Rendez-vous'd with Beth last night and meandered through Chelsea, my main mission to see the new work of The Art Guys. Whose Middling City projet d'art via Hallwalls a few years back resulted in numerous faux advertising placards nailed into the most grime-ridden and impoverished and near-death storefronts along Main Street. These placards went up and then quietly started disappearing. I had spotted a fav, the one with the large banana and the red word THRUST, and knew it was to be mine, part of my wavering and eclectic and cherished art collection. So. One night, crowbar in hand, I wedged and screeched it off a building. Then I thought, Hmmmm, Nance, why not acquire one, too, for your beloved pal Liz. So I did. Then weeks later I was attempting to crowbar a third when a frightening and muttering man approached me and my crowbar and I split. Then Scot Fisher of Righteous Babe Records saved said building from wrecking ball and a crew put boards over the artwork and the building.
So Beth and I are in Chelsea last night at The Art Guys show. One of the Art Guys, the shorter one, said HIIIII, how are you? You stole one of our pieces.
In a joking manner.
Sara Kellner, formerly of Hallwalls, was there, and is still living in Houston and working at Diverse Works.
Then politicoe Barbra Kavanaugh's son Bryan was there.
Then we moved along to more more more shows and the last stop we started climbing some steps when I heard a small voice Hey, aren't you supposed to be in Buffalo?
It was Photi, he dated Larry from CEPA, now an assistant director at a gallery. He invited us to a gallery-sponsored fete in SoHo and, he advised, if we stuck to him there'd be plates of pot brownies.
In the interim I called Dorota who tipped me off about a Nike party and, as luck usually has me in its grasp, I was wearing a Nike shirt. I told Beth this was a message from GOD himself, and Bacchus to boot, that we should be at that party.
Flashing my left-boob-nested Nike logo did not mean less of a wait.
Once inside we tippled with sporty types on three levels until we'd had our fill of techno beats (we looked for Anthony shimmying in the corners), creative snaxx, free drinks and other inter-active artful experiences.
Love.

lucky.
unlucky.
lucky.
unlucky.
he loves me.
he loves me not.
So I'm driving to NYC, minding my own business - and driving the speed limit, for your snoopy information - when I hit a patch of water on the NJ Turnpike, sending my well-equipped Forester into a fast spin. NoNoNoNo I remember shouting, my panic mantra of choice.
As luck would have it there were no cars or trucks near me and when I hit the center guardrail with the passenger side of the car there was no severe damage to the car... or me.
I was facing traffic. You don't realize how zippy traffic is until you are facing it, the wrong way. So I had to guage when traffic wasn't a-comin' around the bend and go for a big fast fat fucking u-turn to get going again in the correct direction, after a quick breather to regain breath and steady hands.
Oh Gramma Vickie, up there, thanks for your navigational powers. You rock.
I am not checking out the traditional rock star way, in car. Not this lifetime.
Rock on.

