Hit. A rougher sketch. Graphite on Paper.

I had this huge crush on a guy named Ben when I was at Pitzer College back in the 90s. So many of us go through the same thing- this incredible hunger for another. I was not in love with Ben. I hardly knew him. But when I saw him I would flutter. I tried to get close to him. And we did do things together. We hung out and had good conversations about life, sex, art… whatever… I wanted him. He knew it. He was straight, but not so sure. Willing to test the waters. I ended up not pushing it with him because on some level, I really thought he was straight. And in my mind I heard and felt “…and then what?” I couldn’t imagine anything other than some sort of grief after we’d hook up. So I let him explore his sexuality with someone else. But I was still wounded from brushing by so close to the sun. I pined for Ben. I felt raw and like my heart was swollen. I was so sensitive to everything. I kinda hid away from everyone for a little while as I recovered from the crush and letting go. And during that time, I listened to the Sugarcubes album “Stick Around For Joy” all the time. I associate those feelings towards Ben with the song “Hit” from that album. When I saw a photograph, this particular one that I used as a reference, those feelings came back up to the surface for a while and I drew this preparatory sketch and another, finer drawing from them. I came across this sketch today and saw it with new eyes, so I thought I’d share it.

Happy Pride!

Happy Pride Month!

Honestly, “Pride” is kind of a funny word for it all for me. I get that standing up with pride was such an act of defiance in the decades past, and you need that kind of strength that comes from self-respect to live honestly. It counters shame.

I think it was just the beginning, though.

Standing up for each other over a long time is all about honest examination, real appraisal, communication, appreciation of differences, arguments put forth for change. Who are we these days? How are we being to each other?

This drawing is called “Do Your Best” and the reference photo I used (and the drawing barely resembles it) is from a pornographic photo shoot of gay bikers back in the 1970s. Rough, sexy, affectionate, free, defiant... proud.

Back then we were outcasts who had to defend ourselves as much as define ourselves. We were seeking affection and love and sex in ways that were so unregulated by society because we were cast out from it. We couldn’t trust society then, because it was really out to get us.

What we did with all that energy was create alternative ways to be and think. We created a lot of art that pushed boundaries. We created a lot of fight to push back against the society that tried to smother and imprison us.

Are we now part of that society? Are we merging into it? According to vacation and insurance commercials we are, but is that truth? Are we still reviled in general and is that commercial acceptance bogus? Are we trying our best to assimilate? Are we mixed up and divided? And are we really a bunch of heroes? Or is there a lot of corruption in our group?

I know fervent gay Trump supporters. I’ve met guys who try to give other guys drugs and diseases. I know racism, greed, hedonism, selfishness, immaturity and all the regular shames and shams of all people run right through us. We are not a group of saints. And we are not most of us now so many pioneers, are we?

Let’s take time to examine who we really are these days. Let’s look around and see how our actions affect us and the world around us. What are we doing that we can take pride in. And let’s put the focus on that.

Once I Was

Once I Was. Graphite on Paper.

I was in my early 30s. I had no job. I had no money. I didn’t know what was going to happen next. I was staying with friends in West Hollywood and had just moved back to LA after some time away and I was kind of floating along, uncertain about the future, but hopeful... I was walking down some Los Angeles boulevard with a wife-beater on in my jeans with the frayed bottoms and flip flops on walking back from the 7-11 with a cherry slurpee in my hand and some beautiful tattooed muscular guy in a pickup truck wolf whistles me. At first I thought it was for someone else, and I looked around, but I was the only one nearby. I looked up and he had slowed down and was checking me out with a hungry grin. I laughed. He blew me a kiss and drove off.

I worked out all the time. I had nothing better to do. And everyone said it was good for my mind. Which it was. In my 20s I was very skinny. In my 30s I started gaining weight and it did not hang well on me because I was very in my head and not getting out doors. My youth was spent outside. I rock climbed. I hiked. I rode my bike everywhere. I was an Oregon teenager after being a rural Wisconsin kid. But I went to school in Claremont, California (basically Los Angeles) and after I graduated, I spent most of the rest of my life either in New York City or Los Angeles. And when I got into fashion design, I became obsessed. Which meant I spent all my time at my desk or just standing around. Focused on whatever new thing I was creating. And drinking tons of coffee and eating a lot of candy and pasta.

I wasn’t exactly fat, but just pretty out of shape. Sort of not in my body.

