29/06/10 23:39
Hello Friends
5 feet x 7 feet
Designed for the University of North Florida Admissions office
Accepted 2010
I cant wait to see it make the room light up!
|
Sax-o-phone
09/01/10 10:56 Filed in: Music
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.
Recent Show - Deerfield Beach Historical Society will be hosting an event coming September 25th (7:30 PM - 10:00 PM and the 26th (10 am - 4 pm) 2009 at the Old School house near Deerfield Beach City Hall.
The school house is from 1920 complete with all the things that make it charming. Chalk Boards, Old desks, teachers desk with books, old maps, old posters, original text books, 1890 attendance record. This room gave my work a "full voice" as it filled the whole space.
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.
