Archive for kimberly nichols


Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on September 15, 2012 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

IMAGE: “Catharsis” by Kimberly Nichols, copyright 2012

In 2011, filmmaker Adam Haynes and I set out to collaborate on a short piece surrounding the concept of intense human experience. I was given eight words and told to expound upon them from my memory bank and to write freely without editing or fear of critique. In the end, I realized that each memory chosen could be connected, by dots to present a peripheral framing of my overall psychological, physical and spiritual narrative. In performing this exercise, and in the pursuant act of sharing it (naked in front of strangers), the psyche could then experience a cohesive sense of catharsis.

My performance essay that became the blueprint of the script can be found in this month’s Newtopia Magazine here.

Letters from the Dead

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on September 10, 2012 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

Old postal car at the train graveyard, from a study for “The Fool”, Kimberly Nichols

On my road as an artist, I have been traveling for a long time in a place of curiosity. I am not one of those MFA-school bred wonders who had the luxury of being simultaneously schooled and allowed to roam and wander through luscious studio days and hours of critique towards pinpointing an exact medium and voice. It’s been thirty-something years of trial and error, self-teaching and raw, unbridled passion that I would never trade.

I started to draw the girls when I was around ten and by the time I was fourteen my mother stopped trying to banish me from scrawling portraits and figures all over the walls in my bedroom, knowing it was a lost cause. They became little autobiographies of me and ways that I could attempt to understand my place in this world. In my late twenties and early thirties I took this spotlight off of me and started turning my fascinations to psychology and the inner workings of influence, geography, trauma, and environment on a human existence, my art turning into conceptual stabs at the lives of women in general. Today, this has flushed out even more fully, natural in the course of directional evolution, to make me inherently hungry to understand our total human experience, not bound by the limitations of gender and to see how our individual lives can be connected by the shared commonalities in just plain being alive.

I was very lucky as a child to have three built in mentors in my grandparents.

My grandmother Jeanne Doucette Cooper was a traditional landscape and still life painter who worked in oils. By the time she passed away, her garage/studio boasted one beautiful work in progress on a canvas and a household of walls covered every square inch with years worth of light pastel paintings; an intimidating repertoire from the woman who so painstakingly tried to teach me the color wheel and the way of the oils when I would have nothing of it. I was prone to cut things apart and put them together in abstract ways; or to slather quick drying acrylics on top of board as a base for collage. I can only imagine how much patience it took for her to deal with me when we would make houses out of milk cartons at her kitchen table for Christmas nativity scenes and mine would always be slathered with the not-so-warm-and-fuzzy holiday cheer colors of black and grey.

Her husband, my late grandfather Bruce Cooper was my knight in shining armor who worked as a prison guard by day but would spend hours in the garage on weekends creating beautiful works of art out of stained glass jewelry; a hobby he taught himself and in which he became quite talented. I spent a decade of my teens falling asleep to the ballerina spinning around in one of his stained glass jewelry boxes to the tune “The Entertainer” by Scott Joplin from my early favorite movie “The Sting.” He was the one who told me that I saw the world in my very own way and never to forget that or to let someone else tell me how I should see it their way. I never have to this day.

My Grandmother Milly Moen Dykstra, who is still alive and well in Iowa with her bee stung fuchsia lips and black beehive, is the one who I resemble the most out of my entire family and the one who taught me about the twitch. While I was growing up, she had a fully-equipped ceramics studio in the basement of her multi-story Victorian style home and I would spend every visit with her downstairs making molds, glazing figurines, and scraping seams off hot baked owls, ashtrays and mugs. I would get up in the morning and start to twitch because I couldn’t keep my mind on anything else but getting downstairs to choose the day’s project and paint colors. She would say, “That’s the twitch of the artist and it never goes away.”

Today, my art work still never fails to start with a twitch, followed by an emotion of pure bliss that is impossible to shake, just like it did all those years ago at home when I was cutting people out of magazines and prancing them around like paper dolls in the make believe dramas I would create for them. The itch is then followed by sleepless weeks and months of obsessing over the proper way to explore and present my vision. Over the years this has come out in many forms, from painting to photography to performance to mixed media and of late, my leanings have been pondering the primal, innocent and vulnerable connotations of the arts and crafts movement with woodworking and the exploration of pyrography in a nostalgic yet contemporary vein.