At a certain point, I stopped working and found myself in a state of depression. I left Los Angeles and spent a year in Wisconsin. In order to combat the depression, I did things like yoga, meditation and lots of walks. They helped a lot, but nothing helped like weightlifting. I lived in Wisconsin for a while and me and my friend Mary Fleming would get together and go to this “gym” in this tiny town I grew up in. I didn’t really know how to work out, but she guided me. I went from kind of flabby to in really good shape in the span of a year and when I was at my peak, I moved back to LA to get back into life. It was in this shape that I was in when I met the guy in the pickup truck.

I didn’t know that that time was it. That over time, I would work out periodically and kind of retain the basic shape I had created, but that I would never be that fit and strong like that again. I am not seriously out of shape now. For a middle aged guy, am in basically good shape. Alfie, my dog, gets me out every day. Sometimes I pick up the dumbbells and do the push-ups… I was “going to the gym” until late last year when I realized I was paying a lot of money to feel guilty all the time. I think that even if I DID go to the gym all the time at 49, I would not be even a version of that guy I was- and I am surprisingly ok with that. 

I am in the heart of my mid-life crisis. Every day, I see one more way I am mortal. I wake up and my perception has shifted, my ideas and plans have changed based on these perceptions, time passes so quickly… I am nostalgic for things I used to hate. I marvel over what life was in the 70s and the 80s. I have also become much more forgiving, and now I accept responsibility for so much I could never have in my youth. I don’t care who was awful about what so much anymore, and I don’t care as much what anyone thinks about me. With the sense of loss of control over my body comes a sense of letting go. If I really am going to die, if I am going to get older, there’s only so much I can do. Only so much I can worry about.

This drawing is not me. It’s inspired by an old photo of Sam Elliott. I had such a crush on him growing up. He’s still incredibly sexy at whatever age he is now. He’s the ultimate Leo. He just IS charisma and hunkiness. People who know me well know how much I love him. My friend Forrest got me signed photo of him from his Lifeguard days and I kept it in my knitting bag that I used to carry around with me when I knit all the time like I draw now…. I was never quite like him, but I had my day.

Fire and Rain

Fire and Rain. Graphite on Paper.

My hypnotherapist bought Carly Simon’s place directly from her in the Village. Everything about the place reminds me of the music of the 70s. There’s a claw footed bathtub in the room where I go into a trance. My hypnotherapist, Joan, was given much of the original furniture that was in the place, because Carly found it too difficult to move- it would have required the removal of walls and windows. So there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright-ish quality to the place, things built into the walls and space in natural woods and specific shapes- a warmth, really an architectural optimism, that is very familiar to me having grown up in a mix of the wealthy Midwest and the highly educated West Coast. It’s an interior that could easily be seen in Marin County, or the Los Angeles of Shampoo… It brings me comfort and helped me to find a calm, comfortable space to, I guess, get in touch with myself, and to help find some peace.

I went to the hypnotherapist to address the nerves and the hunger. This is just one of many roads I have taken. I have done lots of Kundalini and Ashtanga Yoga, Pilates, worked out 4 times a week, gone to therapy, done group therapy, done art therapy, taken pills, done outward bound, taken supplements, run, cooked, knitted, drawn, painted and read myself silly and still somehow I haven’t dented the bedrock of wily anxiety that often seems to make up my very essence. 

One of the most effective parts of hypnotherapy was finding a centering place in a deep meditative state. This is a space that is to be kept private and special to me. It was a profound task for me considering how much I have wandered.

I have lived in 54 different places in my 49 years. I know that sounds impossible. It isn’t. I am restless. I must have scout DNA. I am forever seeking the next thing to tackle. I take risks. I open doors that should remain locked. I am that fool in the horror movie going down the stairs in the middle of the night to check on the mysterious sound. And I am a nervous wreck about it too. I am not easy-going even if I am brave and stupid.

The irony is, I think if I hadn’t been born gay, I never would have left Green Lake, Wisconsin. On a daily basis, I am milquetoast and domestic. I spend my days talking with my cats and walking my dog. We have a lot to do and we like our routine. I spend parts of the day cleaning, doing artwork, shopping, walking the pets, and doing errands. Then my husband, Keith comes home, and we have dinner and movie or TV night. And on weekends we have plans with friends, go to plays, and maybe go on short trips. This really works for me. It took a long time to get here. But it shouldn’t have. 

