Artist and illustrator James Fenner conjures colorful and evocative images that transcend their comic-book-style framing and burst into the echelon of powerful art – inspiring and imprinting themselves into the viewer’s memory – the very best sort of artwork that invites a personal reaction to a universal offering. With Japanese influences and a calming sense of colorful mindfulness pervading the work, Fenner seems intent on capturing the moody, dusky moments of life, the space between day and night, when the world glows just a bit differently and colors saturate the universe in ways that feel surreal and somehow more resonant than any other time.
The eyes in many of Fenner’s pieces glow – red and golden and green – sinister and searching, scanning and seering – they haunt and taunt, thrill and chill – and give a glimpse into each character’s soul as much as they act as a protective shield of charm and enchantment. The mark of a brilliant artist is often found in the eyes of their subjects – how they render the objects that will ultimately judge and react to their work is a telling indication of how they themselves view the world – and Fenner’s subjects seem as interested in protecting themselves as they are in seeing new vistas and traversing new paths.
An accomplished illustrator and artist, with an extensive curriculum vitae of work listed out on his charming website here, Fenner is one of those amazing working artists who is keenly interested in sharing his artistic journey, while also giving us a glimpse of his own inspirations. For those reasons, and the majestic power of his artwork, he earns this Dazzler of the Day crowning.
This is a blatant stall post while I work up the energy to get back into the blogging routine, and it’s just a list of previous fall trips we’ve taken to Ogunquit – because my heart is still there, even as the rest of me must return to work and daily life.
Our most recent Harvest Moon beckoned to me on a clear night, illuminating the pool to magnificent effect – a thrilling send-off to a pool season that was never quite as full as it could have been. As of this writing, we have just returned from our annual fall visit to Ogunquit, Maine, and it’s a gray and rainy afternoon, made sadder by the end of a lovely vacation with Andy and Mom. Give me a day to get back into the grind before piling on ~ the heart is weary, the soul is old.
In the meantime, feed off some of this residual full-moon energy – I strode through its rays, soaking up whatever power or energy or magic it might offer – and if it’s all in my head that doesn’t negate its effects when one believes. We are what we allow ourselves to be, manifesting what we need when we focus and learn to shift perspective. A mindful pause, then, just this morning, before we get back into it.
Mid-October, and who knows what the weather might be by the time this gets posted. It may be a holiday of some sort, but it’s also a Monday, so our weekly blog recap is once again at hand, if a little later in the day. Enjoy the look back… or don’t.
Every autumn when I was younger – much younger – I would fall in love. The spell would come on like a sickness, when the world turned colder and I just wanted to snuggle in with somebody who was warm. It was sometimes confusing to discern between feelings of affection and feelings of loneliness. It would usually start semi-innocently enough – a glance, a look, a gaze held just a little longer than usual, and then some random act of kindness or attention that pricked slightly more than my passing interest. If there were anything more than that behind it, such as any sign of returned emotion, I went into full-fledged obsession mode. Back then I was desperate for companionship, for something to make me feel less alone, because when you never quite feel like you belong, even in your own family and friendship circles, you cannot help but brush up against feelings of loneliness. The chance to possibly end such a state is deliriously tempting.
In my only defense, I didn’t fall for someone if there was absolutely nothing behind it – there had to be some miniscule indication of interest, some spark of chemistry or joint attraction to spur my feelings. For instance, I didn’t seriously obsess over the cute guy at the Boston Chip Yard just because he was cute (I mean, I crushed on him – we all did – but that didn’t translate into anything real or possible, and I was adroit enough to know the difference between a crush and these love obsessions).
I am going away for a while But I’ll be back, don’t try and follow me ‘Cause I’ll return as soon as possible See, I’m trying to find my place But it might not be here where I feel safe We all learn to make mistakes And run from them, from them With no direction We’ll run from them, from them With no conviction
My troubling tumbles into what I thought and hoped was love were built on something tangible – perhaps very flimsy and slight things, but there was reason and fuel behind them – a knowing smirk by the first guy I ever kissed letting me know he was interested too, the Herculean efforts of a boy in my Literary Criticism class to reach the paper I couldn’t get, or the lascivious way a stranger on the street sized up my entire body, inch by inch, as if devouring me with his eyes – and the way I intentionally invited him to do so.
