Another from my dredged archives. That year the wind finally threw the 100+ year door to the roof from its hinges. It was blown down, suspended between the collapsing walls, on the stairs where we lay glass light fixtures, shredded tobacco, resin-caked pipes. These lay adjacent, also, to the other door from the same time, that one painted green. It is to our porch, and that is now where this door rests. The squirrels have built a nest behind it that extends into the walls. We don't tell because they are more welcome than the ghosts in the basement.

That hallway is also here, but not my husband. He is here, home, and for that I am grateful. 



I want to build an altar to all of the mice that have died for my epilepsy medication. I don't know if thousands of lives are worth one, but I am grateful to have mine. I'm not sure of how else to thank them. Any suggestions of the construction and content of such a shrine are very welcome.

This sweet one was found on a recent neighborhood walk. The second found in a week. There have been many sparrows, too.



Last summer, post Gabriel shoot. A day too warm to remain in costume. I love these women. I loved this day. I hope to never forget it.



More photographs from the archives, these from around 2007. Almost six years ago, my god. 

I had the most wonderful rock and mineral collection when I was a child. My uncle became a geologist, and somehow, out of all children in our vast vast family, his collection from childhood made its way into my hands. A dusty cigar box full of specimens collected since the 60s. With it my parents gifted me with a beautiful field guide, and to this day, I love perusing the field guides in bookstores, flipping the pages near my face and breathing the smell in deeply. I wonder what it is about the paper that they use that smells completely unique. Whenever we passed by rock shops, my parents would stop so that I could add new rocks to the box. I remember stopping at a shop in Hatch, Utah, where an old bearded man with a round belly (my mind may or may not be implying the suspenders I see), who was hardly moved when we excitedly told him our last name, stood indifferently behind the counter. When I was a teenager, I decided that I was too cool for my rock collection, along with the extensive postcard and decorative spoon collection that were accumulated through my dad's world travels. Oh, those horrid lost years when we decide that we're everything but ourselves. 

These beautiful specimens are housed in the Harvard Natural History Museum.



I've been scouring previously scanned film for lost frames to share since I'm not able to produce new film lately. Money can be a good thing sometimes. Especially when it is expendable.

I've been considering lately how I must come across here in these spaces. My love of the esoteric, and my preference for minimal, black designs for my online spaces may lend the impression that I am a much darker individual than I am. I fear that much of my work which actually explores and expresses ascendant spiritual themes is seen as frightening or macabre.  

There are so many incredible artists out there that take phenomenal photographs of beautiful women, often in beautiful outdoor spaces; perusing Flickr nearly inundates you with such talent. I've wanted to steer clear of this for some time, for the sake of not clogging the feed, and so there has been quite a shift from my first New Myths series to now. There are enough people idealizing the female image, artists and otherwise. I always fear crossing into either the territory of a Lars Von Trier film where all women are tragically innocent, the enduring Virgin Marys, or the opposite territory, the enduring Salomes. 

There has been an explosion over the past couple of years of gorgeous images that capture the magic, mystical, prismatic nature of our world; some of my closest friends are and have been the remarkable catalysts of this. They awaken my heart, and they should never stop. They express what I feel within and what I see without. It is yet another theme I become wary of sharing in effort of not crowding the stage that they have built, that they deserve to inhabit. 

Here, in this space, it is my intention to share the stuttering speech of my multitudinous selves. All of my artwork, all of the text that draws my attention. But I fear that I have been favoring some selves more than others here. If there has been an emphasis on death and darkness here, it is in effort of catharsis. The body held underwater for the sake of legitimate baptism.

So in effort of showing some light and color around this space, here are two images that I have hung onto for over a year for fear of them being too unabashedly beautiful. Not because of any skills I may have as a photographer, but because of the stunning landscape. The top one was taken in the same landscape as this, in a very different season.



"Are we the dream of the self? Or is the self our dream?"

Marie-Louise von Franz (1915-1998) was a Swiss psychologist specializing in dream analysis. By the date of this documentary, she had analyzed over 60,000 dreams. A protege of Carl Jung's, she studied dream analysis with him from 1933 until his death in 1961. She published books on a variety of topics, including alchemy and archetypes in fairy and folk tales. Essentially, she was a pretty badass lady with, clearly, a remarkable aptitude for patience, as evidenced by this 9 hour documentary that is almost entirely an interview of her by Fraser Boa, the producer and director of the film. It also includes really cute Brits talking about their dreams. I've only just made it to the second installment here. 