Well it has been a while but now you can really really savour my Perfect Nancy words. I was in NYC. I was in the Adirondacks. Now I'm in the Middling City. Tomorrow, hooray, it's back to NYC.
Why interim Adirondacks experience? Because dear Andrew married the woman of his dreams. Not me. Laura. It was such a great wedding, very Andrew, with lots of music and a duet from Trinity in Boston (there were about 20 other choristers there from there) who performed one of his compositions. Later, much much later, after plenty of a really good chardonnay and great conversations of Clarkson ilk (Nan insisted that I sit with her and Will et al - primo!), I danced with Andy, Will and Max Clarkson. Who were all wearing kilts. It was contra dancing and after my last horrific experience with contra dancing I nearly ran screaming from the wedding party tent. Last experience: gig shooting a day of cultural events at former dumpsite Artpark. One of the events was a contra dance escapade and they were short a woman. They called for me. ME. I said, No really, I have to shoot, I can't follow... well, after three songs/attempts they excused me. Last night fared better and nobody was injured. I ended the evening dancing three songs with a woman from Boston named Amanda as my partner. The caller said same-sex partnerships were welcome. It was about halfway into the first number of our same-sex partnership that I noted that my partner had one hand. I was intrigued but never got the chance to ask how her hand went away. Andy's wedding shooters were unbearable. During the ceremony they were right next to Nan and Will - literally in their faces. They had bad grouping skills and I snatched drinks and a few handbags from subjects. Egads. It drives me to distraction watching shabby wedding photographers. While Andy and Laura were exchanging rings (speaking of distractions) I snuck up the aisle to shoot a few with my new digital number, the Olympus 5050. Nan hadn't seen me yet and when she noted it was me she reached over to hug and kiss me and talk to me ever so briefly. During Andy putting the ring on Laura. Oh well. But it was that sort of wedding, very casual, lots of movement throughout in the area that Andy cleared beyond the pond and garden.
I met Will's brother Austin for the first time, a musician and Volpe scholar. I told him of my Parsons School of Delight experience, and meandered over to my difficulties with (former) mentor Anthony. I described the situation. Austin suggested I think of another program, one more inter-disciplinary, challenging and more history. Not so sure about those concepts. I am appealing the final seminar grade that Anthony bestowed upon my hard summer of work. I was stunned by it, and am moving right along to another advisor I feel will benefit me and my work more. There are several others (3, to be exact) in his group who are equally perplexed by him as an advisor. Two of those three are equally upset about their grades. Grades do matter in grad school when it comes time for grants and such. And for an advisor to wallop his charges with low grades is further unproduction.
To end on a more light note.
Two nights ago, Friday, my sister and I rode up to the casino, the one in NF, NY. Her idea. We split a flask of Oban en route. I wore my lucky Sam Adams ballcap. I did well, winning about $200. I made sure that she went home with as much as she stumbled in with. While we were parking to go in I realized that I had sort of fabricated a spot and was dangling precariously into the aisle for more cars. I had my sister stand on another less-obvious spot and did a great big fast circle to get there, purposely crushing an orange safety cone. There's nothing like the feeling of crushing an orange safety cone. No, scratch that - my old practice (before the cars got nice) of arranging tossed-out Christmas trees in the middle of the late night Middling City streets to rush over them, sometimes backing over them and repeating step (always with Justin in the car), approached that. Inside there were the requisite drunks, kooks, elderlies and conventioneers. I talked to a few of them. There was a bleary-eyed Native parked at a slotmachine, his eyes so reflective that the little cocktail waitress (let's just say her nickname will never be Speedy) cut him off. Free drinks cut off.
Tragic.
All for now, love.

I approached the dad with the boy with the extreme wall eye and inquired thusly:
Is this venison jerky any good?
The dad looked shocked (perhaps it was my Neil Diamond concert t and we WERE in the throes of white trash Penn mountains) and referred me to the son... He'd know.
Me to wall eye: Is this any good? (holding aloft the venison jerky, priced at 99cents)
Yes, answer.
Sucked on that jerky for a good half hour listening to classic rock along the route to NYC.
Road trip perfection: CCR, other classic rock tunes, a good strong voice, a good strong cuppa joe and a slim salty fix of venison jerky shot and fabricated in PA.
Just stuffed the car into al fresco bistro expensive parking, after a mathematical discussion/debate with the man in charge of the big P.
Tomorrow registration, arbitration, administration and then a reception for us, the grad people of New School U.
Rock on road scholars.
Love.

Why you are glad you're not my neighbor, part 32:
well
yesterday I entertained Rio, Ron and their kids Lily and Ace and ferfucksake I don't want to send children off, back onto the highways and biways of this great land, without a proper pyrotechnical send-off.
So
I busted out a small pyrotechnical display and one of them was really loud, I mean so loud and whizzing by ol' whatzizname's open window (what is that guy's name, the next door drunk?, the creepy man who hates his own kids, really thick glasses... anyhow) I'm sure he was awakened abruptly from sleeping off his night of Adolf's goodness from down the block.
Off now to points beyond to deliver my photographic goods.
Tomorrow it's off to skewel to register, to activate the fall term membership.
Studiously,
Love.

To be filed under I can tell my grandchildren:
Have a three-part Fisher-Price gig today and tomorrow and the highlight of today was sitting behind the desk of F-P's CEO, Neil Friedman. Not only sitting behind the desk but I had my feet up on his desk. And I also was trying to figure out his computer's password? Fun? nope. Toys? nope.
Had to arrange eight kids under the age of 7 in and around his desk and came up with adult-style office tasks for them. One lucky kid got to sit on the CEO's desk, crosslegged, playing with an F-P toy.
Now off to Middling City U then back out to East Aurora for more more more.
Love.

