October 10th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
[continued from Working at Cross-Purposes (pt. 2)]
I’m the kind of person who always has a host of mid-process projects cluttering the corners of both their home and mind. Some of these projects are just dormant seeds I squirrel away for decades at a time. Others blossom more quickly … and some stall.
The devotional cabinet and crucifix lay in hibernation for almost a year.
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September 28th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
[continued from Working at Cross-Purposes (pt. 1)]
There must be something about autumn because, here I am, a year later, back on this project.
As mentioned in the first part of this rambling, incoherent stream of blasphemy, after finishing the crucifix project, I became more and more aware that I wasn’t done, yet, that the crucifix was just one small part of a larger piece.
How was I to know, that fateful day when I picked up the chunky, wooden crucifix with the corny, plastic corpus on it from the shelf at Goodwill, that it would lead to me building a devotional cabinet?
Well it did.
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August 8th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
detail of unfinished piece, acrylic on canvas 3′ x 2′
I’ve never really indulged my painting urge. I yearn off and on for the capacity and thus, occasionally dabble but it remains one of those things least often attended to in my panoply of petty distractions. Maybe four short, concentrated periods prior to this one. As I’ve mentioned too many times before, I grew up feeling incapable of art and something about painting terrifies me.
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August 1st, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
acrylic on canvas 2.5″ x 3.5″
Upended unreeling
Bereft and unfeeling
There
Up near the ceiling
Am I
Am I?
July 29th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
acrylic on canvas 2.5″ x 3.5″
“Paint as you like and die happy” – Henry Miller
April 11th, 2013 by Corey A. Edwards
November 23rd, 2012 by Corey A. Edwards
December 22nd, 2010 by Corey A. Edwards
July 5th, 2010 by Corey A. Edwards
He wasn’t sure when it began but it seemed that now, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t escape it.
It was everywhere. In the chrome of the toaster, rippling up at him from the surface of his morning’s coffee, in the smear of color playing across the glassed face of a clock. He’d lean forward to turn off the TV and, if the light was right, there it was, staring back at him from the grey of the still dying tube: the face.
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