The last copy is available for purchase!

Purchase your copy of my little tribute to The Wright Brothers! It's the last one!

Figure Drawing Class 1997

Some notes from a figure drawing class in 1997.

I have too many words in my head to concentrate on drawing right now. There is a naked man sitting in front of me in this stuffy classroom and it’s my responsibility as a student to find inspiration in his pose, to express myself with my stick of charcoal, to make sense of his pose, to learn something, to accomplish a drawing. But all I want to do is sit here and stare at this old man in his Speedo underwear and scribble angry frustrated marks on my cheap drawing paper. Everyone else is drawing, because that is why we are here. The sound of charcoal on newsprint fills the room. They step back from their drawings, back and forth, the figure drawing dance. All I can think about right now is how badly I don’t want to draw and I don’t have a good reason other than I’m a shit drawer and this is all a very uptight thing sitting here without a drawing to put on the wall at the end of this hour. I won’t have anything to compare to everyone else’s drawings. My instructor Waldek walks in the room and I feel myself panic. I don’t have anything but angry scratches and figure drawing angst and words. I want to vanish. My life as an artist is over. I have failed. Time to pack my bags. The old man who is my muse, he is falling asleep on the model stand. Waldek is throwing out words; pushing, pressing, possibility, minor changes, pressure, ambiguity…these words are circling around the room and hit me like pin pricks. The old man is sucking on candy and his little cloth green slippers sit on the floor next to him. When he drifts off, I wonder what he dreams about while all of us stare at him so intently. Waldek talks to Darota in Polish. They sound very serious. I’m feeling very blank. The model falls back asleep and Waldek and Ben discuss ballpoint pens and markers. Ganati is really into his drawing, ya know? I mean, he is really in there man! Darota snaps her fingers and steps away from her drawing and Shawn sits against the wall looking finished. Mark moves in his chair, moves with his drawing. Carrie steps back and forth, tilting her head. Chairs are being scooted across the cement floors in the room next door. Becky scratches her head and looks around. The model opens his eyes and surveys the room. It’s a rainy day and there’s a loud machine making noise by the river outside. It’s so stuffy in here and I’m thinking about what I have to do next. The model sits up, stretches a little and puts on his green slippers.

Yes to Everything

Uncle Fred’s trailer in California sold almost immediately after he died. His cottage in Illinois sold a few months ago. My dad’s trailer that was parked outside the ten-minute lube off highway 101 was cleaned up immediately following his death. Life goes on.

I sit here typing onto the glowing background of my computer screen and I’m looking at an old photograph of my dad and Miriam Patchen. I recently found the photo tucked inside a copy of Barbara Ueland’s If You Want to Write, signed To Natalie Jo From Uncle Fred on the inside cover.

This photo makes me so happy. This is CLASSIC David Lee; the leather cap, that GRIN, that mustache, the black leather vest, the plaid western shirt tucked inside his 30/30 501 Levis, the pocket watch. It’s all there. And the way Miriam is looking up at him…and knowing Uncle Fred is behind the Lens. I can’t help but smile when I look at this.

I miss knowing that Uncle Fred and my dad are just a phone call away. I have regrets that I didn’t talk to Uncle Fred on a weekly basis after my dad died. For years I would occasionally ignore Uncle Fred’s drunken phone call because I knew I would be on the phone forever. If I wasn’t in the mood to listen…I wouldn’t pick up the phone. But then one day that changed. Twenty minutes into our conversation he says “Well, I’ll let you go, I know you are busy”, and then that was it. In the past he would have said that at least three or four times and our conversation would have lasted another hour as I drifted off into “uh huh” land. When he so promptly ended our phone conversation, I noticed that it left me feeling a bit sad. But WAIT…really? Our conversation is DONE? Just like that? I was ready! I am comfortable and sitting in my chair with a fresh cup of tea. I’ve got all the time in the world! We would go a month, two…maybe three months without talking. My life was a mess and I shut out those closest to me. I put my energy into keeping up the façade. Oscar was born and my excuses got bigger. Just months before Uncle Fred passed away Oscar and I were in California for two months. I was staying with family in San Diego escaping my own family drama back home. I had all the excuses in the world on why I couldn’t make it to LA for a visit. I know I’m not supposed to dwell on things like this, but that’s what you do. You look back, you reflect, you regret, you wish you could change things. Why is it NOW I feel like I have so many questions for him? Toward the end of his life Uncle Fred would give me an update on his health and reassure me, “I’m not going anywhere, I have a whole lotta livin’ to do!” I trusted that this meant I would see him in May when he planned to move his life back down to Illinois and Oscar and him would meet for the first time.

