In the works...

Finals

write up!

" Kris Cowen + J.R.Uretsky's installation art brings together the intimate, the voyeuristic, and the abstract. Inviting the viewer to get close and nestle into the earpiece of an oversized audio cone, the viewer is then cradled by narratives of a false pregnancy alarm and imaginings of possible offspring."
-fineartbase.org

new work...

Wall detail...

Video detail...

30 baby sculptures...






more to come...

do come.

any work worthy of the day's maidenhood- WB

...Continued:

The days following my last blog were sweet and informative ones. The mornings in Connecticut are pink and bright and I, being a slave to routine, salute every sunrise with a shitty cup of coffee and then christen the day by stabbing the yellow eye of an egg.

I've thought more about the concept of religiously traumatizing myself and came to a new conclusion. The tone of my last blog was burdened by a familiar ideology, the sort of thought that covers wounds and cancer with the fall of Adam- masks the cruelty of God's omnipotence with the stupidity of man's free will; the old "pillar of salt" jingle, the you were perfect until you fucked it up, you were a christian and then you weren't. It's the fall. It's my fault. I think I need a new theology.

And so, I return to the morning, I fall back on what I know: when I was a christian my mornings would consist of reading and prayer, when I was afraid of being ugly my mornings would induce jogging. Now that I'm finally comfortable, be it pagan or ugly, I will toast the day, stab a egg, put my hands to work and listen.

Along these lines...

With the threat of hell hanging over my head like a halo
I was made to believe in a couple of beautiful truths
That eventually had thee effect of completely unraveling
The powerful curse put on me by you

When you set the table
When you chose the scale
Did you write a riddle that you knew they would fail
Did you make them tremble
So they would tell the tale
Did you push us when we fell

If my mother cries when I tell her what I discovered
Then I hope she remembers she taught me to fallow my heart
And if you bully her like you done me with fear of damnation
Then I hope she can see you
[ David Bazan Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
for what you are

When you set the table
When you chose the scale
Did you write a riddle that you knew they would fail
Did you make them tremble
So they would tell the tale
Did you push us when we fell

What am I afraid of?
Who did I betray?
In what medieval kingdom does justice work that way?
If you knew what would happen
And you made us just the same
Then you my Lord can take the blame

lyrics from "When we fell" by David Bazan

Driving Petah Coyne to the train station and driving home in tears.

The title of this piece is the only way I know how to start writing about my experiences today: first, looking at the work of Petah Coyne, a New York based sculptor, then listening to Coyne speak about her work, and finally driving her to the train station.

Driving Petah Coyne to the train station and driving home in tears.

Petah was a Catholic and now she isn't; however, her work is profoundly religious. Her sculptures are physical narratives ridden with beauty and tragedy, they are redemptive while being as heavy and quiet as cancer. Her work seems fidgety and uneasy as if her sculptures had just realized they were, in fact sculptures, made to always be looked at.

As she spoke I sat in the crowd amongst my peers whom I love and hold little back from. The first year MFA's seem to need each other though rarely do we actually touch each other. The lack of physicality only bothers me in moments like this: moments where I really need someone to just fucking hug me. Moments when affirmation or encouragement, seem as distant as Christ in the flesh. In these moments I need the violent love of Eleanor or Annabel or Kris, but they're not here and I am too much of a pussy to walk over to Ben, bury my face in his chest, and just fucking weep.


Of course, Ben walks into my my studio the very moment I type that paragraph and the mostly dead christian magician buried inside me waves his white "miracle" flag. I read Ben the pervious paragraph and he hugged me; he smelt like coffee, and I felt the way a little kid must feel when they are in a supermarket and accidently grab the leg of a stranger instead of their mother.

How do I exist in the midst of miracles? My 45 minutes with Petah Coyne was a miracle. When she got into my car she offered me a Halls and I took it. She was amazed by my GPS system and we talked about faith and how it will never leave her or I despite our attempts to divorce it. I walked her to the train station where she hugged me and told me with her striking blue eyes that it was going to be ok. I started to cry and she kept looking at me, forcing me to look into her crazy baby blues as I fought against them and her and god. She wished me luck and asked me to contact her if I ever figure out what makes my work so feminine [she had seen a sculpture of mine the day before].

I cried all the way home. Losing your faith is traumatizing; furthermore, discovering that you have been traumatized is absolutely horrific. People who are traumatized usually have been victimized, which means I had been victimized by my own faith. Traumatized victims typically have someone to blame, someone to forgive, someone to attempt closure with; however, my faith was my own. Remember, I had a personal relationship: religion based on a god that was interested in my response to his gentle knocking on my heart.


