It was December, 1858. J.M.W. Turner had been dead seven years. To protect the painter’s reputation among the Victorians, John Ruskin and Ralph Nicholson Wornum furtively incinerated Turner’s body of erotica on a secret bier. We know of this singular cremation since Ruskin himself admitted to the deed in writing. And thus this tale was believed for nearly a century and a half for, after all, why would anyone have reason to doubt?

It takes quite a while for news to seep into my benighted cloister, so I didn’t learn until recently that, in 2003, a gentleman named Ian Warrell apparently unearthed most, if not all, the works mentioned above, all unburned and rising from their fictitious ashes like some phoenix before his eyes. The answers as to why Ruskin crafted his elaborate fabrication and how Turner’s erotic works were rediscovered can be found in the January 13, 2005 “New York Times” article, “A Censorship Story Goes Up in Smoke; No Bonfire Devoured J.M.W. Turner’s Erotica” by Sarah Lyall. Now I mention all this not only to show how woefully behind I am on current events but to pay an apology to Ruskin’s memory since I railed against his alleged fiery mischief in another posting. I was so happy to find out I was deceived that I scrawled this caricature of Turner’s self-portrait. It’s supposed to show my wild joy in finding Turner’s works survive and relieved amusement that Ruskin’s deed was merely a long-lived deception.

Her BF loves dappled horses and blue eyed horses, so Sarah added both in the image and poem.

Art and poetry by Sarah Potter

“Foal (Named Leopard)”

Little filly
Run like wind
Faster than the colts.
Shining golden
Dappled fur
Glows in the
Morning light.
Eyes of blue
And sky of blue
Leopard wants
To touch the sky.
Springing high
Above the ground,
Horse-child
Can you fly?

As mentioned somewhere before, Kathy is a Kabuki theater devotee. I’ve never seen a single performance so anything I “know” about it is second-hand and undoubtedly garbled by my ignorance. With that apology out of the way, this recently disinterred pencil drawing was done a decade ago and, if I recall correctly, represents humanity as each of us waits to make our entrance onto the Great Stage. There are other things delineated there, too, but that’s the most pompous and pretentious. And what’s a ham actor without showy and self-centered pretenses?

The title says it all, so what else can I add? Apparently a lot. Neither Kathy nor Sarah understand this piece. I could try explaining it, but I feel if it takes a thousand words to describe a picture then that picture is a failure. Ah well, at least I know what I’m trying to say and sometimes that’s good enough.

Wheeler Hall, the mastermind behind this site and OK, Panic, is one of the nicest and most generous gentlemen you’d ever want to meet. I’m not just saying that to butter him up so he’ll forgive the twenty bucks I owe him. I’m also saying it since he won a contest at “The Break-Ins,” a podcast hosted by Bruce O. Hughes and Justin Wasson. For his prize, Wheeler requested an original Justin Wasson rendition of Forbush Man so he could present it to Sarah, a devotee of all things Forbushian. Isn’t that sweet? I think so, too. Thanks, Wheeler! For something else that’s sweet, you can admire Mr. Wasson’s coloring of this piece at JUSTINWASSON.COM.

“Dragoness”

The Dragon flies upon the Wind,
Her Scales and Wings a-glitter.
The Moonlight shines as bright as Day
And the North Star is a-rising.
The Wolves are howling with the Wind,
Their Pack-Song carrying far.
And in the Fields, the Horses hear,
Then race to watch the Moon.
The Deer awake and race the Wind
To see the Dragon’s flight.
The Bear comes out from in her Cave,
Her Eyes watching the Sky.
Phoenix leave their hidden Nests
To watch the great Beast flying.
The Horned-Horse leaves the Misted Field
To watch the Elder’s Wings.
The Sea-Born Horse leaves River Depths
To watch the Dragon Queen.
The Fae-Folk leave the Faerie Ring ,
Come out from Hill and Dale,
And watch the Moon-Queen flying overhead.
The Gilded Deer with Gold-Lit Pelts
Turn Eyes upon the Moon.
A Three-Tailed Fox with Snow-Born Fur
Leaves her misted Den.
The Owl Flies out of a Tree
Not hunting, merely Watching.
Rabbit comes out of Darkened Hole
To know the Night-Born Flier.
And Winged-Cat watches and she Purrs,
For she has a Dragon’s might!

Is this garish? Boy, is it ever! But then, it’s Rumpelstiltskin, and that makes everything all right.

Unarguably, Abraham Lincoln had one of the most fascinating faces ever recorded. Too bad I can’t capture it. Ah well, even in failure, grappling with those amazing features is always time well-spent. As the old saw goes, life indeed has left its mark here. And how profound that mark!

Happy Presidents’ Day!

I have no idea where the original of this is, but I recently discovered this photocopy, moldering away in the basement, and I’m fervently hoping the original looked much better. Anyway, I know this was drawn around twenty years ago. It was a little attempt at pointillism done with fine-tipped color markers and it depicts the great love of my life, Kathy, engaged in one of the great loves of her life.

“Baron Von Porkchop’s Terrifying Tales of the Macabre!” is a local television production specializing in scary movies. It’s the brainchild of movie producer Matt Brassfield and is hosted by the Baron. Unfortunately, it’s on a channel I can’t get so I’ve never seen it. Fortunately, though, episodes are being released on DVD. And now with the preface out of the way, here is my eldritch tale of suspense and terror:

Some time back Matt Brassfield asked the artist Jesy Kessel and me to do some DVD covers for “Baron.” This is the first of the four I did, using Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” as my inspiration. I especially enjoyed crafting this since there’s always been a soft spot in my heart for the poet and since the Alan Parsons Project tribute to the tale is one of Sarah’s favorite tunes. Bruce O. Hughes designed the outstanding borders and text for the finished project. And now a toast to the dead, mummers immured and unmourned, restlessly dwelling in their dank and dark catacombs. “In pace requiescat!”