For the past two months as I have been in the beginning stages of new work, and concurrently needing to breathe and enjoy the process of discovery that has come along with the challenges in it, I have been experiencing a very interesting phenomena. It started with a dream of a vast universe in oils, lush stroke work covering an entire blackened field where my brush upon canvas started to uncover some interesting tricks; tricks that have never been known to me. It followed a few days later with another dream where I was presented with some large pieces in a gallery that consisted of a strange new version of what could only be derived from the annals of religious stained glass. Last week, the two forms melded onto one blank slate in another dream; a perfect blend of techniques that I could have never thought of in my waking life. And two nights ago it culminated in a step-by-step instructional lesson in my sleeping mind of how I could put all of this together in my waking life. Jumping from bed each time to hurriedly write down each memory, I couldn’t help but feel the presence of something else at work with me. Perhaps, Jeanne and Bruce are in collusion somewhere out there in the great holographic field of consciousness sending me juicy tidbits in forms that only the subconscious level can attain.  I welcome it to continue as it’s certainly perpetuated my twitch along with the presence of a singular and wiry strand of kinky, grey-silver hair that now resides on my head as if shot straight out volcano style from the nether regions of my brain.

The In Between Times

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on August 1, 2012 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

ImageIt doesn’t happen often or it wouldn’t be as special, maybe thrice a year during moments of extreme production. I will be halfway through an ordinary day plugging along on the keyboard or in mid art trance and suddenly my funny bone will twitch and take me entirely off my pre-ordained track.

Last week it happened at noon while my eyes were going crosswise over some heavy research and I caught sight of my furrowed brow in the glare of my computer screen. I was somewhere in Santa Monica high above the sea and my body took over and leapt me up from my chair. Posture straightened and shoulders thrown back, I grabbed some white wine from the fridge and poured myself a glass. Looking out over the ocean, I felt compelled to roam with no concern to why I’d stray.

No clock. No list. No obligations. With just my feet on the concrete and the sun on my face in this in between time — this random crack in my slate, who knew what would spring forth and transpire?  No regards to why I yearned or what was next and then …

… a pink eighties sign in unrecognizable cursive came blinking out at me from above a door on Main Street and I ventured in to what appeared to be a regular old hair salon. I heard myself asking the woman at the desk if a chair was free and she nodded yes. Suddenly a man was washing my hair with a foreign voice and I asked him where he was from.

“Down South,” he said.

“Georgia?” I asked.


I told him I loved Mexico and then he started to cut my locks, seemingly one strand at a time, pulling it up with a comb, snipping the ends, and watching it fall into place on my neck. Things started to move in slow motion and I realized I hadn’t even looked around the place.

I noticed that all the people who worked there were dark and almost gypsy-like in their features and flair. A woman at the cutting station in front of me was thriving in a yellow silk coat like a peacock with a short fluff of red hair. She was prancing in front of the mirror looking at herself and winking unapologetically at her own gaze flirtatiously. Next to me was another woman who looked like an old crow, slumped over in her chair with wet matted hair all up in a spiny cocktail of black dye as an attentive neophyte teen applied inky strokes with a brush to her graying eyebrows. As the gentle man blew dry my hair I started to wonder if I had fallen down a rabbit hole. Everyone was dark and bold and I felt small and pale.

As he finished my curls with a swish of his brush and accepted my credit card to pay for the bill, he asked all the ladies in the salon to stand up and look. The crow-like crone told me I had the eyes of an innocent. The cardinal looking-glass dynamo told me I could bounce home now. The woman who had first sent me to my chair said I couldn’t make a return appointment because they didn’t plan that far in advance. The man who cut my hair asked me for a hug goodbye and whispered in my ear.

“You are a real live angel.”

A half an hour later I was home, sitting in front of my computer screen with new hair, a little stunned and unsure of where I had just been and whom I’d met there.

It’s the in between times like these that make me still believe in magic, like a little girl avoiding the lines in the sidewalk lest I break my mother’s back. Half in and half out of the world as I know it with a firm resolve not to groan under its weight.