The Baby Rockstars contacted me in exultation to say that they're opening for the openers for The Goos on Tuesday night and would I, as their official chronicler, be there? (much mulling)
I replied
I am on sabbatical from the paper. Although I don't doubt that I can get credible creds from another source I ponder.
I have also enough history with the Goos, JesusRockinRollChrist, going back to pre-nosejobs and gigantic hair and guitar-fumbling, to think Shit I can be there if I so choose.
One of my art patronesses, Fern, contacted me and selected and purchased one of my most sensual for a gift to a woman in Italy. Fern and husband have a ***** art collection and one of mine - or is it two? - hangs amongst. So now, after this blogging, it's descending into the bowels of the darkroom to print and print. And then frame and frame. And deliver.
And then another two deliveries.
As the cats, my perfect little fuzzy angels, do nothing more than lounge and wait for me to open the door and join them and then lounge at my feet or hands. Awaiting the love that emanates from me to them.
Ron and Rio are heading this direction shortly, oh, tomorrow.
Hello Oban purchase!
Got a fab booking just seconds ago for a day and a half that'll have me scrambling on the floor with children.
After sweating last night saw that VH1 was airing I Love the 70s and it so happened (in case you wondered if there is/was a God) to be 1973, the year that my life changed, when it derailed from what could have been a middling Middling City middle class existence of pastel houses, solid definition and maybe church on Sunday, to see the great rock and roll possibilites beyond. Dark Side of the Moon.
I was 10, I was enlightened and forever I thank my conservative-minded cousin Frankie for giving up the goods.
Gilmour was on, in a '73 interview, stating: This is not about drugs, you can trust us. I thought Jesus, I was 10 and if you had told me that then I would have perhaps had a naive trusting childness hearing that statement but was savvy enough to know there was something extra-terrestial boiling under that surface.
I rest my artful case.
Love.
ps: parting thought = Jim Ramer at Parsons rocks

So Justin has this great theory of what caused The Ol' Electrical Fiasco of '03: it was the French, causing mass inconvenience.
I'm not sure I'm 100% behind this theory, instead, after a bat plunged toward the borrowed car I plunged through the darkness in back to NYC (after several Middling City gigs), I believe now that a bat chanced into a portion of the grid resulting in mayhem for many. The bat was a flutter of brown and highlights and it whacked the car above my head, loudly.
So I was at Parsons having a smoke with others, watching black smoke billow on the eastern horizon. It's a fire - or explosion - at the ConEd plant, someone offered.
I attempted to take the 6Train to Dorota's and Union Square station was about 150 degrees and half the lights were off, the other half were blinking discoically. Both 6s were sitting idly, forlornly. I walked down Broadway and all stores were dark, all ATMs were dark, all cell phones were not dark but useless.
No ice, no delis, no cabs, no streetlights, no elevators, no Starbucks, no buses, no trains, no city lights, no looting, no mayhem, no non-cash sales, no chance of quickly escaping the largest power outage in the history of America if you were in Manhattan. Until the next afternoon. At first I heard the rush of fountains nearby and I knew the power was on as I had wanted to sit by the fountains the night of the blackout and realized that fountains, although they're all elementally water, rely on another element - fire/electricity. So when the fountains came on the children danced and screeched and sporadic whoops of joy were heard on the streets.
I borrowed Erin's vehicle after arrangments via the spotty cell phone service and walked to Brooklyn/Park Slope to fetch the car.
As soon as I drove into New Jersey I realized a curious thing. The gas stations and pumps were operational, as were all the other electrical devices. Laura and my father, the two I called early on Friday following the 4PM darkening of Thursday, seemed to not realize the impact of the outage: But Katie Couric's on t.v., Laura said. A quote from my father: The media sure isn't playing up this whole outage thing (to paraphrase).
So the Wired Studio websites are on hiatus, Act of God Clause in full effect.
I am in NYC, I am at Parsons, I am thinking, I am writing, I am ending this post with love of change and Love.

The final of the final three Olympic events must be completed today. It's when I have a self-challenge and invoke the magical powers of the song Dream Weaver and figure out a really competent way of dreaming said song into my personal website at Parsons School of Design.
Yesterday me and Margaret and Erik completed (sort of, it borders on the theoretical at this point) our site centering on Parsons Hair Styles. It was, as Margaret stated, a light way of ending a rather serious class. We had links to various hair-related sites, a link to a celebrity look-alike page where we had side-by-side images of Parsons people next to amazingly similar stars.
Today the personal website, tomorrow the world.
Actually, tomorrow it's back to the Middling City world for a while.
No comment.
Had a dream that I saw a car that had just crashed and while I looked at it the twisted metal turned into a substance like layers of thin paper and it began to burn. Smoldering and then a rush to ash and then the ashes floated silently away. The car was burning from the top down and I wondered, as I watched from a second-floor front porch, where the body or bodies were. The car burned down to the floor and I could see the shape of one body and it looked like it was moving but it was burning and moving. When the burning had finished I saw the spirit of the person move away from the car, at first a strong presence and as it walked away it disappeared.
This dream actually continued with me laughing uproariously with Margaret (where in hell was Erik) about our website. As I was dreaming/laughing I thought I never get to laugh like this, with so much gusto.
Matt Taibbi is here in NYC, writing hilariously for New York Press.
Had a most meaningful talk with Jim Ramer at PSD yesterday, he'll be my acting unofficial advisor, as will Martha. Thank the photographic gods.
All my love for now.
Onwards to learning.