...to be continued.

new pad pt.1

New studio....

...it's rather epic.





A new project, based off of one of Ben's paintings....





These babies will go in an on-campus show on the 2nd, along with a video titled "drink" and a mini Fear Out Front performance.


here is the show card...


I will post a more elaborate blog soon; most likely tonight because god knows I cannot sleep in my haunted house...more on that later.

I am hungry.

The Mississippi

Illinois gives and gives, like December when your mother is a Catholic and your father's a Jew. It is a land that hands out hip-like hillsides and giant Lincoln heads. The first thing Illinois have me was sleep. The moment we pointed the car toward the Mississippi boundary line, my fat red steed, steered by Kris, was welcomed by the quiet ghosts of Abe Lincoln's caracole nurses who cradled and rocked and hummed voodoo hymns as I slept and slept. Kris woke me just before we crossed the syllable ridden water mass. I have always been so proud to spell that word, M-I-SS-I-SS-I-PP-I mississippi.

Kris pulled into a rest stop so we could relieve all the coffee and fruit of the morning. Stalls: short doored and chrome, silver closets with holes. I loved them. I fell in line between two occupied closets, joined in with the human tugboat song, washed, and went outside to a wood and rubber playground. I fell into some sort of spell. Perhaps it was Lincon's slaves again, maybe it was their children, yes it was! All those children who had finished their work for the day and were now ready to play. "Monk-ey Bars, monk-e- bars!" they chanted pumping their tiny blue fists in the air. I crossed the monkey bars once then turned and looked back at them with distain. The cushy pads of my hands throbbed and my ring finger screamed. The engagement band Kirs had given me was stabbing me to death. I quickly took the ring off and shoved it in my pocket along with all my fears of being a wife, an adult, a someone who cares for someone other than herself. I crossed the monkey bars, quaking as I went, then moved on to a balance beam. I walked the beam first looking downward, chin to chest keeping myself steady with an monstrous unicorn horn scraping an invisible groove into the wooden plank below. I walked the squared tree again, this time looking up prodding and fingering my way with my toes. There is something to be said about feeling with your feet rather than your eyes. I was proud to walk with my chin up, back and forth on the plank spinning like an ice-skater at the ends, one hundred and eighty degrees then back down tree. I was free, I was playing, I was Jimmy fucking Hendrix. I attempted the plank with my eyes closed but I kept falling before I could take my first step. Kris attempted the blind plank, hurling himself into air skipping over the plank like black oval stones over water, he got halfway before he fell. He did it again and then once more; not thinking just throwing like he did when he was a little boy- like he did when he asked me to marry him. We swung on black swings and I had swung so high I could see over the crossbeam. This was my new horizon, somewhere between the earth and the expanding insulation foam clouds. The ghost children had left, Kris and I were playing now.

somewhere in the middle

Nebraska is my new least favorite state. Nebraska is a wasteland; fertile only with corn, pitched-barns, junk cars and bad costumer service. Kirs is filled with quiet joy this afternoon; however, he has been less excited by the landscape since we entered homely old Nebraska. Nevertheless, even now as Nebraska sustains it's Bb aesthetics Kris whistles, smiles, and blows puckery, baby kisses at me.

I am bored.

Today, I will break Kris. No one could be this pleasant all the time, and god-dammit I am going to prove that. I will turn the front seats of this car into a coffin and close the both of us up in it. Kris will be the paralyzed sucker buried still alive and I will be the bugs, the earth, the crazy quiet and the burgundy dark. I will be the smell of wood chips and dirt. I will poke his nipples and stick stuff in his beard until the granite slab above us vibrates with his ghost.

A used straw, a zip-tie, a paper plane folded from a gum wrapper, a banana clip, and a small battery made their way into his beard before he politely asked me to stop. The Banana clip fell out, I frowned, and Kris tilted his chin up so I could reapply the clip. He shook the nicknacks from his magical beard; all of them rained from the peppery cloud except the paper plane. The wrapper plane remained nuzzled in the glorious wiry mess hiding from Kris, and glaring at me like a cat under a deck. I watched the plane for a few moments until it finally plummeted to the valley of his clavicle. He giggled, that son-of-a-bitch.



Iowa is the meth head - thieving- Jan Brady of the United States. I hate it more than Nebraska. Kris and I stupidly attempted to say at "Relax Motel" who's caregiver was a wobbly scarecrow of a man. I suspected our scarecrow was being controlled telepathically by a grey and white cat with two collars who smirked at Kris upon our credit card exchange.