The Fool: Mining The Underbelly

Posted in On Being an Artist with tags , , , , , on July 17, 2012 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

from a study for “Below,” from The Fool, Kimberly Nichols

In the body of artwork I am currently creating titled The Fool, I am exploring the experience of falling in love using the Major Arcana of the tarot as a developmental metaphor for the process from honeymoon phase to maturation. The Fool in the tarot is named in a trick-of-the-tongue fashion for he gets his moniker from his wide-eyed sense of wonder in the world and natural aptitude for blind faith and curiosity rather than the more negative connotations of the stumbling infant. The Fool in this case is about innocence and submission to the fruits of the journey that lie ahead, with eagerness and yet light of foot.  The series is not one to be rushed and I am enjoying the process of discovery that has unfolded with the conceptualization of each elemental piece. Before I even embark on the building of the actual work, I am hunting for, concocting, and discovering photographs that will lend themselves as inspiration to the final pieces while I reflect on materiality. Reflecting on these photographs – whether their subject matter were discovered randomly or composed purposefully by me –has become a surprise addition to the puzzle in that they have added whole new levels and depths to the thoughts already roaming through my mind at each stage. They have led me to understand that only a small portion of my art is about the making and the visual fruition of “the piece” and that a large portion of what I am doing is striving to observe and make relevant our social, spiritual and psychological common space. The piece becomes the vehicle and evidence of my archaeological dig.

At the moment, I am faced with the devil card and it has caused me to start rooting around in the underbelly; a place I have discovered that, although terrified me at first descent down the ladder, can actually be a rich pot of silver-mirrored glass for those who dare to look deep enough into themselves. It’s uncomfortable and it’s murky, but there can be no light without becoming familiar with its depths.

from a study for “Below,” from The Fool, Kimberly Nichols

What lies beneath? What is BELOW? In the land of myths, the devil card represents a place where the parts of us dwell that are left un-dealt with and in the very unresolved-ness of their nature, cause us to repeat patterns in our lives that keep us from growth. It is the place our lessons glint up at us from a primal core if only we are bold enough to look and take them in. It is the land where the underworld wolf lives, holding his hands out offering poisonous berries in one palm and tantalizing currants in the other. It is the land of liberation and experimentation, risk and trust, and getting dirty in the mud. It is also the land where those who have died reside still, pricking our hearts with sadness, memory, love and emotion. It’s a dark place full of the muck of life and its stench invites us to ponder the uglier sides of our selves with free reign, without which we would have nothing to compare the sunny side and without which we would only be stunted and idealized versions of ourselves.

from a study for “Below,” from The Fool, Kimberly Nichols

On the dualistic, fractured plane, we live our days with notions of conflict between good and bad, right and wrong, sinful and angelic. But on the unified plane we know that each side of all of these opposites wash each other out in a sea of equality because judgments are a man-made, ego based notion. Without value-attachments or preconceived notions, there is nothing to fear in the underbelly. When it comes to love, it is the place where all relationships that have come before lay in their beds, unkempt and unmade to offer up portraits of the parts of ourselves we wish to avoid yet have the opportunity to hone and refresh in order to evolve and endure. Dotted with vulnerability and insecurities the fields down there lie stark and bare, yet are refreshing in their raw grace.

I oftentimes find that my art takes me to places that I would avoid in ordinary everyday life; places that hit the raw nerve like the nether regions of my soul. But I also find that the process of facing my own inner humility in being afraid of and then embracing these places through the lens of creative exploration produces a catharsis that transcends the initial dread. One foot in front of the other and The Fool carries on…

My Woody For Wood

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on June 28, 2012 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols


Tara, 1

I have fallen head over heels for wood. It’s always something I knew I could love, what with that surprising and voluptuous grain, furthermore enhanced by a piquant stain. But little did I know that I would end up at 39 falling in love with the actual act of building with wood. Today I find as much joy crafting a triptych’s worth of shallow boxes from a large slab of flat pine as I do drawing the India ink illustrations on cardboard when doing particular portraits of my muses as shown here in a piece I just completed, a commission for my friend Tara.

ImageTara, 2

ImageTara, 3

Recently, I attended the show Made in LA at the Hammer Museum, which is giving much deserved credit to a bevy of deserving Los Angeles artists of all ages. My favorite artist was one who was doing insane and delicate things with wood.

