Boris gets first showing in Phoenix

It's often difficult to share something that was created in the dark recesses of your own mind.

Like many painters, writers and other forms of artist, the creations are made more to take the edge off something that stirs in your soul. Seeing those creations appreciated is often not a driving factor at the time and can sometimes come as a surprise when others see in your work something that inspires them. Or frightens them.

I created the Boris paintings as a response to my own dark place, and he answered passionately, but not easily. When it comes to Boris, I first sought to paint an ugly individual who wanted nothing more than to be left alone to explore his own unhappiness. When I shared my images on Facebook, and sought a name for the bald-headed grump, I met with positive results, which surprised me.

The darkness inherent in the paintings were generally well-received. My friend Sunny Murray even suggested the name Boris, which resonated so well with me that I couldn't call him anything else. And he went on to highlight the depression, anxiety and unhappiness that many of us feel deep inside every day. A theme began to form as well, stringent rules that I applied to each work as a way to challenge myself in setting a strict tone for the unrelenting Boris. The acrylic paintings, the ugliness of the landscape, were done in a way that I thought Boris would want them done. His notes were written to illustrate his thoughts, and duct taped to the canvass, as I thought he would want it done.

Now Boris will make an appearance in his first art exhibit and it's a fitting one for his type. A handful of Boris paintings, along with art from a wide array of talented painters and photographers, will be on display in Phoenix for Angelica Gallery's “Dark Art – The Exhibit” on Saturday, Sept. 17. The exhibit will begin at 5 p.m. and go to 10 p.m. The gallery is located at 3607 E. Campbell Avenue in the valley.

Having been the sole owner, and caretaker, of Boris this last year, I find it a little disconcerting to know the paintings are no longer in my possession. I can only compare it to being a father. When your children leave, you feel something is missing. That's how I feel now when I look around for my stack of eleven Boris paintings, but excited at the same time, knowing that dark place in my soul may find like-minded interest in those who gaze upon him.

Unlucky and Broken

Luck is a myth invented by lucky people.

Someone else finds $100 and spots me $5, but I have to pay it back, which puts me further in the hurt later. They take the $5 and snatch a lottery ticket that wins them $10,000 and go to Burning Man in their Lexus. I weigh less.

What’s broken and scattered to the four winds can never be made whole again. The good thing is no one is looking for any of the pieces. No one knows anything is broken. The pieces aren’t invisible. They smoke cigarettes and drink coffee.

Being unlucky and broken is something people laugh about before they break apart, before no one helps them in a way that really matters.

Cold and Smelly

Have fun freezing in your mistake-filled psychosis.

So I know what’s it’s like to be a block of ice. Seeing through it kind of works, but everything is distorted by the time your vision makes it out of the other side. The shivers are pestering notifications that death can result. The chill is what it will feel like.

So I smell bad to defend myself against attention from Judge Society. Nothing is more offensive to humanity’s mild-mannered sense of worth than the “Do Not Disturb” notice inherent in silent putrefaction. Brilliance can hide under filth I’m told.

Cold and smelly thoughts turn slowly in solitary reflection, knowing death has been slowed long enough to accomplish an irrelevant goal or two, and no one will ever know.

Burdened and Alcoholic

My shoulders are tables for people to put crap on.

So I’ve been feeling like Atlas, but without the coolness. Or the looks. Or the muscles. I have cracked bones and bruised skin. I have a vacancy sign hanging behind my eyes. Were that space occupied I might find a solution to what I know is a problem. I know how to hold a problem and just stand there.

So I believe alcohol ownership is better than having a pet. You can carry both around, but one needs attention and money and patience, while the other needs your misery, which is far easier to provide. The other needs love.

Being burdened and alcoholic is one hell of a crutch for one hell of a life. If I ever loved anything, it’s a crutch.

Dark and Laughable

Apparently I am funny to people with high self-esteem.

So I think the land of monster egos is a scary place to be. There’s no exit. When the fire comes, as they inevitably do to those with inflated self-perceptions, you have to jump through the window and crash hard with all the debris. You might see me laying there, too.

So I know what makes something funny. A room full of people who write “LOL” on everything, who call each other “hun” and “bro” and “sweety,” can find something laughable in people who can’t afford to hang out in that room with them. Survival, staring at your feet a lot as you walk by yourself at night, is funnier than hell.

Dark and laughable is what I call the crime scene where caricature people with good excuses crunch nowhere specks under their clawed talons.