I grew up in a lot of fear. I never hated being gay. I loved that I loved guys. I just wanted to find the right one and fall in love with him. And I never hated myself. I hated my situation - being gay in a hostile world. And being gay really pushed me beyond myself. And that being pushed beyond myself - to cities and into social situations I was not prepared for - was probably too much for this basically quiet, domestic person I am, so I sort of lost myself along the way. I was basically a nerd. The kind of kid that sits alone with his field guides and talks to pets a lot. I wasn’t really meant to be out late clubbing in the wild late 80s and early 90s, but I needed to find my people. And that’s how I did it. 

Along the way, I met a ton of people I never would have “naturally” met. A lot of wild, sort of magical people, very adventurous and often very beautiful people of the cities. I have these memories from San Francisco to Chicago to Los Angeles to New York of everything from neon lights and pulse pounding music to drum circles to dark corners and bleary mornings stumbling home or being carried there by friends. And I am sure my story is typical. I am not unique. I met the same story over and over again. We were forced from our homes by hunger and maybe fear to find each other. Maybe looking for love, or adventure, or to belong.

I check facebook sometimes to see the people I grew up with in Wisconsin and Oregon and so many of them stayed, Stayed within 100 miles of where they grew up. A lot of my straight friends. I used to be so jealous of them. They seemed so centered and grounded. They had roots. They belonged from the get-go. I have no idea what that is like. I have had the fortune to be able to return and look into some of my friends lives and have lost the jealousy. While it is true they haven’t had my struggles, it seems everyone has their sack of rocks to carry.

Over time, I have lost my intense hunger for adventure. I still love to travel, but I want to stay in nice hotels and be in bed by 11. And I have found my family. I still struggle with anxiety a lot. Sometimes it is hard for me to get myself to the grocery store because somehow that has become an ordeal in my mind. But at the same time, I am more often at home in my own skin and living in a small bucolic town and moving at a slower pace really does seem to suit me.

I have lost a lot of people along the way. The people who, like me, went very far seeking home. Some have died. Some went crazy. Some are doing fine way over there. Some of these people I thought would grow old with me. If I didn’t die young. I see a few of them on social media. Some I have friended and some I have not. I don’t know if who I am now would be friends with who they have become. I sure loved them at the time. 

And then, I have kept up with some. And I talk to a few of them often. Across continents and time we have managed to stay close. And some I see now and then.

Autobahn

Autobahn. Graphite on Paper

When I was 12, I went to live with my dad in Eugene, Oregon. I was 12 in 1982. I knew very well I was gay, but somehow I had the wherewithal to decide not to come out to anyone until I was 16. It was a very different time then, and I didn’t know who was friend or foe. I never thought of my sexuality as a phase or a choice. It simply was a fact. While I never wanted to change it, I recognized at a very early age that this fact meant trouble.

My parents had divorced when I was 3 and I spent my early childhood with my mom in Wisconsin. My mom would play Kraftwerk’s Autobahn for me and my sister often during “spring cleaning” when we would go through our closets and get rid of stuff. Or maybe she’d play it while we all hung out in the living room. I would read my feild guides on snakes and trees. My sister would be looking at magazines or something, and maybe my mom would be reading “Passages”... This music permeated my existence. This and certain other music - Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, lots of albums of Phoebe Snow, Patrice Rushen, Roy Ayers, Tower of Power, Stevie Wonder, Minnie Ripperton, Nina Simone, The Beatles “Let It Be’, Joni Mitchell’s “Miles of Aisles”... all this music to this day brings me back a sense of comfort- a place of belonging.

In 1982, I decided I wanted to try living with my Dad full time. I was not prepared for the big city of Eugene, Or. I came from Green Lake, WI a small town of 1000 people. I spent part of each year in Eugene, visiting my dad where he was a professor at the University of Oregon. I was thrown into a world of hippies, drugs, coolness, and my first gay people. Lots of hairy, beardy or mustachey guys became my focus for teenage crushes over the next several years.

Adapting to a new life was a challenge that I never fully met. My dad was and is a good, caring guy, but he was ill prepared to take on a young, troubled gay kid with very little information from me on how I was feeling (since I shut off my will to communicate for fear of getting rejected or living in a hostile environment). So I retreated. I would go to the record store and buy records instead of going to school. I would sneak back into the house and listen to music like Autobahn over and over, rocking back and forth, and imagining my future life with a beautiful bearded man who I was totally in love with and not even really coming up with full fledged stories about what that life would be. Just the sense of it. I so looked forward to that coming time in my life.

