ONE
Content and Expression
content and expression come together to form e
content and expression blue and orange be
one does not exist without the other
essential reflections of one another
pigments and thoughts
complements and knots
collected form a whole
colored e goes for a stroll
es see es
unique qualities
e is the process
ingredients under stress
shade, tint, hue
and various points of view
allow meaning to be found
and explain why the world is round
allow each other to makes traces
share and trade places
realization
calm chaos of formation
so acceptance has a flavor
that we can use in our favor
e does not travel light
but blue and orange might
and the paths not taken
leave the colors shaken
as the colors in between
fight to be seen
what is not said
is also said
and crafts the essence of me
all my signs and qualities
enveloped
meanings developed
an envelopment of difference
indifference
an infinity of processes too
relative and reversible blue
forces on angles
in circles not triangles
points of impact
duality is abstract
a diagram of a process of becoming
finding meaning in ones humming
evaporation
destination
unraveled moments connect
but they not reducible to an object.
A slash of Blue
A slash of Blue-
A sweep of Gray-
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky-
A little purple-slipped between-
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on-
A Wave of Gold-
A Bank of Day-
This just makes out the Morning Sky.
-Emily Dickinson
Southern Sunrise
Color of lemon, mango, peach,
These storybook villas
Still dream behind
Shutters, their balconies
Fine as hand-
Made lace, or a leaf-and-flower pen-sketch.
Tilting with the winds,
On arrowy stems,
Pineapple-barked,
A green crescent of palms
Sends up its forked
Firework of fronds.
A quartz-clear dawn
Inch by bright inch
Gilds all our Avenue,
And out of the blue drench
Of Angels' Bay
Rises the round red watermelon sun.
-Sylvia Plath
Dear Emily Dickinson,
I made a collection (or cento) of your blues. It seems you liked blue too. I am a collector.
Do the blue havens by the hand
A slash of Blue
Who spun the breadth of blue!
By withes of supple blue?
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Beneath his faded Jacket’s blue-
From inns of molten blue.
Or its advantage – Blue –
Heaven does not change her blue.
Than gain – My Blue Peninsula
The Ocean’s Heart too smooth – too Blue –
Yet Blue – and solid-stood-
And tumble-Blue-on me-
Or Blue Beard’s Galleries-
Blue Sea! Wilt welcome me?
Prodigal of blue,
Obscured with ruddier Blue-
Blue is Blue –the World through-
For-hold them-Blue to Blue-
And Blue Monotony
Her Dimities-of Blue-
The Noon unwinds Her Blue
A blue and gold mistake.
Then made Blue faces in my face-
And blue-beloved air!
With the blue-birds buccaneering
Straits of Blue
Prickled Blue and Cool
Dear Sylvia Plath,
I do not like your use of blue. I collected it and threw it away. I wrote this instead...
Boring blue
wasted blue
unappreciated blue
took blue for granted
don’t understand blue
passed over
looked over
overused
substance less blue
burnt out blue.
& nothing rhymes with orange?
two
Content and Expression Revisited
Watercolor Watermelons
paraphrased pink
slipped across the paper
thoughts think
and water becomes vapor
tucked tracings
beg for existence
love lacings
no longer at a distance
fluid flush
drew the day
ready rush
the fear went away
sandwiched seeds
here, there, everywhere
layered leads
become colored square
pleasantly paused
raised the question
content caused
or eloquent expression
teal tantra
what came first
meaningful mantra
symbiotic burst
calmly connected
crafted in the process
confusion corrected
circular progress
momentous moves
paint pools together
amalgam approves
despite the cool weather
mapped measure
the seeds and the rind
painted pleasure
for you to find
flexible flight
stuck in the middle
as dark as the night
and part of the riddle
pieces played
and content became expression
e strayed
but left an impression
colored conclusion
reversible expression and content
icy illusion
melted process present
balancing blues
content and expression be
highlighted hues
and this is me.
Three
(mapping and tracing) e
Process:
(mapping and tracing) e is collection of erasure poems and responses. Christine and myself created these poems over the course of about a month. A great deal of time went into each poem. For me, the process of creating an erasure poem started off as a therapeutic task in which I would cross (or paint) out words (mostly those lacking the letter e). I would then revisit the page removing more words from the text. Next, I would sit with it and use the words and letters as tools to create meaning. Finally, I would read the poem several times until it made sense in my head with all of its pauses, breaks, etc. These poems are most effective when read by the artist.