I am catching some irony in my reflection. Uncle Fred had agoraphobia and the man was King of Excuses. I lived in LA for three years and managed to have him over to my place once. If I was at his trailer and he didn’t feel like being social, he was in his bedroom, always “paying bills”. Our lives are so damn complicated and all I can say now is that I know he understands my regrets and my excuses. Everything he has given me over the years; Postcards, letters, manuscripts, magazines, books, chapbooks, paintings, I look through all this stuff now, trying to find the answers to my questions. Last night I got sucked into one of his typed up stories for Biker Magazine from 1995 and occurred to me that the answer is quite simply “YES”. Yes to everything.


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Limited Edition Giclee prints now available!

I now have the giclee prints of 4 original paintings from 2012 available in my shop. Each reproduction is a Limited Edition of 100 prints signed and dated. 

While my son Oscar is asleep I find time to read (recently it's been Richard Cronborg's memoir titled The Journey) I love a good memoir...

or I write (or I read books about writing...)

or I paint (or I watch paint dry...stare at my work...get sleepy...look at the clock)

Any moment something will happen. For days...months...years...nothing seems to happen at all, and then...EVERYTHING all at once. BOOM.

If you are interested in a print, please visit my shop! 

New site!!!!

Well! I have finally set myself up with a new blog to call home! I have some kinks to iron out still. I moved some of my "old" stuff over here because I thought it was a more fitting place. I'm glad you agree.

I've got some giclee prints being made of the most recent paintings, which will be available in my shop in the next week or so! (I know...not the best timing for holiday shopping...) New business cards are also being printed. The studio is getting set up and I have plans for a new handmade book to magically appear in my etsy shop by spring! If you haven't already caught my latest short story featured at Empty Mirror a few weeks ago, please give it a read and let me know what you think! 

I'll probably be back on here when the giclee prints arrive so I can toot my horn about those...but in the meantime...Happy Hanukkah to all my Jewish friends and family out there! 

Oh! And Suddenly It's Real is still very much alive! Stop by the etsy shop and snatch yourself and your loved ones up a WHALE CHALKBOARD or...well...of course a MUSTACHE KEY HOOK before we run out!!!!!!

Thanks for checking out the new site! 

I made a little book!

I made a little book! Writing the tributes to my Uncle Fred and my dad online was really great, but I felt like they needed to be inside something special! I've had a small ream of old yellowing paper in my collection of "Yes I'll take that! I'll find something to do with it....someday!" And indeed this was the perfect project. Pictured is the first 10 of an addition of 20 individual books each printed on vintage paper. Each cover is hand painted on Rives BFK with gouache and watercolor and sewn on the sewing machine. (Thanks Nancy!!!!) Each little book contains the tribute to Uncle Fred (F.N. Wright) and my dad (David Lee), as well as two small "observations" I wrote almost 14 years ago. I enjoyed making these so much, you can bet I will be making more books in the near future. If you would like to have a copy of your own, you can purchase them here! www.wrighthome.etsy.com

LA Union Station {1999}

LA Union Station {1999}

I sit in an old brown seat.

It's ripped and old yellow stuffing is exposed.

Heavy luggage is at my feet.

I sit here and frown.

It's hot and stuffy

everything is brown, yellow and orange.

Everyone's luggage is on wheels and I hear

chatter, plastic bags and kids.

I think about my dad and uncle fred and wonder

when will I see them again.

I'm tired and lonely.

I stare at people when they walk by,

running by uncomfortable in high heals and too much luggage.

A bunch of people trying to get somewhere else.

An older man walks in my direction and spits in the trash can in the corner.

He sits down in the seat facing me.

He stands up again to spit in the trash can.

He fidgets with his duffle bag.

He's small, has white hair and leathery skin,

wears a blue work shirt, dark jeans and yellowed socks.

His black laced shoes are untied.

With a thick drawled out accent he ask me to watch his bag.

I don't understand his words, but I understand he wants me to watch his bag.

He walks off and a pigeon walks by my feet

inside

looking for food.

A man gets money from a machine.

A boy eats a bag of Cheetos with his mouth open, looking around.

I sneeze and look around.

Men walk fast in business suits and leather bags,

guys swagger with athlete jerseys and backpacks,

kids run in cartoon t-shirts.

An older lady with white hair wears a pink outfit that looks like her skin.

Young girls with long hair, tight jeans and halter tops,

security guards,

men in baseball caps and Nikes.

An Asian woman in a leather skirt and small black heels

bounces when she walks, bobs up and down.