Now I am married to a beautiful beardy guy. I had to go through a lot of chaos to get here. My first years after coming out were at the height of AIDS destroying so many lives. Drugs and depression have killed many of my friends. It was a hard road then for a lot of gay kids because we didn’t have access to role models and images and stories of wholesome, healthy gay lives. We were told that our lives would be hard, that we were not equal. And our subcultures were dynamic and interesting and colorful, but also could be hedonistic and self-destructive - or at least tempting in that way. I walked into those worlds looking for that feeling I got rocking back and forth listening to Autobahn, and I never really found what I was looking for.

Now and then today, though, I will look over at my husband and think to myself, “oh, here it is. What I have been looking for all my life.”

Doing these drawings brings me back in touch with those feelings I had a young man. Those feelings of joy. That life is in front of you. That strength and desire that pulls you forward and keeps your eyes open.

Take Me As I Am

Take Me As I Am. Graphite on Paper.

The title of this self portrait comes from the last lines of the song “California” by Joni Mitchell. When I was house sitting in Venice one day back in 1990, my ex, Elliott and I were walking along the boardwalk and this elegant blonde and a tall dark man walked by us, and after about 10 steps, I turned to Elliott and I said, “was that Joni Mitchell?” And he said, “yes”. And I turned around and ran right up to her. I told her she meant the world to me and I kissed her hand. I was a goofy little hippie kid with long wild hair and so much raw emotion, romance and hunger.

Today, I am not that little guy. I am heading to San Francisco tomorrow for a visit with my husband Keith, and I am really wondering what it is going to be like to be there. I haven’t been to San Francisco since 1994, I think, since I lived there for 6 months after I graduated college. They might have been the hardest 6 months I ever had (in a row). I went to Pitzer, which is an amazing college, but I studied performance art and creative writing and I left that school with no idea how to make a living in a recession and all my heart and hunger to be somehow a part of the world and shape it would meet a wall. The only job I could find was a temp job working on a drug trial for people with ALS. Every single person I met at work got sick and died, and as I watched them decline day in and day out, I found myself isolated in a place that was very hard for me to find my way in. San Francisco was not impressed with me and although it was very beautiful, and I spent many days wandering around the hills, it was no place for me.

I moved to New York later and that city hugged me like family, got me set up in a decent place to live, and hooked me up with friends and jobs from the get-go. Even Los Angeles, with all the temptations and chaos, left me warmer and provided me with some of the deepest friendships and hard-earned, but real lessons that I carry with me today.

I am not that kid seeking love and admiration and answers and hope and a path. I am married and happy and have a path that is often very clear. I will be seeing a friend I haven’t seen since I left San Francisco, a cousin sho I haven’t really known since I was a kid, and my friend Shah, who saw me struggle through some hard times in LA, but who also has seen me shine. Hopefully I will see a whole new side of the city through these so different, 49 year old eyes.

My artist friends have suggested that I do these self portraits every few months. To see how I have grown as an artist. But also to see what I see in myself at the time.

Ocelot.

Ocelot. Graphite on Paper.

A few things. First, I have become somewhat reliant upon “likes” - particularly on Instagram. I draw these guys all the time and I get upwards of 1500 people “liking” the nudes. Each little “like” is an endorphin molecule rushing to my brain. I am worth something in that monopoly-money that is Instagram likes. Beautiful faces can get me close to 1000 likes. Couples kissing can get me around the same. But a beautiful, well hung guy can push me past the 1500 mark. I know I am motivated by the appreciation. And that is actually fine with me for the most part. I WANT to be appreciated. I WANT my artwork to be liked because I like it and I get it. What I have to be careful of, however,, is that I get stuck in some kind of rut and don’t keep going forward in other ways. I wanted to become an oil painter, but I am not oil painting. I am only drawing. Drawing was supposed to be a step in the process of becoming an oil painter…

Second, I have this gallery space- it’s my actual working studio. It’s open to the public on weekends. It is in this beautiful, historic town of New Hope which draws a lot of tourists. I wanted my studio to be a place for gay men to show their gay-themed work. And I am doing that. So there are often a lot of nudes up on display in my space. And a lot of tourists wander in, not looking at the sign that says “this exhibit may feature work not suitable for everyone”... And they look around, and get uncomfortable, and leave. And that’s fine- to be expected. What I didn’t expect is that I would get so tired of it. My fantasy of having a little hole in the wall gallery space like something in the early 80s in the East Village, kind of keeping that defiant gay spirit alive, only in this cool, artsy town - maybe I have to let go of it… I have attracted some people to the space from far away now and then, but on a daily basis, it is more of an exercise in being patient with the human race’s discomfort with homosexuals and the male nude. So I am taking a little time to draw and paint other things. Could be a day, could be longer...

