Walking Wounded: In Process Client Credenza

Credenza coming along....Hope you like it.

Walking Wounded: Facebook / ETSY Press

Thanks to my friend Sarah for sending this over!

WALKING WOUNDED Furniture & Sundry: Struck Marbles

Struck Marbles is a new stool I just finished. It is solid steel with connected tracks running down and around the legs so that marbles can cycle down while your sitting. The seat is homemade waxed canvas and ply. I was thinking of the oil derricks of west Texas and skinned kneed kids shooting marbles in the dirt....

WALKING WOUNDED FURNITURE in NEW YORK

THANK YOU to New York!

http://nymag.com/arts/all/approvalmatrix/approval-matrix-2013-4-1/

Walking Wounded: Candle Bars

I made another set of Candlebars for my favorite shop owner in the East Village. I'll let you know if she decides to carry them. Hope you like it.

Walking Wounded: Struck Marbles

Solid Steel, Ply, Homemade Waxed Canvas, Old School Upholstery Tacks. I was thinking of Winslow Homer's Snap the Whip and the oil derricks of West Texas- dirty kneed kids shooting marbles in the shadow of giants. Hope you like it.

2 New Shorts

I was born with a perspective problem. I prospect for my perspective through the sanguine application of drugs and alcohol. A miner’s life is full of phantom veins, long days underground and a love of dynamite. You’ve got to blast through the bedrock if you want to get to the color. Undiscovered flake is a terrible thing to the miner. He’s a self contained engine with worker bee insides chipping away for the kernels that keep the lights on. There’s a problem with sinking too many shafts- they start to collapse on one another. My pan is an enameled table top on which I splay my fruits in this make shift mercantile. I have my mother’s old 45s and they spin me through my time in the mine. I do my work at night, a candlelight vigil for the last unfound vein. Nina Simone mines with me some nights, Shirley Bassey too. The mine always has room for others, but miners are a solitary lot- a tactile bunch, not prone to consorting with other miners. After all, one miner can never show another miner his claim, not if he ever wants to keep his treasure. At the end of my night in the mine I draw myself elaborate maps to make sure I can find my way back. I use dotted lines and sometimes need a legend because my drawing gets shaky that late. Then, I fold it up as small as I can and hide it near my pan. Most times though I never find my maps, but I always find my way. The dinner bell punching time clock- my throat is dry, my nostrils singed, and blood bubbles form on my upper lip.

So tired he can’t drive straight. The rabbit thump warnings of his tires on the shoulder began their sweet lulling serenade at mile marker 30. He counts his miles in crushed packs on the dash. She’s laid out on the backseat, and he can see her faint twitching smile in the rear view. Tossing one more cigarette out the window, seeing it explode into ground swell fireworks, he fixes his eyes on the illuminated road 20 yards in front of them, and keeps going.

Lawrence

He loved books. He’d loved them before he could read- their weight, their feel. He loved the smell of old books, the smell of new books. He opened books and stuck his nose so far in to the binding that the spine fabric would tickle his nose hairs. The readers thought he was part of the library. He liked helping the people who came looking for that one book. He would give his gracious, knowing nod, smile, and lead them where it was kept. He derived great satisfaction in leaving them to it, a dedicated valet ushering newlyweds to their boudoir. Finishing in the stacks, he parked the returns cart next to the old desk, turned, and sat down into his creaky old friend. Nothing on the desk predated Lawrence. The blotter was 20 years old, the date stamp and card catalogue were 25. The last 2 years, trustees had been quietly asking him to step down. He predated them too.

“How can I leave?” He asked himself.

“Who would take care of the books?”

He scratched the hair on his knuckles, put his reading glasses on, and opened his latest treasure. The recent years were leaving him more and more time at the desk for reading. Less and less people were coming in to the library. Most walked right past him to the 2^nd floor computer lab. They didn’t even see the books. But Lawrence saw them. He saw all of them. He knew the bent over pages, which ones the city college majors needed in March, the ones with ripped bindings and the ones with dirty smudged doodles. He knew the readers too. He knew which ones returned late and which books wouldn’t come home at all. The neon lights bobbed angel reflections off the gold leaf of the older, rare, books across from him. At least He saw the reflections. Swaying across the blotter in the late fall afternoons, he gratefully watched the refracted angels guarding his treasures, dabbing at the spittle gathering in the corner of his mouth before fumbling for the back pocket of his trousers, searching for the kerchief’s home, unwilling to take his eyes from the autumn light sentries. The rare hardbacks stood erect before him. He had started on the top left, and, after 30 years, was finally on the last row. When the last delicacy had been consumed, it would be time. He sometimes felt like an uphill steam engine- getting up the track, almost stopping before the creaky piston would get over the wheel just one more time. He’d felt a lot of one more times at his desk. He thought that might be what it was, the one more times were each its own creaky screaming birth of the accepted challenge in each turn on the uphill rail. But he was on the last row now. He might finish by the next Fall gold leaf sway.

Sighing, Lawrence unscrewed the dented top of his thermos and poured a new cup of coffee into the mug. In the same deliberate motion, he pulled a flask from his bottom right drawer, and poured a dram into the coffee. Just a nip after the stacks. His eyebrow slowly cracked as the joy of when he first saw it came back to him. Slowly turning the pages, he picks up the cup and, moving it slowly to his mouth, blowing on it before it reaches him, he is seized by a swelling pain, overtaking him like a vicious outgoing tide. The coffee falls to the desk, ruining his treasure with the thick milky drink. And that’s how Lawrence died, with his autumn light angel sentries, and his nose in a book, on the last row.

Walking Wounded: In Process Stool Seat

Walking Wounded Updates

I'm happy to announce that Walking Wounded NYC is up on Instagram. Also, I'm busy working on the Walking Wounded website. It should be up in a few weeks!

Further, I've added a few more pieces to my ETSY shop- Link on the side bar

check 'em out!

Dove Tails

I'm playing with Dove Tails in anticipation of an upcoming piece I've got in my mind....One of my favorite parts about making things is that I get to constantly learn different techniques.