ImageTwo works by Zach Harris

Zach Harris stood out for me because of his use of wood. Not only does he meticulously (and with an artsy-craftsy yet primal precision) create, carve and build his base structure and framework for his piece as an integral and sculptural work in wood, he proceeds to paint and create the artwork on this base in a way that presents both as a cohesive final expression of duality yet wholeness. The intricacies of the surroundings meld with the articulated patterns and shapes rendered in paint and together they make a sort of patchwork quilt of juxtaposed familiar imagery – original scenic displays for a contemporary age.

I realize that of late I am drawn to work (whether in my own creations or in the work of other artists) that emphasizes material and a sense of construction. Maybe it’s because in the manual labor of making something out of nothing, I cull evidence of my own mark making on existence. Maybe it’s because in my conceptual brain, psychologies and the ethereal essence of philosophy are becoming more and more hard pressed to feed me that with which my flesh and blood craves in concrete fashion. Maybe it’s because I am growing more grounded and like the fortification of the solid, earth beneath my feet. Whatever reason, I have the inherent feeling that my relationship with the scent of sawdust in a garage filled with power tools has only just begun.



My Review of Elisabeth Higgins O’Connor at Charlie James – ArtScene 2011

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on December 14, 2011 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

Elisabeth Higgins O’Connor, “Happenstance,” 2011, cardboard, wood, resin, acrylic, paint, bed sheets, blankets, bath rugs, paper, drywall screws, 66 x 48 x 60″

Continuing through January 2011

Elisabeth Higgins O’Connor
at Charlie James Gallery, Los Angeles Chinatown, California
Recommendation by Kimberly Nichols

From the mysteriously twisted and complex images of our dreams comes a suite of sculptures by Elisabeth Higgins O’Connor. The exhibition, titled “Dreadful Sorry Clementine,” presents the characters of our communal childhood psyche, alluded to from the lands of nursery rhymes, singsong fables and fairy tales, where the darkly macabre tends to mingle tenuously with the fantastical. Six to eight feet tall sculptures of crow-beasts, dog-men and multicolored flower-headed foxes stand forebodingly, while simultaneously begging compassion and evoking fragments from our own subconscious that are troubling yet comfortingly familiar. Higgins’ use of cardboard, bed sheets and other domestic materials furthers the viewers’ mixture of pleasure and unease at confronting these visions of a long stored away yesteryear. Her unique style of assemblage, bonded by stiffened fabrics and resin, furthermore conjures a sense of patchwork chaos and altered reality.

Published courtesy of ArtSceneCal ©2011

Memory Series Pieces for Catalysts: Eight Artists on the San Andreas Fault – Group Exhibition at UCR

Posted in On Being an Artist with tags , , , , on November 3, 2011 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

80DK, 2011, Digital C Print on Watercolor paper, 44 X 30 inches

I was interested in finding out if memory could be altered in terms of emotional and psychological response to one’s most poignant and monumental moments in life if the environments in which the memories occurred were revisited and certain events portrayed from an aged and contemporary, adult perspective.

I began a series that depicted places of my past shown in their modern day reality, with a cast of mature characters re-enacting my memories. In most instances, the results softened the memories, making them less emotional and intense. In most occasions resolutions occurred and fondness was provoked for the human experience at large.

Til You Drop, 2011, Digital C Print on Watercolor paper, 44 X 30 inches

In one instance though I came into contact with a strange phenomenon of memory’s overall oeuvre. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, we hung out at malls, which were almost synonymous with the word “babysitter” to latchkey kids. We spent most of our self-individuating years there practicing different identities in a safe controlled environment where we could be entertained culturally (in the movie theaters), sexually (in the back halls and food court alleys), physically (cheap food and the arcades or the ice skating rinks), and mentally (the trend parade that was the revolving storefront). I spent the better part of my early high school career riding the bus after class to the mall downtown with friends where we would stash our backpacks under the public restroom sinks and with false French accents, proceed to roam the place as if we were visiting from a foreign land. Perfume samples from department stores were free, as were samples of chocolates from the gourmet candy emporium. The skater boys out back always had cigarettes and beer if we were feeling rebellious.