‘Cause I’m just one of those ghosts Traveling endlessly Don’t need no roads In fact, they follow me And we just go in circles
End of reasonable justification, and the start of something less reasonable… because back then I didn’t understand the turn-off that immediate availability and focused interest could be. To be honest, I still don’t. While I understand that is how the world works, that is how human nature responds, in my heart, I will never find fault with someone who so honestly and openly and vulnerably shares their affection for another without pretense or pretend disinterest. My problem was reining in the flood of emotions that invariably accompanied such a release, but I’m not going to apologize for my passion at this point. Water under the bridge, long gone – the frivolous foibles of youth – and how lucky, and likely life-saving, to have gone through youth without cel phones and social media – a circumstance for which I remain forever grateful.
In those early days of falling, I didn’t know that the game you had to play was real – to make yourself unavailable, denying what you actually wanted – a phone call, a meeting, a connection – in order to elicit interest from another person. And I should have understood this better, because I was also on the occasional receiving end of unwanted or unprovoked attention, and the more intense or interested a person became in me, the less I wanted anything to do with them – human nature cuts both ways. Alas, ’twas always the ones I wanted who ended up not wanting me, and vice versa.
Now I’m told that this is life And pain is just a simple compromise So we can get what we want out of it Would someone care to classify Our broken hearts and twisted minds? So I can find someone to rely on
In the beginning I thought that writing letters to the recipients of my affection was the best way of dealing with this. It turns out that I was only half right. Writing was the best way for me to exorcize my emotional demons – the way that writing about my childhood friend who killed himself finally freed me of his ghost, or the way it took the sting out of the awful manner in which the first man I ever dated truly treated me – words would prove the escape and way out of any number of difficult mental cages. For potential paramours, my words would end up wounding whatever chances I might have had because it was too much, too soon, too… everything. I scared them all off – and in a way that was best. My life has been one long exercise of pushing people away to determine who was strong enough to stay. A mistake on many fronts, but a useful one.
Just because they didn’t last doesn’t mean they meant less. If anything, they meant more to me because the only thing I had was what was in my head – and for some reason I wanted them in my life. In the end though, it was never about them, and I wish I’d known that then. A small regrettable part of me wishes I could whisper that to you, my younger self, through the ensuing decades – all of what not to do, what not to say, how not to think – but that would be to erase all that you were – and despite those who didn’t like you, I happen to think you were pretty cool, and diabolically honest when it came to your heart. More courage resided in that space than in the empty heads of anyone you ever chased. More bravery was to be found in your ready tears than in their dismissive, nervous laughter – good for you in not being limited by games and manipulation – you remained true to your heart, you were open to love. For such a sarcastic, cynical, and at times sinister soul, you knew how to love – and you did so fearlessly, unabashedly, openly, and, yes, desperately. And you knew enough, or too little, to ever apologize for it – for who could be sorry for having loved? Even when it hurt, even when it broke your heart, even when those silly boys failed to love you back, it was always worth it.
Looking back at these past lives – we live so many in a single lifetime – they do feel a bit like ghost stories – and the ghosts of our youth tend to haunt us more tenderly than more recent and wiser specters. Made more poignant for their innocence, their idealism, their unjaded and unguarded earnestness – they are perhaps a more pure and unaltered version of our soul than anything we might become after living in this wretched world for any length of time.
And run to them, to them Full speed ahead Oh, you are not useless We are just misguided ghosts Traveling endlessly The ones we trusted the most Pushed us far away And there’s no one road We should not be the same But I’m just a ghost And still they echo me They echo me in circles
For this gratuitous Sunday evening post of shirtless male celebrities, we have five specimens who have graced this space repeatedly over the years, and none are in need of any additional introduction. Featured in the main pic is a shirtless selfie of Ricky Martin, proving that hunkdom extends well into one’s 50’s if you have enough money to maintain that sort of lifestyle.
While this morning’s post was tinged with an underlying tension and danger, this one is all afternoon light and golden hour goodness, because the world is dark enough without me adding to the madness and mystery. Fall will offer ample moments for darker matter – for now, for this afternoon, let us have the light of a clump of asters.
Asters are one of the most exiting parts of the blooming moment at hand. They saved the best for last, knowing full well their best light will hit right about now. They soak it up, soak it in, radiate beauty, and prepare for their winter rest. Would that we follow suit.
