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FECIT

These FECIT pages are snips and snaps from 30 years of art hoo-ha, unrelated to His Room as He Left It, in no particular order

30 oct 2017
Thunderbolt I, Focke-Wulf 190, and the valiant Horsa Glider

CDH W5 july 2017
grief groups, nobody's home, all that remains, lost it

mediocre meteor july 2017

APRIL SHAPES 2017

ascending airplane april 2017

even more shapes april 2017

shapes / ships / sad march 2017. for uncle charlie.

more shapes NOV 2016

SHAPES 17-31 oct 2016

Prill Pills, Perspective 2011

diamond block print

Star Souvenirs
these are terribly blurry, i'm sorry.
this was an assignment from barbara gallucci's class at smfa in 2002. we were to make a sculpture which would take a photograph without anyone actually pressing the shutter with a part of the body. the sculpture's job was to press the shutter. one person made a photo-taking pogo-stick, one enclosed a camera within a maraca which snapped pictures when shook, and another built a beautiful elaborate mechanism from wood with a hand crank at one end. i built a box around an old 35mm and used a screw to press the shutter on the "B" setting so it would stay open until the screw was turned again. (it's hard to see cause i lost the screw and it's not in the picture) The idea was that you'd turn the screw clockwise till it hit the shutter button, then use the hat pin to poke holes in the paper where the brightest stars were. next holes poked would be the less-bright, and so on. then the screw would be loosened and the shutter would close. this all resulted in... fake constellation star souvenir photos!

ART IS A MAN'S NAME 1989

messing around with marbling 2009

A short story I wrote in 2011

Bow
From Playa Paso to Playa Platita it stretched, ROYGBIV, over the island after an afternoon sunshower. People were calmed in its eerie light. Rainbows are like that they thought. They were no strangers to rainbows. Tourists marveled Wasn't it wonderful and islanders went about their business, taking a glance now and then. All was as it should be. An everyday miracle on a tropical island.

It's still there thought some towards sunset. It's not going away thought others. Rainbows come and go. (That is why they are precious thought one). The cloud cover had moved on. Stars were beginning to show. The sun sank. The bow lingered, unmoving, but heavier, brighter, warmer. Horses hid. Birds quieted. Dogs did not. People went to bed, thinking It'll be gone in the morning.

In the morning, that is, after midnight, the roosters crowed. So! All is well thought the people. But the early risers saw this upon waking: colors. Colors across the land, hovering dangerously close to the treetops. The rainbow, they said to each other is larger and closer than we could ever imagine. But what of it? They got up and went about their business. The tourists rose in awe. Wow! they said. We've really got our money's worth. Let's go to the beach.

Around noon, some felt a little claustrophobic. Some felt nauseous. Some had diarrhea and went back to bed. The lunch trucks were padlocked. The snorkel shops shut. The bow descended, on rooftops now, heavy hues swirling. Hot Reds blew hot heat onto the heads of the hidden horses. They snuffed and stamped, their burr-swollen manes starting to singe. Even the Blues and Greens proved perilous. Everyone had to duck. Islanders and tourists alike moved slowly, stooped with bad backs. Straightening up for a stretch, one was instantly felled by the surprising conflagration of her own head. This was in Yellow, near Calle Flores. Another, looking up to see the palm fronds burnt to a crisp, ran, alarmed and upright, and was touched by Violet, which struck him down right in front of the Panadería. All he could see before he died were yesterday's pastries on the bottom shelf. By late afternoon, the entire population was forced to crawl. Some used wheeled dollies, but these were fought over under the glaring Green on Calle Fontana. Those who thought to head for cool water, because it seemed like a good idea at the time, found only hot water, simmering water, boiling water, and they perished like lobsters under the prism sky. The crawlers now lay on the streets, on brown lawns, or on the searing tiles of the Malecón, face up or face down, nowhere to go, unable to run, paralyzed by paradise.

Sketches and collages for How Small Brides Survive in Extreme Cold by Steve Shavel. Verse Press 2003
(It ended up getting printed upside-down)