A Sufi was sitting at a crossroads one morning when a young man came up to him and asked whether he could study with him. 
   'Yes, for one day,' said the Sufi.
   Throughout the day, one traveller after another stopped to ask questions about man and life, about Sufism and Sufis, or to beg for help -- or just to pay respects.
   But the Sufi wanderer merely sat in an attitude of contemplation, his head on his knee, and he made no answer at all. One by one, the people went away.
   Towards evening a poor man with a heavy bundle approached the pair and asked the way to the nearest town. The Sufi immediately stood up, took the man's burden on his own shoulders and conducted him a part of the way along the right road. Then he returned to the crossroads.
   The young man asked:
   'Was that man, miserable peasant though he looked, really a saint in disguise, one of the secret wanderers of high rank?'
   The Sufi sighed and said:
   'He was the only person whom we have seen today who really sought the object which he claimed to want.'



I'm not sure if my request will elicit any responses, but I'd love to know if you have any favorite selections from UbuWeb. It is such an overwhelming and incredible archive; it is difficult for me to know where to begin sometimes. It used to be my tradition to watch selections from their film archive while I scanned up my film (god, it takes so long sometimes). Having not had the funds for a bit now to purchase and develop my film, I'm a bit out of touch. Please comment if you have any recommendations!

Here is a sampling of some of my favorites (the few that I can recall...) :


"...failure, and the forerunner of failure: be thou therfore without fear for in the heart of the coward virtue abideth not."

-Horus "Lord of the West"*

*Neophyte ceremony of G:.D when bandage is removed from eyes of aspirant (Magick Without Tears, Aleister Crowley p.380)




...are not used daily on the beard, it will not be long before the beard is by its luxuriant growth pretending to be the head.



I wanted to photograph the yoke of mirrors in daylight, as I have no other way of storing it besides nailing it (with at least 4 nails, given the weight) high up on the wall, in hope that our cats' claws can't reach it. The mirrors are quite thin and fragile, so I have to be careful of where it lies. So here it is, and here am I looking sad and longingly into the corner of my studio ceiling.



I am trying to raise money for a film project, and so am selling a great number of prints, both reproductions and originals. Please visit here to view what is available. Thank you so much.



(So far.)

"I feel like I'm hearing your soul cry."

"I don't understand it, but I feel like it is something that I need to hear. It is clearing something that needs to be cleared."

And my absolute favorite (sincerely):

"It gives me a weird feeling."




So there it is. Nothing much else needs be said, really. What
can be said for a man who chooses to blab on the phone
all day, or else write stupid letters
while he lets his poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned---
or worse, unattempted. This man doesn't deserve poems
and they shouldn't be given to him in any form.
                His poems, should he ever produce any more,
ought to be eaten by mice.


Again the flying horses, the strange voice of drunken Nicanor, the wind and the persistent snow which got into one's eyes, one's mouth, and every fold of one's fur coat...The wind whistled, the coachmen shouted; and while this frantic uproar was going on, I recalled all of the details of that strange wild day, unique in my life, and it seemed to me that I really had gone out of my mind or become a different man. It was as though the man I had been till that day were already a stranger to me...A quarter of an hour later his horses fell behind and the sound of his bells were lost in the roar of the snowstorm.
---Anton Chekhov
"The Wife"

A day so happy.
Fog lifted early, I worked over honeysuckle flowers.
There was no thing on earth that I wanted to possess.
I knew no one worth my envying him.
Whatever evil I had suffered, I forgot.
To think that once I was the same man did not embarrass me.
In my body I felt no pain.
When straightening up, I saw the blue sea and sails.
---Czeslaw Milosz



I hope to add to this series once I finally acquire a proper macro lens, but here it begins. Portions of our own, mine and my husband's.



Light & shadow play in our home. Small moments, humble evidence.



...alienated from our divinity. Then we are alienated from the institution that claims to be in touch with the divinity because we don't believe it anymore. Christ rose from the dead, founded the church, and so on? But what if he didn't rise from the dead? Was he really what he claimed to be? Born of a virgin, true God and the true man and all that? Suppose you doubt that. Okay, the truth is taken away from you. The institution has taken divinity out of the world, put you in a relationship to it through an institution itself, and now the institution is gone, so you don't have any relationship to divinity at all. This is thoroughgoing alienation.



Therefore neither the mind nor the objects perceived by the mind are ever born. Those who perceive such birth may as well discover the foot-prints (of the birds) in the sky.


...that he had Satan's beard in his hand. Tugging the hair he cried: "The pain you feel is nothing compared to that which you inflict on the mortals you lead astray." And he gave the beard such a tug that he woke up yelling in agony. Only then did he realize that the beard he held in his hand was his own.



Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without a sound; 
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way; 
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.



My new album, Keue Yeo, released under my musical moniker Teeth Like Operas, is finished and available to purchase. It is a limited-run cassette release of 50, containing songs that I recorded in 2011. These songs mean a great deal to me, and so I took care in designing and making the packaging that houses them. Each case is one-of-a-kind and handmade from scraps of second-hand leather clothing, sewn at home, with hand-painted details on the packaging as well as the artwork enclosed. 

Above is a glimpse of the handmade packaging. 

Additional songs can be heard on soundcloud. To view the teaser for the album, visit here.

This album is an invocation to Murcielago, the Zapotec bat god that, among other things, is a bridge between heaven and hell. A deity to carry me up and out of the depths of a trying year. Much gratitude is due to all those who have supported me and encouraged me this past year, during these dark days and hours.

The track listing is as follows:
bound by grass
under the pipes of solomon (excerpt)
so many other places
mirrored hall

Each cassette is $10, plus $2 for shipping to US & Canada, $4 for shipping internationally. To purchase the tape, e-mail me at hugeancestor@gmail.com to inquire about availability. Purchases will then be made through Paypal.

Thanks be.


KEUE YEO, a preview

Here is your first preview of one of the tracks off of my album Keue Yeo, which I am releasing as a limited-run of 50 cassettes. More information will be available soon. (I'm duplicating no. 22/50 as I type.)

Please be kind enough to listen/watch with headphones or decent speakers, as much of the song is completely lost through computer speakers. Much obliged to ye.



...then, any more than I do now, about the little apprehensive "spirituality" milieu, or about the opinions of those perpetually frightened people who see refuge in a cheap junk nirvana in an effort to avoid facing the monstrosities of life, the daily panic dimension...It was not a question of staging a nice little show whose audacity would be applauded in trendy reviews, but to question myself completely. I wanted to expose myself: to put life, death, madness, wisdom in a game and to undertake a kind of ritual sacrifice.



How did you put this program-manifesto together?

I promoted among the spectator-actors the practice of a radical theater act, which consisted of interpreting one's own drama, exploring one's own intimate enigma. It was for me the beginning of the sacred theater and was almost therapeutic. Then I came to realize that if I had, in my theatrical expression, shattered form, space, the relationship between actor and spectator, I had not yet attacked time. I was still a prisoner of the idea that the show must be repeated, performed many times. At the time when "happenings" were taking place in the United States, on my part in Mexico, I had invented what I called the "ephemeral panic", which consisted in staging a show that could be presented only once. It had to be accomplished by introducing perishable things: smoke, fruits, jelly, live animals...It had to do with accomplishing acts that could not ever be repeated. In summary, I wanted the theater, instead of tending toward the fixed, toward death, to return to its uniqueness: the instantaneous, the fugitive, the only moment forever. This way, theater is made in the image of life where, according to a saying by Heraclitus [of Ephesus], one never bathes in the same river. Thus, to conceive the theater was to carry it to the extreme, to go to the paroxysm of this art form. Through the happenings, I rediscovered the theatrical act and its therapeutic potential.


I've realized that I don't really have any self-portraits that aren't "in character", for lack of a better term. 

Here I am, I am at home. 

Photographs on the wall are mine, Veronica Ibarra's, and antique postcards.


NEPTUNE, part deux

Neptune Teaser from Last House on Vimeo.

The deadline for donating to the Indiegogo campaign for Last House's Neptune is fast approaching. Please consider donating even a dollar or two to this wonderful project. Making full-length films is expensive, and the scale of production even for independent projects really boggles my mind. This is a beautiful, worthwhile project from a remarkably talented and capable team, and I hope you will consider it. I have had the pleasure of reading the script, and it is a stunning, unique story that I want so badly to be told.



"There are people in the world whose imagination is so vivid that when they have an idea it comes to them as an audible voice, sometimes uttered by a visible figure. Criminal lunatic asylums are occupied largely by murderers who have obeyed voices...But the seers of visions and the hearers of revelations are not always criminals. The inspirations and intuitions and unconsciously reasoned conclusions of genius sometimes assume similar illusions. Socrates, Luther, Swedenborg, Blake saw visions and heard voices just as Saint Francis and Saint Joan did. If Newton's imagination had been of the same vividly dramatic kind he might have seen the ghost of Pythagoras walk into the orchard and explain why the apples were falling. Such an illusion would have invalidated neither the theory of gravitation nor Newton's general sanity. What is more, the visionary method of making the discovery would not be a whit more miraculous than the normal method. The test of sanity is not the normality of the method but the reasonableness of the discovery."



I've set up a website this past week that houses a collection of my work. It's currently dedicated almost solely to my photography, but I hope to expand that in the future. It's such a welcome change to have a nice, clean space to showcase my work, not to mention a wonderfully simple and easy to remember URL. I rejoice!



Dear friends are bravely departing their homes for far-off lands, and blessed am I for having spent this past weekend with them, only moments before their bags and boxes are prepared for their passage. (Did I tell you how much I'll miss you?) 

There may seem to be a certain amount of pretension in title and in imagery, but I beseech you to trust me. When we three (1, 2, 3) converged, the strange* & supernatural surfaced in remarkable fashion. (The footsteps, the closed door, the circling wind and snow, the circling wind and snow.) I have full faith that this will be more apparent when their photographs from the weekend are unveiled, such masters as they are at exposing the intangible forces within and about. (These images regrettably may be delayed due to their aforementioned circumstances.)

*And I'm not just referring to the night that I pissed behind McDonald's.


There is a great deal that, as with any medium, I find quite limiting when it comes to photography, and particularly when it comes to sharing photography online. So inundated are we, perpetually, with the imagery & creations of the countless members of the globe, that I feel there can be a bit of a numbing effect on the experience of viewing. I find this often happening with myself, as I am undoubtedly fully spoiled in my ability to see, almost daily, the creations of my friends and those artists whom I most admire. The question of impact can by remarkably vexing, especially when creating conceptual work. Though I am quite passionate about the art of language, and most times the ability to articulate my ideas and feelings does not evade me, I feel very strongly that a medium should stand on its own, and so as a well-written story or poem should not require a photograph or drawing to fully communicate its meaning or intent, nor should a photograph or drawing require a statement elucidating all the symbolism and context within it. I could, and often do, go on about this ad infinitum, as my feelings about this are quite vehement, really, but let me instead move on to the point. This is the challenge, then, you see. How does one create an "experience" with their work? How does a conceptual artist create something with resonance?

Last spring, my husband and I attended a performance of Bella Figura by the Boston Ballet. This profound, phenomenal performance left me in shudders, tears. I was struck by how the fleeting nature of the performance enhanced its impact upon me. Knowing that I may never see it again (and no, videos of it online do not capture it in the slightest) created an heart-wrenching amalgam of emotions within me, and it made me feel so fucking small and inconsequential as an artist in the best sort of way. I kept thinking to myself, "Not good enough. Try fucking harder." 

With sharing photography online, there is an advantage to the viewer that, for the most part, you may be able to return to that image at any time. You click on it, you comment on it, you move on with your day or onto yet another image. Not good enough. Try fucking harder. This leads me back to the very projects that I initially intended to pursue in art school (which no, I did not finish): multi-media installation and performance. I approach my conceptual shoots in the same way, creating a scene with the appropriate symbols in order to communicate my thoughts, beliefs or experiences, with the hope that it will prompt some sort of intellectual or emotional discourse with the viewer. But there is something about a performance, painting, installation, or any other artwork that involves great investment of time and coordination that really tugs a bit more at any patron, as it causes them to ask (albeit sometimes incredulously), "What is it that the artist wanted so badly to tell us?" Obviously the question of why we as artists need so badly to communicate our thoughts and experiences warrants a discussion on its own, but here I will keep with the problem of how we choose to communicate these things. It is about carefully selecting the right medium for me. Sometimes it is a photograph, sometimes it is a painting, sometimes it is a story, sometimes it is a song, but sometimes none of these is enough. 

I was getting to the point. What was the point? These photographs above, taken this morning in my home, are beginning sketches for a project in a medium I have yet to explore: performance art. I have a couple of performances that I have begun to flesh out in my mind, which will help to combine my desire to perform, choreograph, act, and direct a small choral ensemble. I probably shouldn't speak in such specifics, as these things require small, quiet steps forward from where I now stand, but this is what I am speaking nonetheless. All of this only to tell you this. I am not here to debase either you or I by telling you what this "Childhood" is about, only to announce that it has birthed, it is growing, and that I will let you know of its evolution. 

Is that enough?