wonderful writing, thank you 🙏. i was swept along, partially in your world and partially in my own parallel existence. also facing the firing squad of my nick knacks and spiritual icons and bling; years of accumulated connections and the resultant collections; attachments and memory pegs in equal measure. ~100,000 images on my phone, ranging from the banal to to my favoured experimental to the odd sublime capture. 5,000 books in boxes, ranging from the classics - however described - to the must reads to avant garde literature. all held; against the day when time an space and circumstance will provide the opportunity to soak in the talent and the exploration of the true explorers, the true courageous pioneers and creative muses. greedy for life and insight and understanding, i want it all. now. and the ghost of the mute, constipated writer ever standing just in the shadows of the forest edge; ever watching and scanning and willfully doing nothing with the pen or keyboard; watching, contemplating, second guessing, using any and all excuses and rationalizations to avoid the risks - perceive or real - associated with self disclosure and genuine openness and vulnerability. hilarious in context when considering the brevity of our corporeal existence in this incarnation, knowing in my core that there is nothing to lose, except the familiar, comfortable traveling companions of my own familiar demons, fear and hallucinations. dear friends, the day is rapidly approaching when we too must say goodbye. dropping slowly, intentionally, reluctantly those fragments of identity statement; attempts at self description and understanding and meaningful substance. the long sought, desperately longed for, sense of coming home to self. greatly supportive as the boat carrying me across the uncertain waters containing both my imagination and my deepest fears. arriving at the far shore will require me to leave behind that carefully, painstakingly constructed persona and shield and mask; requiring me to abandon the fragile coracle of my ego on the beach, turn away from it, and walk away without looking back. oh the terror, the frisson, and the possibilities; the opportunity to return home at last. all as easy - and excruciatingly hard - as walking intentionally into the unknown, the unknowable. future. call me in; i am ready! i fervently hope that i am - truly - ready ...
This was a great chunk of writing ... but I after reading I wanted to know: a) how you got money; b) how much did you get from your most expensive painting; c) how did Yasmin come into your life and what were a few things that made you guys click; d) what was kicking cocaine like; e) do you still drink; f) What about the rental truck trip - LA - Carolina - Portland (?); g) I got a hint about your art and I have a hunch that you are really good - still doing art ?? All this could be none of my business but your writing made me curious ...
I can indulge that, sure. I bartended all throughout my mid-twenties and mid thirties. Even drove for uber in the down times. I sold a portrait of a man with a flower to a buddy of mine. It was a large painting and I was desperate and sold it for $500, which is fairly cheap for its size. My wife and I met through her viewing my paintings on instagram. I don't remember what kicking cocaine was like it came rather naturally. I kinda just said enough. I drink a little here and there. Much less. The rental truck was from LA up to Portland, no Carolina. I still paint, yes, everyday. Will probably paint here a little later on...
Just checked it out: I love your work! My art background is being raised by an artist - my mom - and being dragged through every Seattle art gallery once a month during the late 1960s; I think I have an uncertified Masters Degree in Art Appreciation and another in Art History ... many congrats on your exciting work ...
wonderful writing, thank you 🙏. i was swept along, partially in your world and partially in my own parallel existence. also facing the firing squad of my nick knacks and spiritual icons and bling; years of accumulated connections and the resultant collections; attachments and memory pegs in equal measure. ~100,000 images on my phone, ranging from the banal to to my favoured experimental to the odd sublime capture. 5,000 books in boxes, ranging from the classics - however described - to the must reads to avant garde literature. all held; against the day when time an space and circumstance will provide the opportunity to soak in the talent and the exploration of the true explorers, the true courageous pioneers and creative muses. greedy for life and insight and understanding, i want it all. now. and the ghost of the mute, constipated writer ever standing just in the shadows of the forest edge; ever watching and scanning and willfully doing nothing with the pen or keyboard; watching, contemplating, second guessing, using any and all excuses and rationalizations to avoid the risks - perceive or real - associated with self disclosure and genuine openness and vulnerability. hilarious in context when considering the brevity of our corporeal existence in this incarnation, knowing in my core that there is nothing to lose, except the familiar, comfortable traveling companions of my own familiar demons, fear and hallucinations. dear friends, the day is rapidly approaching when we too must say goodbye. dropping slowly, intentionally, reluctantly those fragments of identity statement; attempts at self description and understanding and meaningful substance. the long sought, desperately longed for, sense of coming home to self. greatly supportive as the boat carrying me across the uncertain waters containing both my imagination and my deepest fears. arriving at the far shore will require me to leave behind that carefully, painstakingly constructed persona and shield and mask; requiring me to abandon the fragile coracle of my ego on the beach, turn away from it, and walk away without looking back. oh the terror, the frisson, and the possibilities; the opportunity to return home at last. all as easy - and excruciatingly hard - as walking intentionally into the unknown, the unknowable. future. call me in; i am ready! i fervently hope that i am - truly - ready ...
Raw and yet exquisite! 🙏🏽
❤
Seventh or eight pair, probably. ha!
Side note- need more rugs! And mirrors...
Ha. We will. I am sure.
You are a very good writer. The best or one of the best I have ever read here. Thanks.
Dude you hit the jackpot and kept your integrity as an artist. Magnificent!
I have my own little oasis in the Northwoods of Michigan amidst the trout streams and bears, but alas no girlfriend.
hi judson. wicked interesting and fun to read. i've done it too. shed skin. move on. yea, man. thanks the nice pic of you and yasmin. keep going!
Right on, JaCee. Very cool..
This was a great chunk of writing ... but I after reading I wanted to know: a) how you got money; b) how much did you get from your most expensive painting; c) how did Yasmin come into your life and what were a few things that made you guys click; d) what was kicking cocaine like; e) do you still drink; f) What about the rental truck trip - LA - Carolina - Portland (?); g) I got a hint about your art and I have a hunch that you are really good - still doing art ?? All this could be none of my business but your writing made me curious ...
I can indulge that, sure. I bartended all throughout my mid-twenties and mid thirties. Even drove for uber in the down times. I sold a portrait of a man with a flower to a buddy of mine. It was a large painting and I was desperate and sold it for $500, which is fairly cheap for its size. My wife and I met through her viewing my paintings on instagram. I don't remember what kicking cocaine was like it came rather naturally. I kinda just said enough. I drink a little here and there. Much less. The rental truck was from LA up to Portland, no Carolina. I still paint, yes, everyday. Will probably paint here a little later on...
judsonvereen.com is where much of my work can be found.
Thanks for reading, Dex!
Just checked it out: I love your work! My art background is being raised by an artist - my mom - and being dragged through every Seattle art gallery once a month during the late 1960s; I think I have an uncertified Masters Degree in Art Appreciation and another in Art History ... many congrats on your exciting work ...