The room was filthy: hair in the sheets, moss on the toilet bowl, a fridge adorned with two Budlites and a ziplock back of meat. The air in the room was gelatinous, ghostly, and smelled like K-Fed. Upon his attempt to use the toilet Kris knew he wouldn't sleep if we stayed that night at "Relax Motel". Then Kris looked at me, his future wife, and decided we had to leave.

The twitchy scarecrow squealed at us and refused to refund our $50. I ate up the loss and drove to the Super 8 where we were offered a pool, laundry, and a work out room.

Mile 197 on 1-80 in Wyoming

Kris and I are excellent singers; loud and excellent like an overstuffed dryer or a bandsaw. I sing in violent break outs while Kris has been buzzing through audible wood slabs since I met him.

Kris is excited by everything. I often find myself wishing I knew the things I know now when I was a kid so that I could have been informed while still gazing through the awe-filled eyes of a child. "I wish I knew that when I was a kid," is a mantra Kris doesn't know; instead, he points out every plain and purple mountain.


He uses different voices when he sings: Scratchy Dylan voice, pseudo brit rocker voice, squealy- breathy Ween voice. He dances and collapse through each of them as I slip in and out of love with him. Big rocks excite him, red buildings are note worthy, and everything coming from the stereo is celebrated. Kris looks at the world through the eyes of a god he doesn't even believe in. For those who can see this way, everything is fascinating, brilliant, and inherently perfect. People with eyes framed by glorious-god-goggles can see the world as new while knowing all along the origin of everything. These people, people like Kris, not only have eyes that can see like god, but hands that can make anything, and chests burning with adventure though they are in no hurry to get any place.

I read him my writing about the god goggles and he says, "Wow baby you say some damn nice things about me."

"Well, I have been stuck in a car with you for a long, long time."

"And then you don't."

We laugh. He gets anxious and asks to return to Purple Rain. I am feeling introverted and am happy to see him go. "I would die for you" complete with hand motions, and I am annoyed that I am not annoyed by this. Instead I am fascinated, and secretly wish that the children we have not yet made, are as strange and beautiful as Kris.

In the slew of our curly-haired, make-believe offspring we'd inevitably produce one like me. A conflicted--baby. She would be born with a terribly conflicted name like Blanch or the feminine Michael. She would always want to scream and cry and shake her miniature cankled appendages at God, then feel bad for thinking it, or too lazy to actually follow through with it.

So, she'll brut. She'll watch her brothers and sisters in the front of the car, Dad's monster arm around the lot of them, pointing out stars , hills, windmills, contrasting colors, pitched roofs, phone lines, birds on phone lines, epic guitar riffs, construction and car crashes, grey factories, a forgotten piece of furniture, a thirsty landscape littered with the red block letters A-D-U-L-T, stray dogs, authentic american antelope, and stupid and beautiful people. Blanch- Michael would watch as her siblings smother each other with explanations about the root system of an oak tree or philosophy. Small Blanchy will sit on her prune hands as the kids in the front drop bombs on each other; bombs with plumply hand-pained ladies on them. The children of the front of Dad's car reined bombs of ethics and time/ space travel on each other until their brilliant child-minds burst all over, leaving the inhabitants of the car sick with the cancer of inquiry.


Our smug little daughter would sit in the back seat, arms folded over her fiery little chest, loving and hating her family for loving and gushing over one-anothers imperfections. Then I would touch her back, I would push my fingers in her brittle, baby spine until her mussels exhaled. She'd scowl at me like a cat and I will smile. I will show her how to reach her cubby arms up and stretch them behind her thumpy little head. I'd show my daughter how to lean into her own folded hands like a tiny wicker pillow. I will teach her to relax, I will teach her what her father first taught me.


I read this to Kris and he cooed and gushed as he always does, my lumber-jack cheerleader. I returned to my computer screen and gave in to the introverted me. Kris returned to his precious Dylan.

Then suddenly between some consonant and vowel we were parked, Kris was crying, and then, there at mile 197 on 1-80 somewhere in yellow-gray Wyoming we were engaged.

There was no one knee, no audience, no white horse. There was only Kris's red and naked face and my chubby ring finger wearing this strange metal like an itchy sweater. I had said yes. Kris was resting now. It was finished. What the hell does one say now? Just a moment ago he and I were so exposed: crying and laughing, cut open and bundled up. He asked me to marry him in a Wyoming ditch, among the wrappers and empty water bottles hogging the interior of my car, he looked me in my face and asked me to be his wife while I was still wearing my DEVO energy dome. It was the proposal of a working man, the wedding song of the everyday, we were two people sitting in our road-trip people filth and he asked me an inherently Kris question and I answered a very, very Jamie answer.