Deliciously off the grid in the present, in the Knowledge Union of venerable and eccentric Parsons School of Design/Refrigeration ... and which I also lovingly call Factory of Art and Ideas.
Researching again the Liquid Architecture and thoughts on cyberspace made by Marcos Novak. Found a photo of him on the web, it screams guru or I've-found-my-schtick-now-luvv-my-goatee.
Squatted in a glorified bakery this grad school morn (read early afternoon after reading Novak etc. until the wee hours, enhanced by sips of Oban) and read New York Press. Was most impressed to see not one but two pieces by former Middling City terror Matt Taibbi.
One is his lecherous take on girl teen mags and the other is a book review by an elder dispensing financial advice to GenXers.
Both well written, of course. His writing leaves you with a lingering sensation of cynicism, sinisterism, voyeurism and here's another ism - hilarity.
Back to the smarty pants goatee, Marcos Novak, and Neuromancer and all other things fluid and poetic.
Novak calls forth the poetry of Lorca several times and I read a bit of him today. I am ashamed to say that my honors english major self is not too familiar with the dense and non-linear words by him - yet.
My love.
My NYC-based love.

For class - for seminar - really! - I had to watch Lawnmower Man.
Abso-fuckin-lootly one of the most challenging movies ever made.
NB: I did not call it a film.
Challenging how, you wonder, squinting your suspicious eyes.
To not keep screaming (as I did) What the HELL happened to the monkey? He was a real winner, and then *POOOF*, he's gone, EXEUNT.
No more monkey.
Then there are twists and turns and the oddest protagonist hairstyles ever viewed. And the movie stretches over two hours. You'll feel like you've donated an organ or something and want something in return. Don't do it.
Giving a seminar chat on Tuesday about three complicated readings.
One of the three of our little Group E has decided that she cannot meet until the night before - amazingly.
I'm forging on and will be making a handout summarizing all of our seminar readings (nutshell-style) and will be putting together a geeky a-v presentation. Solo.
And if my Geek Quotient were not high enough, I'm going to be finishing William Gibson's Neuromancer today.
Love, CyberCult-infused, Love.

Heard from The Kid.
Totally into it was how he began his email and then went on to state he's got a few ideas of his own. That is a plus as working with a model is and should be a collaboration of sorts and if that other person has ideas and a sensuality and a sensibility it will be better than if they are strictly a body in front of me and the lens.
Had a very unforgettable dream about an unforgettable image.
Saw a show of photographs by a Middling City artist who is not a photog but a photo-realistic painter - Curtis Parker. I know him from ages ago, from clubbing, and now he's married to another friend.
In this exhibition was a large print of moldy hollyhock leaves (their stems had not yet projected forth so it was early spring - or maybe autumn and they had been cut down) and much beyond them a gray house, looking rather in need of a paint job. It was a color print but the color was so muted it had hardly any color. Lots of grays.
I kept looking at the print and decided that I had to buy it.
I went back to look at it with JenD and was studying it very closely (just like I was looking at an Iris print yesterday made by Martha Burgess) when JD said That's going to cost about a grand to frame. At least, I said.
Such a beautiful image, not too unlike what I'm making right now for PSD.
Large-scale photographic Love.

Received the email address for The Kid from Marky Sparky Norris (front man at ARTVOICE) and seconds ago emailed said Kid to see if he might consider being my muse and central focus for some new photowork.
*please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes please say yes*
Told him there'd be no nudity, no pyros, no oddness.
Well, unless he thinks that frenching a hibiscus flower is odd.
Kidding, sort of.
My Kenneth Cole slingbacks turned to sponges in the torrential rains today and so had to purchase some other choices, backups so to speak.
Met with fellows to discuss our presentation in a week of the week's three readings - one dense as stale swiss cheese and the two others less so. On top of usual grad student activities which includes impressive daily ingestion of caffeine.
Had an e-go-round with publisher/editor/pal a few days ago and will meet up with him around the 15th (when school is done for summer) to decide my ARTVOICISTIC fate.
Can go either way.
Is this a cliffhanger?
You betcha.
My gradschoolful Love.