Lost and Hungry

If you don’t offer something to consume, shut up.

So I cannot find my way and I’m alright with that. There’s no sense thinking the grass is greener in that place I can’t find, because it’s brown and itchy there. It’s brown and itchy here, too. So I may as well keep wandering around for lack of anything else to do.

So I’m thinking my hunger is like a math problem that takes a whole chalkboard to solve. It seems like something easy to figure out, but then there’s so damn much between starting and ending, so much vulgar confusion, and just when I think I might be getting full I’m hungry again. At least my growling stomach adds something to the conversations I have with myself.

Being lost and hungry is exactly that for me. Has anyone ever found a damn thing or did they just stop calling themselves lost for a minute? Whatever.

Robotic and Numb

Don’t tell me, I’m a tool.

So I’m full of gears and wires and things that are cold to the touch and do everything they are supposed to do and nothing they aren’t. When I want a screw, I really want a screw. If I don’t have one I fall apart. Screws come loose every damn day.

So I can’t feel anything. Nothing wrong with feeling nothing at all, so long as it lasts forever. I hear that’s a long time. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s true. Can you imagine what sensationalism feels like to a numb bastard?

Being robotic and numb means fingers don’t clench in atomic frustration. One day to the next is irrelevant. Eyes never close in despair.

Stung and Bitter

In case anyone remembers to remember

So I get stung in every way imaginable. It can hurt being stung. Sometimes it all hurts, from head to toe, sometimes only certain areas hurt. If you’re lucky that stinging feeling turns numb right away. I don’t know how to not get stung.

So I’m bitter and proud of it. Ever wear a suit of armor that failed to deflect a particularly grumpy arrow? I’m talking about the main parts, not where the arrow says sweet things and finds a way through, but the parts that are resolute. Nothing beats being bitter.

Being stung and bitter happens at the parts the armor can’t protect, where new stings get through. And they always get through.

Romantic and Wilted

I think someone loved me before.

So I can be romantic when there’s something to be romantic about. There are a lot of words for romantic. Not as many as there are for being lonely and rejected, but quite a few. No sense saying what they are. I know quite a few of them. Me and the word “alone’ hang out, too. A lot of words mean being alone.

So I can say being wilted is like waking up in the morning. It happens regularly. Liars are like botanists from the negative zone. Where someone watering a plant makes it grow, a liar sucks it all out into themselves. There’s still something there when they get through, but barely.

Being romantic and wilted is inhaling and exhaling with pain involved. Thankfully, liars persevere.

Limited and Possessive

I’m not important, but who cares?

So I’m limited in my thinking and unable to break out of the fate that seems to have me in its ugly, gnarled fingers. That’s alright. It’s pretty much what I’m used to. Something happens once in a while, which will limit me in a different way. Any day now, I think, if my watch is working right.

So I’m possessive of the few things that make me happy in life. Some of them things I got when I was little. They’re a reminder when I didn’t have to worry. Someone else did that for me. Some are things I worked hard to get and will bite any hand that tries to take it from me. And I can bite.

Being limited and possessive makes me a formidable, feroscious bastard. I can smart my way past my things, but why?

Teetering and Drunk

I’ll jump if I feel like it.

So I’m on the edge of a cliff. There’s a good view behind me, but it’s downhill. Can’t see over the edge, but blackness has appeal. It’s kind of like turning the lights off at bedtime. Sometimes there’s a sigh with it and it just feels right.

So I know of two types of “drunk.” One is where it’s cool. Go to wine bars and chatter with buddies. Something makes that okay. Sitting in the dark with whiskey listening to Sabbath isn’t cool. You have a problem if you do that.

Teetering and drunk is all the rage in my world. There’s something so uncool and fuzzy about it, kind of like popcorn.

Sitting and Blaming

If you want I will be the bad guy.

So I’ve sat in the dark and stared at things my eyes never see. I’ve stared out of my window and wondered why it was sunny. I’ve felt weights on my shoulders, pushing me further and further into the uncomfortable chair.

So I blame myself for everything. That’s why my hands don’t tremble when I reach for the whiskey bottle. That’s why my socks don’t match, because it’s all my fault. Nothing good is supposed to happen to me. Ever.

Sitting and blaming keeps the burning brightness of the sun right where it’s supposed to be. Outside. It keeps catastrophe from knocking at my door in the middle of the night.