I look at the clock 

and sigh.

Uncle Fred story featured at Empty Mirror

Empty Mirror spreadin' the love!

canned roast beef

Dad drinks Uncle Fred's Budweiser

and fumbles around in the kitchen
making tacos.
Greg Brown is on the stereo.
Uncle Fred is in his bedroom paying bills.
For a moment dad sings along with the music
and cuts up lettuce.
Motorcycles wind by Mulholland Highway.
Dad uses canned roast beef for his tacos,
and eats them standing at the counter.

Between Here and California

I've been feeling extremely nostalgic lately. I know it's a combination of things and I've always been a pretty nostalgic person. The passing of my Uncle Fred has made me step back, or maybe stumble is a better word. Ben leaving...and even this KONY 2012 stuff. I'm not going to get into it too much, but the scrutiny and now the unfortunate events that have happened in the past few days, have just made my heart want to jump out of my chest. My heart aches for the Russell family. I do believe this world is a beautiful place. I know it is every morning when I look outside and see the sun turning the sky pink through the trees. At dusk when the birds are all chirping at the moon rise and my son is asleep on my bed. I've been fortunate in my life to have family that have suffered through wars and addictions and lay-offs and bad times, but have always remembered to laugh and smile and take one day at a time. Life can be so ugly and painful and at the same time be so breathtakingly beautiful.

I've been yearning for those GE summer baseball games, dance contests and cherry cokes at the American Legion on Friday nights, snow cones and long country drives leading to nowhere with nowhere in particular in mind. I wouldn't even mind one more endless afternoon with my dad and Uncle Fred at the picnic table outside Uncle Fred's trailer. Too many beers and the stories are on repeat and the Wright Brothers are starting to "debate". I'd sit through a few more of those if I could. I've been lost in my memories the past few days. Remembering small meaningless moments that are like precious gems now. I'm collecting them and shining them up and putting them in safe places. Oscar will soon be creating memories and I wonder what they will be.  

I sit here typing onto the glowing background of my computer screen and looking at an old photograph of Uncle Fred at his typewriter. I miss just knowing that him and my dad are just a phone call away. I find myself reading comments on Uncle Fred's facebook wall over and over as a comfort. Every "like" equals a hug. 

The morning I found out my grandad Charlie passed away I had a dream that will forever be with me. My gramma and grandad were together (gramma passed away a few years before) and moving into a new apartment. Ben and I were visiting and helping them unpack their things. They both looked at us and reminded us that we could come visit anytime. They reminded me that they will always be here when I need them. When my dad passed away, for the first year I kept having dreams that he faked his death and he was actually still alive. A few felt so incredibly real that I would wake up thinking that maybe he was indeed still here, on the road between here and California. 

Fred Newman Wright 1940-2012

Uncle Fred and I once thought up a name for our dream bookstore. It would be called Tangents. I’ve always thought that would be a perfect name. We would model our bookstore after the one in Hermosa Beach that is no longer there…where he bought all his paperbacks in the early 60’s; Either Or Bookstore. I love finding an old faded construction paper bookmark from Either Or tucked in one of Uncle Fred’s books. It always brings me “back” to a time I only experienced through countless stories. That already makes me want to go off on a tangent. I’ve heard lots of stories about “those days”. Anyway, Tangents. Yes. Very fitting, for the Wright’s are capable of telling some long stories with lots of country roads that eventually circle back around to the beginning. We call that “trickle down” in our family. Telling long stories with plenty of meandering here and there, I’m pretty sure that’s in my DNA. Good spelling and grammar is not.

Uncle Fred stole my “b” (blanket) when I was still sucking my thumb. He was a prankster and at a young age he had my attention. When I was 11 he gave me an assignment to write him a story and we traded stories in the mail. Snail mail; hand written letters stuck in envelopes that you lick and stamps that cost 24 cents. Remember that? When I was 14 and started showing an interest in all things 1960’s, the floodgates were opened and I soon realized how lucky I was to be F.N. Wright’s niece. He called me “nappy joe”. My first trip to California to see him, I was 16. At the time he was dating “Too Tall Tina” and she was living with him. His place was spotless and organized. For those of you that know him, this was a deceptive first visit! I can remember sitting in his yellow chair in the corner and reading the entire “On The Road” in one night. He fed me Patchen, Brautigan, Miller, Ken Kesey and the Pranksters. This was magical stuff and I was hooked.