Spent the better part of today making the freelance cash money photographing kids at camp, the camp of lushest green and rimmed with pine forest in a valley. Translation: no cell phone service all day. Chatted illegally on the cell to a NYC pal in a monsoon, ironically after describing how the pre-torrent landscape to my right just off the bi-way resembled Japan rice paddies - tiered and foggy and unbelievably green.
Camp. Teenaged drama. Preteened levelheadedness. Had lunch amid a table full of 11 year olds, rather than the table of grownups. They came to fetch me midway to rescue me from the 11 year olds and I looked up from a conversation about the structure by age, the benefits of peanut butter, the benefits of spreading peanut butter on Fudgicles and the like, and said I'm fine here.
The kids were mainly camera-savvy. Everyone knows how to perform these days, not only for cameras but for each other. Everyone can bust a VH1-perfect move.
Received complimentary art-related email from Ollivier Dyens, Parsons visitor/guest artist, who received several of my jpegged art images. Restrained, passionate.
I will surely plagiarize his NJP-related thoughts.
Back to Parsons/School/NYC tomorrow and tomorrow is a marathon group critique, in preparation for the following Monday's full-on critique with Everyone.
24 months more and I'll be sashaying across a Manhattan stage in crimson robes to a symphony of airhorns and hoots and hollers. I imagine.
Summer Camp-burnt Love.

As Bach violin concertos frolic along the four stray feline pals lounge just outside my door and occasionally Bootsy scratches at the door for my companionship. Even beat-to-shit Faux Extra is lying at my steps while Extra (my most perfect Angel of Darkness) is aloof and Tiger is just plain ol' effusive.
Last night was first Friday in practically my entire lifetime that I did not have to rush about and make images for my column WhatHasHappened. I wore a skirt. I carried my little Coach bag. I drank wine. I supped with Jen and Eric. Went to nouveau O and dug the food but not the suburban vibe happening around us. We were in a parking lot. There was at the end of our meal the Chippewa Street-appropriate thud-thud of top40 dance tunes. Our waiter sucked. When he inquired about dessert I said I want banana pudding. He thought I was joking. I want banana pudding. They had none.
He returned to our table with a comp dessert - banana mousse with macademia nuts in a dark chocolate crust. Not banana puddding but sufficient.
Putting together work and received a fab call from one of my patrons of the art genre, looking for more of my originals to give to her friends - this time a family in Italia.
I sign off, artful, restful and Bachful.
Love.

Met with visiting artist/thinker Ollivier Dyens, who teaches at Concordia in Montréal today. Why, just yesterday, during our seminar, I raised my hand and stated I really don't agree with anything that you're saying...
defending then I was the notion that making images/rendering light via digital is not too far from the same process via film.
Embedded in both is information that an artist/imagemaker must use.
He did not agree with my disagreement.
Today he reinvigorated our disagreeing. By the end of my presentation to him he said that he was beginning to understand what I mean/meant, for whatever that's worth.
I just sent him some jpegs of older work that I think he'll dig.
Made Justy go with me to the macrobiotic joint just around the corner from PSD for organic wine and wholesome fare. He didn't pout too loudly and his pal Jen, married to Steve Bartoo, joined us.
Then back to the lab, where I've been convented since about noon.
It is time to break free for extended hours.
I am happy with my new images, prints, art, pieces.
Tomorrow I meet with Anthony encore to show them.
Then Monday is the half-group again, in prep for the next week which will be another full day and a half of the 15 of us.
This intensive extensive summer session is coming to a quick end.
Am I a master of the DreamWeaver universe?
Does the Pope have Johnny Depp's likeness tattooed on his arse?
Yikes, now that is a perilous image indeed.
Due to annoyances beyond my control (those of you in the know will in fact know know and know) I am taking a leave from AV for the next three weeks - due more to assinine behaviour than my own ass dragging.
My artful and imagistic love.

