Artist working in Los Angeles who creates images from photos, oil paint, gunpowder and blood and has no other job.
He is writing a novel about the suicide of his brother.
UNDER THE RED LIGHT – THE LOST ART OF THE DARKROOM
It’s 3AM and the night is now gently quiet. There are no conversations to be had, nor phone calls asking for answers. Just the metronomic countdown of the enlarger’s timer and the muffled sound of the train yard, just a block away and beyond the cement wall which borders the art colony in which I live. It is my respite from a loud world with even louder demands and though all these stresses will be contended with – They won’t be tonight. Tonight, the coffee is fresh and I will likely work till dawn.
Autumn was in the yard and we ran in the tall grasses like thieves. Armed with wooden swords given to us at Christmas, we gave chase to one another in the waning sunlight tinged ochre with warm October comfort as dinner time approached and always too soon. If I laughed, he laughed. If I cried, he cried. Such was the way of us. Shaun and me. Baby brother in the last sun.
When the rains come, the howls ascend like rancid fire. It begins with one or two and then spreads like a fire amongst them all. Like wolves calling in the hills, but without unity or purpose. Wild vocalizations without control, like a rage forced through damp chords of flesh crushed from them by an unseen hand. A haunted bellow of something utterly lost. A nothing calling to nothing.
The first of the funerals was now a year gone and diminishing into the cataracts of memory. Jason and his son were the last and there would be no others. A jagged pyre of dry shattered wood waits by their white swing set which had grown sullen with rust for there were no more children to come after him. I had broken down the fence, the dead spruce, pale chaparral and even the peeling dog house they left long after the animal had refused to return. But there was still not enough wood for this.