Travels into North America. Crystal Fischetti. Suitcase. Departure Lounge. Chelsea College of Art, London.
Do whatever it takes, get ready to let go of everything you know, be different, be, do have, imagine it is already here…
All the mantras in the world could not have prepared me for the enormous MONSTER that is Los Angeles December 2015.
I was already on the plane, worked so hard for this SPECIAL Artist visa ‘of extraordinary talent’. Overwhelm. The Best of Britain.
Was I going to be found out? Was I worthy?
I only wanted to continue the abstract legacy. From German Expressionism, French Expressionism, post Nazi’s while Peggy Guggenheim escaped the grab, New York School, LA, a fleeting dance before Warhol went to New York with his soup cans, left the Ferus Group in drunken, debauched, delirious Venice Beach in the 60’s. All actors, all would have beens.
Home for me was Venice Boulevard and Pacific to an airbnb home, later became friends… friends, friends? Loyal? Hart, she stole my style, no apology.
Temp routes in Mar Vista living close to gun shot gang shimmying range.
A boyfriend. Engineer. Capoeira. Santa Monica. My heart away, heartbreake so severe
I saw the devil in a dream in skin and blood and bones in a dream,
A call for change, to leave the Fame City
Want want want. Get get get. Any means possible. This was not me.
Three months of rain not seen in 7 years. Three months of crying in and out of my delirium. Did I make that?
A painting sold for $4,000 plus tied me over three months, my rent, my food, my health, my fitness, my paint, but it didn’t fill the void.
Cheated. Cheated. Cheated.
Hawaii. First time. One month. Felt like 8 months. No meat. Animals spoke to me. She spoke to me. 33. Year of Our Lord, He called me. Way of the Lightworker, the Truth Sayer, be kind to one another and be true to self,
More healing, depths of Atlantis.
Saw people but I was a ghost. Liberated.
An expo on the spiritual in a hotel, near the airport, Los Angeles. In between trips
A guy, a snake, he owned one, boa, Colombia, cabal, Kabbalah, the sorcerer, I didn’t know this.
Hooked he hooked me in like a fish that needed air, water into his trap, fungus opening, high castle, full of dust and empty dreams just for my DNA,
Aliens. Alien contact. Many times. Surgery.
Another heartbreak. A waste. I didn’t give my heart away. I new the magick this time it’s an illusion. Smokes and Mirrors. Magic. A cheap way to get high.
All of the Beat country, from On the Road, Kerouac, back and forth LA staying at Nikki’s in Mar Vista LA, a southern belle with tattoos, poet Erika on typewriter and music playing on streets. I was part of the ‘gang’, painting murals, commissioned by the City, TV, magazines, museum accolade, i’ld made it but was empty, there was nothing of me. Off to Norcal with the greyhound with piss heads and drug carriers to Napa and Sonomy wine and weed country, before it was legalized.
It blazed over, it blazed down, devestated all nature, for months…
A Tinkerbell I cherished dearly another compromise, I miss her, we both wanted a stable love, women’s circle, sat with Indians, my tribe, my train, my tribe, medicine woman, way of the shaman. It goes on.
Back. Beverly Hills gallery, selling Dalì and Mirò, old master, new master, take me on, sell my work, let me go. $5000 one painting they took 70%. Another heartbreak. Young American.
Enough. On my own. I am my own agency. Sell sell sell and I do.
Empty. Something is missing.
Culture void of Cult-ure. Genuine connections, constance, love, no barriers.
Travels into North America. Suitcase. Departure Lounge. Chelsea College of Art, London.