Spending this AM catching up up up whilst listening to napalm-my-heart Ryan Adams. Such sights last night at Artists and Models, a veritable tapestry of people I know, avoid, talk to, admire and document.
Anna was a cyborg, David Butler was a presidential candidate (along with ex-drag queen Guy) with a fab economic plan advocating shopping, Mark Stockton was wired up in a complex panda head with night vision goggles and other such complex paraphernalia (totally rocked), Mike (formerly of treelinedhighway) was really drunk and he explained so after he was going to start saying something about my weight loss, Curtis was also tipsy but did manage to explain to CG and I how the lovely gigantic prints from former Artists and Models were made (I had several up - 3'x8'... Perfect Heroic Nancy!), the bartender didn't have scotch (?????????) so I had to have a vodka and something (!!), the tall lanky tv guy was all coked up, literary Ed worked the door and didn't quite get the whole way those Tyvek® wristbands were supposed to be installed on a wrist (I looked at mine and said Gee, Ed, I like your technique... he didn't get it), the artwork was of a certain elevated quality, Bruce Adams had an excellent church and art star-inspired chapel with relics of Cindy Sherman and Robert Longo (brilliant) and other various pedestrians interested and engaged me.
(sonic note: I might have to change this Ryan Adams cd as it's about to toss me off the edge into an abyss of heavy-eyed melancholia).
Notes on pre-Artists and Models yesterday:
Had a wedding in ski resort Ellicottville, an hour outside of the Middling City.
I seemed to spend more time staring at the landscape and getting some good deep thinking done than shooting the glowing couple.
I was in a Native landscape where highway signs are bilingual.
I knew the band, always a treat. Sid Winkler Band which features zany Susan Rozler and the amazing music encylopoedia Joe Rozler... young, hip, funny as hell.
I stood behind him for several songs and sang off-colour versions of Wedding Tunes as he sang the veritable versions. Sometimes as I passed on the dancefloor he'd sing a Hi Nancy J into the lyrics and - amazingly - guests would not hear it over their choogling and socializing.
Met a guy who does video production for Court TV. Nice conversation, how can it help my career?
So I'm talking to Susan Rozler for a long while when suddenly she reveals that she thinks she may have malaria. I was in the Philippines. I know about malaria. I avoided it. I took poison once a week to keep it away. I'm thinking she's being funny. Nope, her one kid is in Africa, she visited. BUT when you hear someone has the notion they may have malaria and you are an independenct contractor type you want to run like the West Niled mosquitoes from hell are on your ass, as you never know what in hell it could contagiously be.
Off to further work and social exploits.
My love, most of it.

Spent the latter part of last night in Liz's garden, drinking white wine as the fragrant lilies towered over us. This after seeing her at an Allentown art opening where I was happy to discover Burke Paterson among the tipplers and lookers. Burke is still tall, wearing trendy t-shirts and making art and living in Toronto. He was very excited to tell me how he just built a second floor into his loft, where his beloved Jet Stream alumi-trailer still holds court.
This is a city of several Middling City festivals - food-related as well as hobby-related. Tonight is the 20th annual Artists and Models, the first-ever I'm not participating in due to gradstudent-related (and travel) constraints. I'll be there as docu-girl.
Off to the sunshined outdoors to see, make and do.
Lead Boy Colleague dropped by to say Hi, he was off to shoot much the same.
Saturday saturnine Love.

Decided against shooting the Goo Goo Dolls early AM gig here in NYC, thinking (wisely, I believe) to forego that for the bigass Middling City show in August.
Tonight Lead Boy Colleague is shooting Skynyrd for me, for the paper. Fuh-reeh-bird. Having troubles of late with Netscape. Apparently nobody gets my replies so there are whole bunches of people out there thinking I'm a bad replier. So not true.
Back to the Middling City in several hours.
For the usual marathon weekend working.
All for now, time to do some art shooting while the sun is as high as my caffeine level.
Love.

Finished mere seconds ago an excellent visit with a PSD visiting artist, Antonio Muntadas. Needless to say, since I'm gleeful, he completely dug my work. Even asked for updates on the project. Wants to see the series finished, as in August. Wants it to be a book, suggested its format. Rock on.
Suddenly it's sunny in NYC and I'm committed momentarily, longitarily, with working on the raging elephant that is Dreamweaver.
We are to learn slicing in PhotoShop and apply it to this other software. To make panels. To make do-dads. I want to learn this, really I do, but am not locating the portal in my mind that intuitively grasps onto the 1's and 0's of this technique.
I shoot pictures - digital and analog.
I know that from the innermost beings of each cell in my body.
I do not know Dreamweaver. One day I dream that Dreamweaver will be as in there/in me as the aforementioned.
All for now, 1's and 0's are calling, no. They are screaming Nancy hurry the fuck up and learn us, use us, know us.
They win. Every time.