When I returned to revisit this particular mall to make a piece for this series, I found it the exact same way I had left it, only in ruins. There were no brand new stores to reflect the natural passing of time, or seamlessly blend my yesterday with today to produce that desired sea of good feeling. There were no empty lots or new places in its space to further express the normal ebb and flow of the cycles of life. There was no evidence to assure me that things indeed evolve and change beyond those awkward and vulnerable years. Stuck deep in the formative tome of my teenage psyche, the place was an abandoned shell, indeed producing within me a sense of being shell-shocked.

I uncovered a limbo in the annals of memory that produced neither resolution nor dissolution of the original memory and was instead now faced with the unsettling sense of simply being frozen in time.

– Kimberly Nichols November 3, 2011

Wounded Man Series

Posted in On Being an Artist with tags , , , on February 20, 2011 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

I have recently started a collaborative arm of art with fellow artist and friend Dan Irvine. IN* Projects represents the work we do together when inspired by or common goals to portray social and political messages delivered to the masses via art. Our first project is the Wounded Man/Woman series, extrapolated from earlier work I had done in this realm, and made dual by our expression of both the wounded man AND woman.

Originally intrigued by the historical St. Sebastian image of the “Wounded Man”, we further researched this cultural reference. In our research we uncovered the fact that the “wounded man” was found in a variety of verbal and visual testimony over hundreds of years that, although different in cultural context, all weaved the same type… of experience of being wounded, cut, or “done surgery” upon by people describing their personal mind altered, religious, meditative, or other out-of-body experiences.

A stick-like man with arrows going into his fallen body was found on the caves of Lascaux where it is said shamans submerged themselves for periods of meditation and plant-aided hallucinations designed to go to the unseen realms and carry back pertinent spiritual information.

People who attest to being “abducted” by aliens oftentimes report being transported through their bedroom walls by rays of light that somehow allow their bodies to become molecularly diffuse and then report being taken to rooms where surgery is performed upon them. Another example of being transported n a mind-altered state to a place of physical manipulation in another realm.

This phenomenon is also reported in indigenous cultures that have used energetically elevated trance dance to again transport them to another realm where the physical is disengaged and pure consciousness prevails.

This has also been seen in religious, ecstatic experiences where people have been overtaken by rapture gaining access to visualizations and messages from “God” or “Jesus” and experiencing strange physical injuries such as bleeding from the eyes or hands.

The overall connotations being that when one is in touch with their non-ego spiritual essence, they are then cut, performed upon, healed by connection to this internal energy and forever transformed to realize the spiritual lessons that are elemental to our existence in the physical plane. Many people, after having these experiences, have stated they act differently in the world, see things with new eyes, no longer put such credence upon material things or dramatic negotiations between each other, but feel more of an overall connection to humanity at large. There is a sense that “we are all in this together” spurred by the glimpse into the spiritual realm, gaining access to evidence of a larger meaning to life than just the physical dramas that are acted out daily.

Expounding upon this with the idea that every human being is “wounded” by mere act of being communally alive in this world through the constantly shifting and perpetually relevant social and political arenas we exist within; coupled with wanting to impress upon the idea of us all being in this together, IN Projects has started the Wounded Man Series.

The series debuted on Valentine’s Day 2011 through a collaborative “plop art” project in Palm Desert, CA with two other contemporary artists named Ryan Campbell and Tim Shockley. The three of us decided to join forces, make our own individual “love letters” to the world, that we then plopped freely (without destroying surface or vandalizing) in public for anyone to find.

Dan created a male and female contemporary version of the Wounded Man graphic with the phrase “We Are All in This Together” and printed them on translucent stickers that were then adhered to random pieces of scrap wood, denoting totems much like the primal stick drawings on cave walls and wood surfaces. Raw and unpolished, these were then painted red and covered in a resin representing the fossilization of the pieces. We randomly set eight of these around a public street.

We will continue to create these random wooden totems and place them as plop art amongst our individual travels in perpetuity.


My Avedon Review – Artillery Magazine – January 2011

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on January 12, 2011 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

Richard Avedon, Truman Capote, writer, New York, October 10, 1955

In the ANNENBERG WING of the Palm Springs Art Museum’s current exhibition “Richard Avedon: Fashion, Stage, and Screen,” the grand master of the lens is presented in two self-portraits. In the 1980 piece from his “In the American West” series, he raises his hands as if he is just about to give some instruction or perhaps, just naturally inclined to orchestrate a subject into revealing its true inner personae. The other self-portrait, taken many years later, shows the man still in a flurry of thought and process. Side by side, they reflect the renowned photographer’s constant meticulous eye, unwavering over four decades of work; as well as his signature style of utilizing a shallow depth of field and a stark visual and graphic perspective to emphasize revealed authenticity.

