
Friendly Dragon
07/09/07 16:45 Filed in: Watercolor and Ink | Childrens
Shoosty 2008
14 “ x 19 “ Watercolor and Ink master drawing
5’ x 4 ‘ Giclee with photoshop additions and some painting. Diane Shooster’s Office, Global Response Corporation.
Here is an invented dragon with a good temper. Riding the dragon is Cassidy and next to her holding the reins is Carly, my kids.
Carly wanted a friendly dragon. This one in the Giclee version has a special secret. The eye is mine! Through the magic of photoshop.
the story goes...
Dragon, good, they jump, u r very nice, u r really pretty
ur colors, let’s ride, I wish I could keep u 4 ever, goodness, dragonette, go fast!, friendly dragon, tossed salad,
and last hunter (my dog) exercising.
Heartbeats Flutter
07/09/07 16:44 Filed in: Museum | Watercolor and Ink
Original is Watercolor and ink 14” x 19” September 2007
The original is then processed through photoshop where the ghosting and lettering is added at the bottom and printed on a Roland FJ400 wide format printer.
The inspiration for this is a day at MoMA the MOdern Museum of Art in New York. At the museum hangs and painting by Matisse called “The dancers”
I drew a quick sketch of the painting and went home to invent the background as well as a story.
This painting is featured on the Sid Rosenberg show home page Oct. 2008