Finally, why on earth would I want to draw a pretty cat. I’m not a 12 year old girl. Well… maybe on some levels I am. Or a 12 year old little boy who loves nature. I grew up in a family that despite all our ups and downs, never wavered in instilling in me a deep love of animals and nature. The family dogs and cats were my brothers and sisters. There was never any question that they were people. Of course they were. Their feelings mattered. As did the stray cats on the street. And the animals in the fields and woods. And we were taught to make no mistake that we were animals too. And not as smart as we think. Dumb overconfident apes with a lot of issues and drives and arrogance destroying our world out of selfishness and compulsion. It’s my world view to this day.

This ocelot is a person to me. So when I draw an animal, I see the person and draw into that just like I would any beardy guy. I remember when I was 22 in Brazil, I went to this open-to-the-public zoo on an incredible estate near Manaus. There was a large enclosed cage with a couple levels for the ocelot. He was out of view. Instinct took me over for a minute and I started purring very loudly (there was no one else around) and the big cat woke up, came down the stairs to his sleeping loft area and walked right up to me with this look on his face. I put my hand through the bar. He came up to my hand and softly bit me- no harm intended. I pulled my hand away quickly realizing what danger I was in. I stood there looking at him for a minute. Then, embarrassed, I turned and walked away.

You want this cat to love you. But it will probably take more than you can offer...

Spanish Wall

Right now in the gallery there is one wall dedicated to very handsome, furry men drawn either in charcoal or graphite alone. After I put up the arrangement of drawings and prints, I noticed that every single guy I had drawn was from Spain.  I used some prints for the display because some of the original drawings have either sold or are in other galleries.  But these drawings just fit so well together... So I call it my Spanish Wall. I don't know what it is with Spanish men, but a crazy amount of them are just crazy beautiful.

Part of the Spanish Wall up at the Gallery today.

In 1987, my dad surprised me with an unexpected gift, “I'm sending you to Europe with your sister”. I had never been to Europe. I was 17, my sister was 19. She was studying in Madrid and planned out our journey. Our trip was for me to fly to Madrid, then go to Barcelona, through the south of France to Nice and Monte Carlo and then on to Pisa and Florence. And then back to Madrid. In 2 weeks...

I was so clueless at 17. I mean, not exactly clueless, but sort of like an emotional rag doll when it came to taking care of myself. I could read books and have discussions, but I couldn't do laundry and had a hard time vacuuming and mowing the lawn. And when it came to figuring out how to buy airplane tickets or get a passport, or anything, I was dependent and useless... My sister put everything together with my father. I could hitchhike with my girlfriend to San Francisco high out of my mind at 15 years old and somehow make it back, but I ran on exactly that kind of energy and will.

I held jobs as a summer canvasser for Greenpeace and as a dishwasher and bus boy at 17 because by then I had dropped out of high school. And I had an extensive knowledge of Art, Music and Literature- enough to get me into an Ivy-League quality college in a year from then... And I was precocious and egotistical because I was pretty. But I was also very insecure and over sensitive. I was afraid to go to Europe.

Young, precocious and clueless.  Wearing the poncho I wore hitchhiking from Eugene to San Francisco in 1985. 

And right then, when I got the surprise that I would be shipped off to this dream trip for most any teenager, unsupervised by parents and full of adventure, I was in the middle of the first real romance in my life. His name was Mark. He was 19. He was very blonde and bright blue eyed and hairy. Kind of like Armie Hammer. He was a student at the U of O. He was ½ real German from Germany and half American. I had wanted a real boyfriend since I was 12. I am not sure why I decided this, but I promised myself I'd wait until I was 16 to come out and after then I could have a boyfriend. And I had girlfriends before then and they must have been so bored... When I finally got a boyfriend. A real one, this super nice guy... all I could think was, oh no! I am going to be away from Mark for 2 whole weeks!!! I think we had been together for 2 weeks then.

Mark was worldly, having grown up in Berlin, mostly. He strongly encouraged me to go. I made sure to have some of his clothes with me so I could smell him while I was away. I didn't cry. I never really cried anymore by then, but I was so scared that I would lose the one thing most important in my life if I went away. I had already come out to my father. He knew Mark because he caught us in bed together one day... That sucked. But Dad was really nice about it. When I told him I didn't want to go, he said I should go anyway and I would feel differently about it later. I was a struggle to get on that plane.

