Lost & Found Art

After my mom passed away last spring 2011
I real­ized that there is so much won­der­ful
art that never gets shared.  I want to share
a lit­tle of what I find along my way in the world of art!

Jim Conniff’s Whim­si­cal “Out­sider” Sculptures

I stum­bled upon a 91 year old artist Jim Con­niff  “The Acci­den­tal Artist“
through twit­ter yes­ter­day and really liked his whim­si­cal sculp­tures.
His grand­daugh­ter, Clare Con­niff, is work­ing on sav­ing his work and
mak­ing a book and a video inter­view. They are 65 % funded
through Kick­starter. I think it’s great she’s doing this and wanted to
share it with every­one!
Here’s one of his pieces and you can help with the project by going to
Kick­start if it’s some­thing that inspires you!

The pickle mon­ster, I have heard
Some­times thinks that he’s a bird;
I find it quite a funny thing
To hear a pickle mon­ster sing.
It’s even fun­nier, say I,
To see a pickle mon­ster fly.

by Jim Conniff

 

Lin Sere­brin and Carla Chlouber’s work

I have a friend who is an artist, Judy Sere­brin,
whose dad, Lin Sere­brin, is an artist in his 90’s.
The fam­ily recently orga­nized and cat­a­logued his
art­work and this char­coal draw­ing of “Cats” caught
my eye because I felt it went per­fectly with my mom’s,
Carla Chlouber’s, poem “Sun­day Evening—-April 14, 1991″.

 

Sun­day Evening—-April 14, 1991

He fights me—

Our long-haired sil­ver cat

Whose tail is like

A plume of smoke.

All evening I’ve been brushing

The mat­ted fur from

His chest and belly,

Try­ing to extricate

The clumped hair with gentle

Strokes, but now I give

A hard tug and his claws

Catch my fingers

In retal­i­a­tion. His teeth

Find the side of my hand,

I drop the brush,

Pull back my arm,

And curse the cat

Under my breath.

 

On tele­vi­sion

Our coun­try is glorifying

War, cel­e­brat­ing the slaughter

Of a hun­dred thou­sand people.

Between com­mer­cials

For Chrysler and AT&T

We salute, parade tanks, wave

Flags, and sing about

Our love of freedom,

As if that had

Some­thing to do with

What we did.

 

The cat jumps on my lap,

Ready for battle

Again, I apply the brush

To pull at another

Small knot of gray fur

And cry out as he shreds

The skin of one knuckle,

Leav­ing it bleed­ing and raw.

 

Bob Hope, Ronald Reagan,

Gen­eral Pow­ell, Pres­i­dent Bush–

They are all there–

Smil­ing, wav­ing, cheering.

For almost two hours now

Hol­ly­wood patriots

Have filled the screen

With exul­ta­tion

Over our great victory,

Extolling the won­ders of war–

Mod­ern remote-control war,

New World Order kick-ass war–

And for almost two hours now

The only blood I’ve seen

is on my bony hand.

Poem by Carla Chlou­ber © 2012 Chlou­ber Estate

Art by © Lin Serebrin