I would end up going to art school for college. During a semester in New York City I took a poetry class with William Packard at The New School. We had to do a biography on a poet so naturally I chose Kenneth Patchen. Uncle Fred gave me Miriam’s phone number and I got to interview THE Miriam Patchen for my paper. The magic!!!!! You can only imagine how this made me feel. I mailed my final (hand written) copy to Miriam in Palo Alto.

My first year in college I took the train from Chicago to Los Angeles for another visit. I traveled with garbage bags for luggage. My clothes had paint on them. I kept a journal and I felt like a poet, a true artist. I was young, free, and on my way to see my dad (Brother David) and Uncle Fred in sunny California. This was the first of a few train rides I would take to spend time out west.

For my 21^st birthday I received a box in the mail from my dad and Uncle Fred. Inside the box there were instructions that I MUST follow. Uncle Fred insisted that 1) purchase a rose and put it in my hair  2) open the package next the river and 3) take pictures. When I opened the gift, down by the river, with a rose in my hair, I opened the box to find an original copy of Kenneth Patchen’s Panels for the Walls of Heaven. The note said to “turn to panel 27 and read aloud”. This is what I read:

Right now I insist that

Right now some

Where a beautiful girl is

Sitting on the bank of a river

With a copy of

This

Book in

Her hands

And right now she has a

Rose in her hair oh

Jesus

RIGHT NOW!

When I graduated from college I got a tattoo of one of Patchen’s drawings on my back. The painting from the poem that reads All at once is what eternity is. Soon after I was tattooed, I took another trip out west. During this visit we took a road trip to Palo Alto to visit Miriam Patchen. Sitting in the living room, listening to Kenneth Patchen’s voice on the record player, with my dad and Uncle Fred and Miriam… If I could have stopped time I would have. On the coffee table sat my copy of the paper I wrote for poetry class, and the pictures of me with a rose in my hair, down by the river. That night I slept next to Miriam in the peaceable kingdom itself. We fed the black squirrels in the back yard. We ate Sara Lee cheesecake. We laughed and we cried. Miriam passed away 6 months after our visit, in her reading chair in her golden living room surrounded by books and art. It’s strange to think that all three of them, Miriam, my dad, and now Uncle Fred, have all passed away.

In 2001, just after 911, Ben and I found our selves living in a tent for 6 months outside Uncle Fred’s trailer. At the time Fred had a roommate named Ted. That was fun. He loved Ted and loved to pick on him. Those were some crazy times. Ben and I officially moved to Santa Monica in 2004 and stayed for three years. I feel so happy to have had the time I did with Uncle Fred. I’m not going to lie. It wasn’t always easy! He and my dad could be so stubborn and it wasn’t always easy to get Uncle Fred out of the house. For all the difficult and stressful times, I would do anything for one more hug. One more visit to The Rock Store. One more ride in the El Camino. One more evening of sitting on the sofa, listening to the Blues and the long repetitive stories with tangents that make your head spin.

Uncle Fred influenced me as an artist more than I could possibly express. I’ve got a magical family. I don’t know how else to put it. These are some special people and now it’s my responsibility to carry on that magic through my writing and my art. It’s time to step it up a notch. It’s hard right now to look back at the past few years, especially since my dad passed and since my son Oscar has been born. I feel myself regretting not calling enough. Why didn’t I call once a week? Once a month? Life is so precious and we get so caught up in the “every day” of it. I just assumed I would see him in May when he returned home to Mattoon. I am still trying to process his sudden departure. He just slipped right out the back door, just like my dad. But now they are having a hell-of-a-party somewhere in the heavens. Oh you can bet on that! I wouldn’t be surprised if him and Grandad Charlie are tossin a baseball. With all the sadness that comes with loosing Uncle Fred, I am so inspired by him and all of the friendships he has made. All of the lives he has touched because he was who he was; a storyteller with a heart of gold. It’s been so exciting to read all the comments on facebook and see all the creative lives he has influenced. I can only hope that I will be able to pass on even just a hint of that spark.

Right now I’m slowly going though boxes, searching for all those handmade cards, the handwritten letters, the postcards. I keep everything, every little sentimental piece of paper, and yes, that is “trickle down” thru and thru. Uncle Fred always used to say over the phone “I miss you whole bunches” and now I hear him saying that and it brings a tear to my eye. Right now I can only hope that I can even begin to be as prolific as him. He always looked ahead to the future, the new work, the new poems, the new paintings. He always had a project going. Thank you Uncle Fred for sharing your life with me. I’m gonna miss you whole bunches, UF without an O.

*the picture above starting at the left: One of Uncle Fred's handmade cards/Uncle Fred and I @ The Rock Store during my first visit when I was 16/ my "art" studio in college covered in WORDS! Trickle down :)