I remember Madrid. Very fondly. It felt Almodovar at the time. I felt wild and fun and irreverent and full of history all at once. It's the first place I ever went to in Europe. It was big, loud, old, messy with all the dirty napkins napkins on the floor in those food joints where you ate bread stuffed with cheese. And those stone horses and Guernica and the actual Garden of Earthly Delights right fucking there in front of me... And that corridor of Goya's darkest dreams in the Prado- suffering was beautiful and intense and to be admired, but I didn't really suffer yet, it just had such a glow... Late night dinners hopping from place to place each one having it's own kind of tappas and images of a witches' sabbath and floating mysterious men on a flying carpet and a man in yellow with his hands raised being executed by the french during some war unknown to American youth and the train station in the rain, hungover and do we have everything we need for the next stop, where's my passport?.. That's my first taste of Europe.

And everywhere there, swarthy, mustachioed, bearded, hairy and hunky dark smiling men, laughing everywhere and brushing by not noticing the young dreamy eyed kid noticing every shiny detail of their eyes, their hair, their skin...

Your Average Spanish Guy.

When I see these guys I am drawing, I am taken back to that time of being a young man with all this newness around everything. I always maintained a distance from the guys I saw. I didn't flirt or even acknowledge them, except for one time on accident. I was at a bakery and the baker was really this beautiful guy. Burly and square jawed and bearded and hot burning in his deep brown looks. I think he must have been gay. I can't imagine any other reason he'd take such a shine to me. I was on my own stumbling around in my Spanish trying to order some sweets in my sister's neighborhood and he was helping me pick out what I should get. The conversation kept getting extended by him offering more choices and he looked at me with a lusty look on his face. I finally had to get back. I paid for my treats and he said “Ciao” and since I heard it before and didn't really know what it meant, I responded “Ciao, Bello!” and he looked for a second taken aback, and then hopeful, and then I saw on his face that dismissal as he must have figured it was just my poor grasp of the language, and he put his head down and I walked out the door. I had meant my words.

I saw he Musee Chagall in Nice, the Sagrada Famillia in Barcelona, the leaning tower of Piza and the Duomo in Florence. My sister and I got in a fight in Monte Carlo. We were like cats then, happy and cuddly with each other, but then, once a day, just so fed up! She stormed off with half our money and I stayed with her college friend Eva with the other 5 francs.. I stood on the marble cliffs of Monaco and sang “Heart of Glass” by Blondie with my sister's friend as the rich gambled away their fortunes in the casinos nearby. We were so happy even though we had only enough money to get a baguette and orangina. In Florence, the girls went crazy shopping. My sister got a leather jacket and I bought one beautiful cabled ivory sweater for myself.

I wore that sweater one time. On the plane ride back home in Eugene. I dropped off my suitcase at home and then ran over to Mark's apartment. Stipping carelessly, I tossed the sweater on Mark's space heater and only noticed the smell of burning cloth after we had finished rolling around in the hay...

Spanish Guys in Love.  This is what I was looking for...

Original Drawing available at Adam's Nest in Provincetown.

https://adamsnest.com/collections/saul-lyons

Why Draw?

I was recently interviewed for Bear World Magazine. It was really cool to be asked to answer questions about my artwork and thoughts on art and the political climate.  It was the first time I have ever been interviewed for anything getting published that I can remember. I've been interviewed by researchers for Jupiter and other research firms when I worked on Wall Street and as a fashion designer, but never for anything like this. I felt like a celebrity for about 10 minutes.

It also got me thinking about why I am drawing and painting and what I want out of it. Because I am not doing it in a vacuum.

This is inspired by photograph of a man named Simone Iachetti.   It's my favorite painting.  It's the second oil painting I ever attempted.  It is above our bed in my house.  I don't want to give it away for money...  But I want the universe to know I am serious about art and want to be successful at it and make a living at it.

I suppose I want Art to be my dream or vision that pulls me along to great circumstances. Like I shouldn't even question what I want because I am just following where the artwork itself takes me and one day I will wake up in some dream world I never could have envisioned for myself if I tried. And I want to be a star in my own, quiet, controlled sort of way. I always fantasized about winning the “best supporting actor” academy award. I wanted to be in a cool band that not everyone knew about...   So, I guess, I would love to be respected and sought after and financially secure, but not demanded from, overwhelmed, and put too much in the spotlight.

