Carney Show..THE ARTIST: Can't Fight the Moonlight...

Carney Show..THE ARTIST: Can't Fight the Moonlight...: The day ends and the moon starts to rise it lights the studio through the large bay window..Idea, set scene in window, and play t...

The HIGH Never Lasts..but the SWEET Taste Lingers.

The curtain rose and all the world was a bricked room, with plaster cracked walls, and a few tables and chairs..I am ARt-Tist, with a flash of light, a touch of smoke: I welcomed them all the Burlesque of ARt-Tist. The works hung with intention and mystery, the floors glided you to my front row. I stood ready to have my layers peeled away, exposing the lost art of well ME..Shimmy, and a walk now don't touch, I hear that's a dying art, shouts from the crowd, you might be right I whisper with a dangerous smile, welcome one and all..Be careful what you wish you just might see. It's a dying art I hear as the curtain closes...and the show closes ..and in a shadow the world was a bricked room, plaster broken walls, I am left silenced once more.


The artwork has inspired me to move in new direction. Ty Unknown artist.

Dress Rehersal...

The "GIG" every nerve inside screaming with pleasure..it is that raw primal no hold back let her rip..The sweat lies still wet, and slight musty smell lingers, towel in hand whispers "stop". In this moment right now, the canvases are waiting for the hanging, like a noose around my neck..Is it right? Two shadows battling for the prize..one who reeks of "the show must go on", the other heckles why? You are no-body..The two meld into the background, damn abyss..24 hrs from a high or low but nothing in between. All Or Nothing!!!

Perfection and Seduction dressed(perfect outfit lies tight to the body every curve draws the eye) to muse or amuse..The art giggles, we are not the show, The ARt-Tist plays the role. All this in DRESS REHEARSAL ,  Imagine the show!!!!

Twelve hours..illusions take over, will I rise?

PREPARING FOR THE SHOW....

Damn time has a funny sense of humor, the old adage, grab a hot pot on the stove and a second can seem like an hour, grab a hot woman, an hour seems like only seconds. It's all relative. Three canvases all half measured and half done looming, staring at me one by one, calling out :NOW NOW NOW a tear hits the thigh..chaos theory carries the teardrop to it's final call. Is this what this is my final call..I live for one show at a time, I die after each show has closed. And, through the voices in my head the whisper came:  How & WhY?

Running through my head the beginning and ending of my show, my life, my dreams, I am ARt-Tist can this be the final curtain. Grabbed the cigarette on the stand, it had long gone out, burned to the end of it's purpose. Images haunt me, voices heckle me. "The show must go on" I declare.

Fell to the floor grabbed the brush, and the whisper came no more..but the shadows danced while I prepared for the show...3 days and counting. Will time be kind? I'm ARt-Tist..I live for a show, I die when a show closes.

HOW APPORPOS...

The ARt-Tist stands at the studio cigarette between two fingers, as the glowing red cherry lights the window up, shadows of the curves dance -right arm tucked nicely under the left elbow.Weight a little to the left so hip tilts inward. Gray shirt with paint of many long lost thoughts, whirled with colors the rainbow has yet to create, long sleeved hanging of the shoulder-torn jeans all washed out tattered, torn, knees exposed with thighs bare and white hints of woman but portrait of an artist..Look down as the rain keeps coming, the skies darken and still yet waits for sound of "the applause" the "silence"..realizing then that the sound is merely the rain pelleting the pavement catches one more drag red embers fall, turning to ash..How Apporpos..No Audience.

Whiter Shade of Pale

Alive, not really- as ARt-Tist grabs the pack of cigs loads one to the mouth , t-shirt filled with a lifetime of memories the smell wafts up. Visions and thoughts clouded and boggy. Messes, yes messes, "where's the fricken lighter" falling to the center of the studio lost in dreams of of shows gone by my hands show the time in the wrinkles they lay. Canvases everywhere the story lays out,

It is a Whiter Shade of Pale, lights the cigarette watching the smoke dance against the shadow of the street lamp.

The Aftermath of Show..

public photo

The aftermath of show..the ARt-Tist sits on her red knotted carpet, old pieces of charcoal broken down into the fibers, black and infused. Paint splashes and droplets of works gone by, I don't even remember the works with which the paint reflects. Uncomfortable as the ribbed knots push up against my bare legs and small ass, impressions will linger and like tar from a cigarette will mark my skin. Joe Cocker playing in the background; surrounded by so much magic it's in the air, the musty carpet, even my sheer fabric laying against my skin it rang of magic, yet inside there are barely in words...I hear from inside my breathes, "I'm waiting to be discovered" ..turned my head and grabbed a cigarette. "Ah hell, I whispered as I lit the end..glowed red amber, "maybe nothing more to be discovered" puffs a couple of drags down, grabs her tools of trade..I am ARt-TIST

There's always another show....& Always the Aftermath. 

My Square for a Muse.

As I stare out the dome shaped window overlooking the square. It is bleak and desolate, grey and as I stand in the studio window, the  silhouette of my body, my open robe reveals; no stage, no audience, no costume ready to darn, no muse to play by my side...:The Show Must Go ON! but for who is my hidden reply. You are Art-Tist !  Yet no applause yes the torch burns down and ashes lay abound. No curtain will rise tonight as I stare out the dome shaped window overlooking the square. It is bleak, and desolate..Am I speaking of me or the Carney Show of Art-Tist!!