When the summer heat finally lifts, offering some respite and relief from its relentless glory, I find myself itching to get into the woods. It’s a need that goes back to my childhood, when I’d get home from school and hastily run in to the little stretch of forest behind our childhood home while the light was still golden. In that uncharted space, I had my own paths and knew the way by various markers – a large rock placed by God as a remarkable accent piece, an unconventional evergreen with weeping limbs, the fallen trunk of a tree beautifully mottled by moss and lichens – this was how I navigated that space.
These days I prefer a well-trodden path, or any path for that matter – just some bit of structure and order from which I might find my way back. Such was my frame of mind as I made my way along the Burden Pond Preserve in Troy the other weekend. Betsy had told me about it, saying there were waterfalls there – and who doesn’t love a waterfall? There were also whispers of suicides, lending the place a haunted aspect that aligns with this point in the year.
I decided to make my visit early in the day rather than later – I didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught near dusk when the light always falls quicker than you think it will. That’s happened in forests before and it still strikes terror in me when I recount the mad dash to beat the night.
Water birds were present – ducks and geese and a crane of some sort – I seemed to be the only disturbance in their sunny morning of peaceful swimming and/or standing. Walking along the water’s edge on a worn path, I was the first person to make this trek that morning, at least judging by the plentiful spider-webs that tickled my face and arms.
The notion of wandering alone in the woods, during daylight, has never frightened me, but as I made my way further along the path, and the woods closed in behind me, I had the typical moment of wonder and worry as to what I might do if someone intending harm came my way. It was during this time of heightened guard that I sensed something large to my right, moving swiftly but in impossibly quiet fashion.
A thick back of brownish gray fur moved sleekly through the reeds rising through the water. It was enormous, and gone before I could get a good look at it. Reason and history told me it had to be a deer, but it felt more ominous, and other-wordly; the way it traversed the water and reeds so stealthily, almost without movement, and so quickly. It felt like an admonishment of danger, or something larger looming, not only larger physically, but larger in the immensity of shadow and doubt and terrifying uncertainty.
An uneasiness had crept upon this sunny morning, the trees seeming to rise higher, the shadows elongating and deepening, and suddenly this peaceful moment was imbued with a definitive dread. I was already deeper than I’d intended to be, and a little panic surfaced, the way silent fish sometimes rose to the plane where water met air, just eliciting the slightest ripple.
The uneasiness stayed with me until I decided to turn around and head back the way I came. Possibly poisonous fruit was strewn about the pathway now in various stages of decay and decomposition. I would not venture further, or tempt fate to turn on me in any way.
He ties a turban made of sequined pants around his head, the way he did when he was a little boy trying to be a little girl. Not knowing who he was, not knowing who he is, the only way through was to try things on and out. Puzzled diners at early breakfasts watched as he walked in with a pair of Carter’s pajama pants on his head, light blue legs flowing about his shoulders and in his mind he was tossing some luxurious set of curls like the women on those shampoo commercials.
If it was all make-believe, and it most certainly was, did that dispel any of the power he felt? Misguided or unjustified confidence is still, at its heart, confidence – and sometimes more powerful than anything earned from the masses because it had to come from within. He didn’t see this as a boy; he barely registers it as a man. He only knows his worth, and that is enough. Underestimating oneself is just as bedeviling as overestimating oneself. Figuring out who you are only gets more convoluted and difficult the older we get, which is how it should be. At the same time, other things come into more focused relief. The universe isn’t entirely cruel – it offers solace and sustenance for survival when least expected.
Mr. Oud minds his memory, marks the moment, and moves on to another task.
The pictorial documentation of my life began at a relatively young age. I couldn’t have been more than even or twelve years old when I got my first Polaroid instant camera and began getting photos of my life. In this one, I posed mid-song at the piano, not because I loved playing, but because I had on a new Reebok sweatshirt and thought I was THE SHIT. There’s a better photo of me facing the camera head on, but this one has the typewritten description that I typed myself – one of the first records of my own archiving efforts.
Back then, it was oddly not about me, this shot notwithstanding. I thought I was going to capture the key piece of evidence in some murder/crime mystery in the neighborhood, catching some seemingly insignificant clue that helped solve the case. Very much influenced by the soap operas that were my obsession at the time, I yearned for intrigue and excitement, something our sleepy and safe stretch of road failed to provide (the occasional night raid by teenagers who just wanted to jump in the pool and get quickly out was about the most excitement we ever had). Knowing what I know now about the shady shit that goes down in some suburbs, I’m grateful that the only intrigue we ever had was the imaginary stuff in my head – but what fun it was to live in such dramatic make-believe. And so I would set out each day to find some act I might put down on film and help crack the case.
Within the limited confines and inactivity of Pershing Road, all I managed to get was a neighbor stepping out gingerly to get the paper in his underwear, an electric-line worker in a lift and an orange hard hat, and several out of focus and over-exposed photos of plants. Fledgling failures. Dull as dirt.
But there was also me, easily the most exciting thing in the room, with or without documented proof of my existence. We always think we’re the most exciting thing in any room, even if we’d never openly admit it. Already obsessed with any effect or influence I might have had, my sweatshirt was deliberately designed to appear as entirely casual, and thus effortlessly cool, even if it had been planned and wished-for with deliberate care and consternation. Self-awareness was already an albatross, and I chained myself to it with an unbreakable covenant; a singular interest in oneself could be the sort of contagious vanity that demanded some scrap of love.
As we exited the 80’s, and my Reebok sweatshirt slipped out of style, I studied the poses, and the outfits, and I documented the changes as they happened… on my back, in my head, and outside in the world.
A grain and gluten free pastry that tastes delicious? Sounds like the stuff of dreams, but it turns out it’s the stuff of Ballston Spa, where The Sweetish Chef is offering some of the most delicious baked goods I’ve had in the area. If you hadn’t told me about the grain and gluten aspect, I’d have no idea – their stuff is that good regardless of the bonus healthy ingredients.
While I was on a recent trip to see my brother’s shop, a few doors down on Front Street was this cafe that advertised Keto and healthier pastry options, and when my brother later recommended it, I swung back and gave it a try. A sign on the wall gave the definition for the Swedish word fika: a social tradition and a break from the day to enjoy a hot drink, like coffee or tea, along with a treat such as a pastry or cookie. This sounded like a good theme for the rest of my life, and it seemed the happiest place to begin was somewhere between a cinnamon roll and a substantial piece of coffeecake.
Unable to decide between the two, I ultimately decided on both – devouring the cinnamon roll there and then, saving the coffeecake for home – and the plate seen here for being fancy. Grain free, sugar free, and low-carb – and somehow this I one of the most delicious coffeecakes I’ve had in years. Looks like I shall be returning to Ballston Spa more frequently…
My brother’s brick and mortar shop – Dead Wood Field & Furniture – just re-opened this past summer, and with Ballston Spa’s Farmer’s Market making a lovely splash right across the street on Saturday mornings, this is an ideal time to visit the handsome space. With a majestic wall of exposed brick and gorgeously ornamented high ceilings, the place is a chill location to hang and get ideas, with a comfy leather couch in the back, calming incense wafting through the air, and a turntable in constant rotation.
My brother’s rustic taste and keen eye for wooden accents imbues the space with a cozy and welcoming feel, the sort of thing one might find in a Restoration Hardware catalog without the insane price points and bourgeois pretense.
You can order a custom furniture piece to fit your space or lifestyle, and the storefront is an excellent place to find inspiration and ideas for how to create a similar look and feel for your place.
Swirling in silk scarves, wisps of perfumed hair, and curls of incense, the witch arranged the accoutrements of the evening. It felt good to have the nights cool again, the wind against a downy nape, the wind lifting a woolen cape. This is the fun part of fall – the cool anticipation, the first relief – by the end we’ll have hardened ourselves off to the cold, resigned and reconditioned to the numb about to come. For now, it’s exciting and dramatic, a turn from the carefree summer, a stinging bit of sweet poison that goes too easily down the throat.
Now here I go again I see the crystal visions I keep my visions to myself It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams And have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness
Thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know Oh, thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Say women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know You’ll know You will know Oh, you’ll know
All fall magicks and enchantments, all mysterious Oud and intoxicating incense, all smoke and mirrors and silken scarves slipping so seductively around the neck, so soft and soothing you don’t notice the tightening cords as they so smoothly strangle the life from a soul so tired from summer.
Is it too soon for Christmas decorations? Of course it is, but if that’s what you need to get through the rest of this year, have at it. We need to stop stealing joy from others just because it differs from ours.