Why am I so drawn to drawing images like this instead of puppies and flowers and mountains?

Truth is, I have what I want. I live in a beautiful house with a great husband and two cats (and soon a puppy!). I have busy, full days every day. I have a full social life. I have work options available to me. What do I want from painting and drawing?

I have a hunger to be terrific at what I do. I'm not competitive with other artists at all. I have no desire to win contests and stand over anyone else like a star. I want to do amazing work that moves people, that turns them on, that makes them feel that love for people and life that I felt as a teenager when all my feelings were so accessible and immediate. I want to give people joy and inspire them to kiss someone or do something extraordinary.

An Image like this would have moved me so much when I was a teenager.  And it would have made me want to create and do things that celebrated the tenderness and warmth this image portrays.

Why do I want that? Because I hate feeling trapped in routine and unable to appreciate what I have. I have been depressed before and I hate that feeling of wondering why I am alive and when is it going to be over and not knowing if it is going to stay so damn hard just to do all the basic stuff that I know can come easy and does for many others. Because I believe that I can inspire other people. I can be some kind of strength that they need and I want to be useful. And maybe I can't crawl into other people's messed up lives and situations and guide them because I am not expert in their troubles. 

But then again, people trying to directly help me often felt invasive and untrue to me. I am not talking about the kind of help that a mom gives when she comes in and takes you out of a bad situation as a kid. Or the kind of help that actually works, like being given enough money for rent for a few months while you get back on your feet with no strings attached. The kind of “help” I never liked was a deep rooting through my psyche by amateurs who have their own agenda and warped judgments. And that kind of help, proffered by well-intentioned people and books and magazines is everywhere, uninvited and pervasive.

No, unless I was actually going to be carried through something by someone else, I have had little use for "help". But Inspiration was a different story.  Movies, art, music, photography, pets, volunteering, travel, all these things have always kicked up some energy in me and got me moving in the right direction.

I remember being in an awful lonely state of mind and picking up an old Time/Life series book on great places in the world. One of them was on the Alhambra. The Alhambra is this beautiful old palace in Granada, Spain that was built when Spain was part of Islam. The photos really inspired me. The designs on the walls, the architecture, the beautiful landscape... I knew I had to travel. I didn't know why. I just got turned on and hungered for discovering the world. This hunger took me out of my depression. The next year I was standing in the Alhambra.

I want to give people a reason. And some hunger.

And I draw people I kind of hunger for.  Don't get me wrong, I don't want to sleep with them. I am in a stable, solid, monogamous relationship with my husband and I want to keep it that way. I have enough on my plate without adding stirred up ocean-floor emotions that come with getting physical with other people. I am not criticizing anyone who has an open relationship or is polyamorous, I am just not at this time in a state of mind to be able to go down that road. I am loving my structure and my boundaries now in my life and believe me, they are keeping me safe and healthy.

This drawing makes me love people.  How can someone be so damn beautiful?

But I see these incredibly beautiful men on Facebook and Instagram and Tumbler and TV and wherever. I think to myself on a daily basis “God outdid himself with this guy...” There's a combination of emotion that arises in me as I am bombarded with beautiful man after beautiful man. “Why can't I look like this?” “That's so much work to get a body like that” “He would never love me.” “He's so out of my league” “I would have loved being able to see images like this when I was a teen, it's too bad I had to look at underwear ads in magazines” “I hope they are not on too many steroids” “Are they nice?” “What does narcissism really mean and are these guys that?” “How wonderful that I can see these incredible men!” “I should be going to the gym every single day for 3 hours each day... just for a while.” “Is botox good for you?” “How lucky this guy gets to wake up looking like that. His life must be so different from mine.” “I hope they are happy.”

I have only met a few of the guys that I have drawn.  There are a few I talk to quite a bit.  A few guys I draw over and over and we have become friends through art.  Most guys I have drawn have been really appreciative and thoughtful in their words. There are some very beautiful, kind men out there. They are the majority of the men I have drawn.

