Level 1: Capriccio Drawing

 

Were you inspired by my Capriccio Drawings, but want something that tells your own epic story? Let’s talk about your idea and set your dream to paper. I will work collaboratively with you in developing the style and composition 

Rate: $400-$1000, depending on the number of layers, scale, and complexity of the design. 

Scale: 9”X12” to 18”X24”

Media: Mixed media (ink, graphite, paint) on Collaged Duralar

The collaborative dreaming up of the composition is free. A 30% non-refundable retainer is required to initiate the making of the drawing once the design has been approved.  

In general, expect a drawing commission to take 1 month to complete after the composition’s design has been approved, and the retainer has been received. 

Shipping rates are separate and in addition to the above-estimated rates. All drawings will be shipped in archival plastic sleeves.  Framing is not included.  

Let’s talk!

Level 2: Painting Commission

If you are interested in commissioning an original work of art, either a custom-designed Golem Painting, Figurative painting, Narrative Portrait, or a Landscape painting we can make that happen for your home or workplace. We will collaboratively dream up a composition, and you will have a unique work of art constructed with historic archival processes of your very own. 

All painting commissions are oil on custom wood panel. A floating wood frame is included in the commission price. Painting commissions are calculated by the following guidelines:

Small Etude (150-400 square inches): $7.45 per square inch

Medium Minor Opus (15-400 square inches): $6.50 per square inch

Large Major Opus (600-2304 square inches): $5.20 per square inch

Symphonies (Over 2304 square inches): let’s talk

The collaborative dreaming up of the composition is free. A 30% non-refundable retainer is required to initiate the making of the painting once the design has been approved.  

In general, expect a painting commission to take 2-3 months to complete after the composition’s design has been approved, and the retainer has been received. This time includes constructing the panel and framing.  Shipping is charged separately in addition to the above-estimated rates. 

Let’s dream up something beautiful. 

2013-Present: The Homunculus Cycle

DER GOLEM CH 3

Golem 3W

DER GOLEM CH2

golem-2w

DER GOLEM Ch 1, Pts.1&2

golem-1ws

The Wrestling

the-wrestling

Off the Grid, Off the Radar

I did it. About three years ago. I found it, and I did it.

For centuries it has been debated, questioned, sought after, and feared. The edge of the world. The place where the oceans broke over the edge of the final frontier, descending in endless torrent, dragging every hapless ship and voyager to the churning void of the underworld. Odysseus, Columbus, Magellan all warned against this. Death would be their fate.

I found it. I bought it. And I now live there. About 2 miles past the edge of the world. But the edge of the world isn’t where everyone thought it was. It is a grey patch in California. About 20 minutes from anywhere anyone would know. People who live 21 minutes from this grey patch don’t know it’s there. “Where do you live” they ask, and after describing where I live, and I am met with the same blank stare. “Where?”

When my wife and I first saw the post for the house, we saw the picture of the traditional home on a realtor’s website. There was a button to click to find it on the map. We clicked it. Screen was filled with an empty grey grid. We clicked “satellite view” the screen was filled with the brown yellow blur of central coast burnt summer grass, and blotches of drying oak trees… no house.   “Where?”

Then we bought it.

Electricity can’t find us here. Water pipes can’t find us here. Sewers can’t find us here. Trash trucks can’t find us here. GPS shrugs and gives up about 2 miles before you get here.   We are off the grid. Off radar. Off the edge of the world.

What does find us here is sun. What does find us here is light, the stars, and the moon. And a mad collection of people who also chose to live out here in this grey patch on a map 20 minutes from anywhere.

I love it.

Im the Man

Joe, the owner of the off-the-grid-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-home-I-had -just-put-an-offer-on, was walking me, fresh-out-of-LA-urban-sprawl-havent-had-to-change-my-own-oil-in-a-decade, to the solar house to get me up to speed with the house solar electrical system. Up a short flight of concrete steps to a small grey shed set at the topmost ridge of the hill. Next to it was the single array of solar panels set on a tracking system. This system caused the panels to follow the path of the sun across the sky like the expectant face of a black square sunflower.

He unlocked the door of the shed, the door swung open with a breezy force that equaled the force of the fist I felt colliding with my gut. I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but in this shack, this grey wooden tardis, this rabbit hole dug into the roof of Wonderland, I hit the limits of my understanding of the laws of physics. Wires, endless wires, some thicker than my thumb, arrays of batteries, electric boxes in rows each humming and blinking lights, control boxes (boxeS, there was more than ONE) each measuring clicking and making decisions, fuses pumps, and shelving of replacement and outdated parts.

The next hour was a blur, I feverously writing notes, asking questions, uncertain of their relevance “Float, what’s a float?” “Why do I need an inverter?” “If the batteries run dry… can they be jump-started?” (the answer is yes, Ill describe jump starting my house later). I understood nothing. Not a thing. I just wrote it all down hoping the facts would all make sense later… but how much later? Before we paid money for this… THIS. Whatever THIS was? All the wile with the same empty ache in my stomach I felt when the door had opened, that, and a fluttering feeling in my shoulders.

The empty ache I had felt once before. It was the week before my first professional teaching job at a private High School. The Principal was showing me the art room, she had indicated a shelf of art textbooks and said “This is all we got for textbooks.”

I responded “Thats fine, can I take one of these home to review the content?”

She looked at me quizzically: “These textbooks are yours. This whole room is yours. You can do whatever you want with them.”

Then I had felt the punch, and the ache. I was now the “Man”. I was now the “Man-got-me-down”. From here on out, the success or failure of the would venture was only on me. The buck stops here, and here was in my shoes.

Then it had been about making a classroom for human beings in a crucial time of life. Now, it would be my family. If the power went out, there was no one else to call to demand proper service. If a piece of equipment blew, no one else to blame. If I wanted power, If I wanted light for my child’s nightlight, I had to make sure the equipment was running smoothly so it would happen.

The ache said, “RUN! You are not up for this! You don’t know what the hell you are doing!”

The flutter in the shoulders I had felt too. I had felt it that same High School day, it said “There is one way, and that’s the way you have chosen. Forward.”

Homogenous Urban Nights, Part 1

Living here, in this breath away from everywhere, has enabled me to see where I came from most clearly. I wasn’t here for longer than a week before I noticed it. It wasn’t until I left it that I noticed it.  For the last two decades I had lived in two of the largest urban centers in California: San Francisco & Los Angeles, and every night for the last two decades had ben absolutely the same.

Every night for two decades was constant.  Over my head had loomed the same navy blue ceiling, punctuated by the same 13 stars viewed through the same sheer curtain of neutral orange. The color created by halogen street lamps casting a diffuse light through a constant presence of urban emissions. Every night the sounds of the evening balanced out by the same constant white noise of traffic, which would work its way through any wall or door.  This had been my bubble for two decades.

One week after moving here, I was surprised every evening. There were nights which were shockingly dark. The skies filled with thick fall atmosphere blotting out every light of the heavens. Stepping outside was like stepping into a deep closet, without sign or mark of sky or earth, except for an orange smear on the horizon where Paso Robles slept.

The next night, the land and sky glowed. The full moon lofting over the horizon like a second sun. Marking every pebble, blade, and leaf in sharp outline of cerulean blues and grays.

The next, with the moon hiding below the line of the hills, the land was charcoal grey, not that I could notice it. Because above me was a salt spill of stars cascading down the ark of the heavens. Each minute sun sending a single arrow of light to strike only the most essential forms of the earth below.

Then the next, and the next after that, each night a different dance of light, and then there were the sounds…