But the portraits also present him as the grand director of the images, which surround him in this survey, a master of capturing the personality of any subject as if each were his personal performer and his photographic frame – his specific canvas.

Known for setting new precedents for fashion and portraiture from the 1940s through the 1970s, Avedon’s work invigorated the way we considered traditional images of the iconic from vogue to celebrity.

The “Fashion” portion of this exhibit denotes Avedon’s elevation of haute couture from stiff garments on the posed model to living, breathing moments of textural rapture where fabric takes flight or confidently presents its own smooth lines.

The “Stage and Screen” portion sheds new light on the talented who have become inherently accustomed to being on stage by emphasizing movement, or the lines of the body within context of the action. Or as in the case of En Pointe, where Rudolph Nureyev’s foot finds center stage within the frame, we find the stark truth of ballet’s craft in the calloused heel and magnified flesh where hair stands up, electrified by the agony and the ecstasy of the dance.

In the section “Writers and Westerners,” we see Truman Capote in 1955 with his nude chest exposed and head cocked to the side, daring and flamboyant in the thralls of his success as a writer, only to find another portrait taken 20 years later capturing the more seasoned author’s provocative and sinister gaze -still taunting, although weathered.

In “Famous Performers,” we see Avedon’s directness in representing our cultural legends beyond projected impressions and into that private place where their artistic magic takes flight. Jimmy Durante is caught dead-on in his mischievousness. Marian Anderson’s mouth, a solid “O” of powerful velocity as she sings, positioned off-center of the screen as if caught in a self-created wind turbine. And Louis Armstrong, a frenetic blur of motion save for two soulful eyeballs as he blows poignancy from his instrument.

Although an overall view of his work bears similar characteristics, it’s the nuances of individuality that occur on second glance per individual piece that mark the artistry of Avedon’s calculated eye. Techniques like blur, focus and motion take the place of color, brushstroke and medium to present the physical and psychological timbres.

Capturing the unexpected, Avedon set new standards for photographers to follow and an impetus to go beyond, influencing talents like Bruce Weber, Helmut Newton, and even his friend Diane Arbus. The photographer injected our collective vision with a hunger to probe deeper into what lies beneath, as equally applicable to the future of fine art photography as to the pages of Rolling Stone or Vogue.

Avedon once said, “I have always been aware of a relationship between madness and beauty.” This exhibition is a refreshing reminder of this notion in an age of the cinematic airbrush and the polished, perfected facade.

Ends January 30, 2011

-from Artillery

Slave of Wonders

Posted in On Being an Artist with tags , , on October 27, 2010 by Kimberly Cooper Nichols

Collaboration is one of the highlights of being an artist. When working together with another, I am inspired to create something new formed of the union of the two that is separated and unique, away from my original voice, yet touched with the string of connection. The things that sprout forth from these efforts are wondrous in their spontaneity and the unwillingness to be predictable.

One of my favorite collaborations was done with a sustainable artist and architect named Nathan in Chicago. We never met. I was giving a reading at Quimby’s bookstore when my short fiction book Mad Anatomy published and there was an amazing blank book rack, much like a regional zine rack, that had blank books created by artists all over it. I chose one, that I purchased for a dollar, that was about five inches by five inches and made of white paper, butcher paper and small square white label stickers that formed a pattern on the laminated front cover. It was beautiful in its simplicity.

I went home and drew a comic strip in the book, covering each page. The piece was called Slave of Wonders, about the randomness of awe that alights our lives when we are least expecting it. Arrows in the heroine’s back become the sweet poison of roaming and mystery.

I sent the book back to this young man as my gift for his inspiration. He sent me another blank book made of black cardboard and stitched together with electric red ribbon. I have found it in a box after five years of sitting empty and I will be filling it with totems as I begin my next piece called The Gypsy Project. Over the next six months, I will visit a series of couches belonging to artist friends and other friends who I will engage in the process of art. All of this will be compiled into a short film called Life Is The Greatest Form of Art. Of course, I will be including teasers here along the way.