I try not to draw requests. I do my best when my “spidey sense” picks what I should draw next. And a lot of time it's not someone I would have planned to draw. It's the light hitting a face, or the contours of a body or just some image's energy. And I say to myself “that works”. If I try to draw someone how they want, I don't usually like the results. And if I am doing a request, I tighten up a bit, just trying to “get it right”.  I'm actually not very good at getting my artwork to look like the subject which is confusing to me because I put so much work into capturing the energy and beauty of my subjects and they often come out really beautiful, but not them... So I can't do portrait commissions.  It just won't work.  Those street artists who do caricatures actually do a better job of making their artwork look like the source than I do...  Only a couple times has someone sent me a photo and I said, “that's perfect” and it all worked out. I will draw people who ask as practice, but it is just as likely that I might not ever show the results of that work.

I don't want to be an artist for hire. I don't need the money at this time. I have other skills that I would much rather use to make me money. I am an ESL teacher and I love love love teaching. I've never had more fun at work than when I am teaching a room full of diverse people from all over the world how to use the Present Perfect tense... I had a whole career in fashion and I would even rather go back to that than to become an artist doing commissions.

You can't know where pursuing art or a skill will take you.  You can have fantasies and dreams, but you can't know the reality of a thing until you do it, and do it for long enough to see the results.

So I am not sure I know exactly what I want from doing my artwork, but it's certainly a lot. I encourage anyone out there who has a nebulous, undefined desire to do something (healthy) to go out and do it without questioning it too much and see where it takes you. It may take you to where you want to be.

Every Day Every Day Every Day

Hi All,

This is just a really short post to note that although I have not been focused on any blog posts since May (!), I have been focused on creating artwork.  I try to do at least one drawing every single day and post it on my instagram and/or facebook account.  This has resulted in some improvement as an artist over the last 2 years...

I wanted to show you all what I could draw after about 6 months of daily practice at drawing:

Based on a photo of Charlotte Rampling...  More like her ragged older sister, but I still like her.

After 9 months I was a little stronger in technique:

From a photo of Hedy Lamarr.  

At this time I was focused on creating very colorful paintings and I didn't really focus much on teaching myself how to draw faces accurately.  

At a year, I was drawing like this:

Undersketch for a painting

This is an undersketch for an acrylic painting.  I feel like it was a leap for me.  I almost kept it a sketch because I really liked the feeling this conveyed.  It's so not perfect, but the feeling I get from looking at this guy is really sweet, and although the finished painting captures that, the drawing expresses it more.

After this, I started focusing on drawing more and more and painting a little less.  So now I draw every day and paint every week or two.  I am sure in the future this will shift again.

After 2 years and the focus switching to drawing, my sketches looked more like this:

Dusk

I think they are becoming more evocative and full of movement and energy.  If I really like a sketch I will try to paint it.  In this case, this became one of my favorite paintings... so much so that I can't get myself to sell it!  The original drawing has sold to someone I really like, so I am happy it is in a good home!

Now, after about 2 1/2 years, I am sketching like this:

Contemplation

I am very concerned with movement, intensity, and shading.  Getting across feeling.  I did get across feeling 2 years ago.  And I am really still happy with the artwork I created then, but I feel that being an artist is being in process and not being sure where I am going.

Thank you to whoever is reading this for being part of that journey.

Thanks,
Saul

Remember - Celebrate

Hi Everyone,

The gallery show is up!  It's at the "A" Space of the New Hope Arts Center in New Hope, PA.  The show is a mix of images focused on the celebration of the gay experience, growing up, dealing with strife, finding heroes, having romances and getting older.

As you walk in the door you pretty much get faced with this image right away, blown up to 24" X 36".

"Kiss" is, at first glance, a bold image of two men kissing.  But there's also almost a hand pulling the man on the right closer into the man on the left.  Like they are somehow welded together by emotion...

In the same room is another image of a hand pulling you in:

This one is called "Lean In" and to me illustrates that sense of surrender and protection and acceptance we all seek.  And sometimes get.  And even better, give...

The show also incorporates other things I've been working on, including drawings.  Here's one of Hedy Lamar, who is one of my heroes.

I'm also painting at special times in the gallery.  It's a challenge to work around people, but I have created a few new works including this one:

If you are in the New Hope area, or can come for a day from New York or Philadelphia or anywhere nearby, get in touch!  New Hope and Lambertville have a lot to offer - great shops and restaurants, museums, historical sites, bike pathways... pretty much everything that makes a place a great place to visit.

On Saturday, May 20th, we're going to have a party.  It's a day filled with Pride Activities.  There's a parade, an art walk and a lot of eating and shopping and celebrating to do- and we are going to add to the celebration with food and drinks at the New Hope Arts Center.  Please come by!!!    Here are all the details on location, and you can email me at saullyonsart@gmail.com for more information: