Tim Lane's Blog, page 7

Paintings: 2023 in Review, Part Two

2023 was a year of experimentation, sparked in part by a friend who suggested I try making some space paintings without the astronaut. I have always painted in series, exhausting possibilities; Travis’ suggestion helped break things up. It was a good call, and it pushed me in new directions.

sold out Terra Spatium Navis, 2023, 20"x16" $155.00 get·in·for·ma·shun, 2023, 30"x22" $325.00 Object or Echo, 2023, 7"x7" $45.00 In-Ter-Plo-Ra-Tion, 2023, 18"x24", payment plan available $125.00

Paintings: 2023 in Review, Part One

Before 2022, I primarily worked with acrylics, spray paint, oil paintsticks, crayon and colored pencil. In 2022, I added watercolors. In 2023, I continued to work on my watercolor technique while adding pastels to the mix. I hadn’t used watercolors since college, pastels since I was a kid. I only wish I had more time to work on technique and explore all of the materials more thoroughly, nonetheless I do enjoy the challenge of adding new tools to the bag.

Your Silent Face, watercolor on paper, 5”x7”, sold

Terra Form, acrylic & colored pencil on paper, 8”x8”, sold

Inner Algorithm, 2023, 20"x16" $145.00 No Two Portals Alike, 2023, 12"x9" $100.00 Original Art for Sale Your Silent Face Available Now

Your Silent Face is a poignant and humorous coming-of-age novel set in Flint, Michigan, in the mid 80s.

At the Heart of the Matter (When Black Holes Collide): a New Painting

I continue to think about space, space travel, terraforming, stars and black holes. I read about AI and quantum physics when I have the time. Even so, I find it hard to wrap my mind around it. Why is it easier to comprehend a cell than a black hole? A black hole is infinitely larger. A cell is microscopic. Based on our understanding of the universe, and the physical world, one makes more sense to me.

 

It’s been a minute since I’ve handled a brush. I’ve been using oil paintsticks, oil pastels, pencils, pens, rags and erasers. The rags and erasers take the place of brushes.

At the Heart of the Matter (When Black Holes Collide), 2023

Original Art for Sale At the Heart of the Matter (When Black Holes Collide), 2023, 22"x30" $255.00

Paintings, of Course

Just a couple original paintings from the shop to tempt you. Thanks for visiting yoursilentface.com.

The Lane-Nash Fam Reunited in Heaven, 2023, 18"x24" $85.00 From Whence It Came, 2023, 22”x30” $115.00

Phil's Siren Song: a Snippet

Here’s a snippet from my new novel, Phil’s Siren Song. Kearsley Park played a part in every East-sider’s childhood, am I right? I enjoy remembering the things that happened there, as well imaging scenes that never occurred. The writing life. I hope to have the new book out before February. Sam Cronin (amazing musician and graphic artist now based in Chicago) has designed an amazing, exciting cover.

*Phil, the narrator, is tossing a Frisbee around in the parking lot of Kearsley Park with punk rocker Five O’clock Shadow Brian.

 

I am not exactly an amazing athletic specimen, but Brian is crazy about Frisbee. We spend some time in the parking lot beside the pavilion at Kearsley Park. The Frisbee seems exceptionally heavy to me, like a weapon. Technique is paramount to safety and, well, enjoyment, let’s be honest. I do not like sports because I do not excel at them.

It is a beautiful fall day. The woods circling the park are orange and red. The working class neighborhoods are faded: a watercolor. The sky, likewise, is stone-washed. Soft denim. Pre-washed cotton. Why would anyone leave this town?

I wing a Frisbee well over Five-O’clock-Shadow Brian’s head, but he glides back with grace and ease to snag it in full stride.

The pavilion is painted a dull green like the color of a hospital orderly’s uniform. Aside from us, the park is still. A vehicle occasionally passes around its perimeter.

If you are not careful, there is a grit to this town that can get into your shorts. Transparent granules of sand that can wind up in your Jockey’s or Hanes. A rogue long hair that can find its way into your mouth. Unemployment is high. The murder rate is outrageous, but it’s never anybody I know. Stuart talks about the whites, the blacks, the Mexicans, and now, the Indians. He talks about the East Side, the North End, the West Side, the South End. He rambles on about plumbers and pipe fitters, shoprats, unions, GM, GMI, U of M-Flint, the working class, blue collar, white collar, cops. High school, elementary school, the nuns.

“So, you have no idea how Nigel is doing?” I am a little out of breath.

“Nope.” When Brian swings his arm out, releasing the Frisbee, he looks like a poster child for an ad campaign for healthy lifestyles for skinheads.

“It would be nice to know,” I shout.

“Nice to know what?” he shouts.

“How Nigel is doing.” I am panting. “Should I actually be sweating? Is Frisbee an actual sport?”

“Why?”

“I need to get in shape.” The Frisbee stings the palm of my hand, falls to the asphalt.

“Why are you so worried about Nigel?”

“I’m not.” I am concentrating on properly returning this fucking disc, man.

Traffic has picked up on Iowa Avenue which runs along the eastern portion of the park on its way to Robert T Longway Boulevard. The thought of someone else joining us in the parking lot makes me anxious.

“Political Silos is thinking about a tour.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’ve got a fuckin’ job, man. I’m taking classes.”

“Same here,” I say.

I put my hand up to indicate a halt to the Frisbee. “We need to do this more often,” I shout. “So I don’t totally suck.”

“Yer fine,” Brian shouts.

He is lying. When you get right down to it, everybody is.

In Which the Artist Titles the New Painting, It's a Vibe

It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe. It’s a vibe.

It’s a Vibe, 22”x30” on paper, 2023

It's a Vibe, 2023, 22"x30" $100.00

Landscapes With or Without Space Object

Landscapes from 2019 to 2023. Some with space elements, some without. Many of these paintings are available in the shop.

Original Art for Sale

Space Phenomena

Paintings and drawings from 2023. When you think about a stadium full of people, a crowded beach, or a large city, you have a pretty good idea of what is going on there. There is no disconnect. What is going on in space? There is a super massive black hole at the center of the Milky Way, but the disconnect in one’s mind is even bigger.

Original Art for Sale

Some Blasts from the Pasts: Art

Some blasts from the past for #timetraveltuesday. Enjoy! Thank you for visiting yoursilentface.com. There’s a lot here to explore.

Three Chambers, 48”x48”, 2003

Guess What’s Inside, collage, 20”x12”, 2001

No Great Solace, 40”x30”, 2003

Alleluia, 12”x12”, 2005

Lame Excuse, 30”x22”, 2004

Phil's Siren Song Coming Soon

Here’s a little snippet from Phil’s Siren Song, coming soon. The story takes place in Flint, Michigan, during the 80s—hopefully captures it. This is a scene with Phil and Karen after the bar has closed, sitting in a booth at their favorite East Side coney island.

AC Spark Plug takes up nearly 500,000 square feet of space along Davison Road and N. Dort Highway, and although a lot smaller, the nearby junkyard also contributes to the East Side’s industrial aesthetic. The plant, which is where the spark plugs and God only knows what else are pumped out, is surrounded by miles of chain-linked fence, while the crushed cars in the junkyard are stacked and arranged in jagged rusting pyramids. The neighborhoods at this time of night are semi-quiet, awash in the distant rumble and droning of the factory, the splash of air made by trucks on the expressway off in the distance and the constant escape of hot air rushing through convoluted ducts and vents toward freedom. Thoma’s, however, is lively. Club kids coming down. Skate punks with skateboards. Shop rats. Bikers. Old-timers in flannel. Whites. Mexicans. A table of black couples. The short-order cooks are working their sizzling magic. The waitresses are pure and lovely and tough: mothers, daughters, girlfriends, grandmothers. I want to believe that what you see at Thoma’s is what you get here in Flint, and that if given the chance, these women could save all of us. One would never have to leave this GM forsaken village. The idea of a hardworking woman who is always ready to fill your cup, smiles and calls you hon, is a potent fantasy. Older, younger—it doesn’t matter. They all wield an attraction. Their uniforms are like those of nurses: the sound of their whispering polyester slacks pure seduction. Their plain, tired beauty ignites a pleasant flame in my groin.

The waitress sets a plate of chocolate pie with a large wedge of whip cream before me.

“Let me ask you something. Can you balance all of your orders on your arm? Do you have to practice that?”

“Of course, hon.”

“And the plates aren’t too hot?”

“Not as hot as me, right?”

Karen snorts a straw of diet Coca Cola, which has just been placed in front of her, out of her nostrils.

“Oh, hon! Let me get you a rag.”

The waitress sashays her syrupy sweet behind to the counter. There is a sense of community at Thoma’s, especially on rowdy nights—a feeling of drifting in the mosh pit while waiting for a band to play—but it can be deceptive if you aren’t careful. Every once in a while, I snap out of the hypnotic nesting of conversations and clattering dishes and sizzling hamburgers and Koegel Viennas to find myself furtively looking around to pinpoint which miscreant is most likely to punch me in the gut in the parking lot and steal my wallet.

Our waitress returns to wipe up our table.

“Busy,” I say, smiling.

She winks.

Karen is smiling at me as if I am an ass.

I am ever so slightly sliding in the grease beneath the table. The soles of my shoes skate in place like the puck on a trembling electric hockey table, never really completely touching the atoms of the floor, perfectly in alignment with the incomprehensible laws of physics and love.

“You’re such a dufus.”

“Does that mean I’m not getting any tonight?”

“Eat your chocolate pie, goon boy.”

“Would you like a bite?” I offer her a quivering, honking bite of gelatinous, mousse-like chocolate ectoplasm on a fork, which she leans across the table to accept. Our eyes meet. I search for myself in those huge blue irises. The eyes no longer complement the hair which used to be the color of tall, dead grass in an empty lot littered with mulched trash and dangerous shards of metal.

She has dyed it black.

“Mmm,” she says.

“Good, hunh?”

“Stuart,” she sighs. “Stuart, Stuart, Stuart. I am so fucking tired of his shit.”

A hefty waitress bellows out, “I need three up, three fries, three chocolates!”