(back cover) Summary:
(mapping and tracing) e is an assemblage of poems and expressive responses. It is a book about being, connection, and self-discovery. “e” is the most commonly used letter of the English alphabet. This collaborative work uses the letter “e” as a metaphor for life. (mapping and tracing) e shares the serendipitous encounters of two artistic explorers. Sometimes “e” is found down unexpected avenues. We hope you can find a piece of you in e.
Selected Poems:
i
September was swift. It came and went.
September was stubborn. It wouldn’t bend. September was stuck. It didn’t know what to do. September was safe. It didn’t take any risks. September was sad. It was alone again. September was scared. It saw time. September was scheduled. It had a plan. September was school. It had shit to do. September was scorn. It was judged. September was a second. It was gone in a flash. September was selfish. It wanted it all. September was sensible. It had it figured out. September was sensitive. It gave a shit. September was a sentence. It was a brief moment. September was separate. It was not itself. September was shallow. It thought only of itself. September was shame. It couldn’t do anything right. September was shape. September liked circles. September was short. It couldn’t reach the top shelf. September was shot. It was injured. September was silver. It was not gold. September was similar. It was not unique. September was skill. It had none. September was slang. It made short of things. September was small. It was just a piece. September was smog. It was fog. September was smoke. It came close. September was soap. It slipped away. September was soft. It didn’t discomfort. September was sorry. It didn’t mean to. September was sound. It had none. September was soup. It ate some. September was space. It was out there. September was split. It was away. September was square. It thought inside the box. September was standard. It was boring. September was steep. It had a big climb to make. September was sticky. It left a mark. September was still. It didn’t move. September was stone. It was rough. September was a stranger. It was not a friend. September was stress. It had to much on it’s mind. September was sudden. It came without warning. September was sufficient. It had enough. September was salad. September is the subject. September was me. What was September? |
ii
November brushed the leaves with colour it washed away the green it bruised the earth with its muller and gave it a new sheen Personalities pushed palettes lifted in the air pigment was ambushed as the leaves fell like hair So the color was diluted as it dissolved into the blue and the mind was polluted the ground changed its point of view The concrete rejected the shades that unwelcomed feet set in so she tied her words in braids so as to let December begin. |
iii
I sit in the blue ring
with the clear plastic cellophane
and a green rock
stare at my toes
and think about e
feeling disconnected
I turn it all the way to red
silver scents fill my eyes
and sparkles converse
converge
and fight their way off my skin
now also red
like the voice in my head
so I turn it back to blue.
“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.” -John Lennon
iv
An Honest E
“My only source is my studio practice. I don’t work from ideas prior to practice. I am in the world therefore the world is in my paintings.” –Dona Nelson
vi
point of view = through who's or what's eyes
voice = making presence known
narrative = purpose and reason and why
characters = a reflection of what
dialogue = immediacy
translation = creating meaning out of nothing
investigation = wandering and wondering
signification = e
representation = layers
vii
snapshots, moments, polaroids
e and circles
and littered hats
like standing in the dark
with clear colored chemicals
waiting to smell the smallest moment
to hear it reveal itself
chemical reaction
but call it all paint.
A RED HAT.
A dark grey, a very dark grey, a quite dark grey is monstrous ordinarily, it is so monstrous because there is no red in it. If red is in everything it is not neces- sary. Is that not an argument for any use of it and even so is there any place that is better, is there any place that has so much stretched out.
- Gertrude Stein
COLORED HATS.
Colored hats are necessary to show that curls are worn by an addition of blank spaces, this makes the difference between single lines and broad stomachs, the least thing is lightening, the least thing means a little flower and a big delay a big delay that makes more nurses than little women really little women. So clean is a light that nearly all of it shows pearls and little ways. A large hat is tall and me and all custard whole.
- Gertrude Stein
VIII
everything is falling
e reminds e that it is e
e switches colors
secret e
a change of scenery
and a whistled toon
es are reminders
e is everywhere
everything
like paint
e is a circle
e is round
circles have baggage
I am round.
ix
1
round e
circles are tied in knots
they do not break or bend
circles are life’s spots
they have no beginning or end
I believe I like words more than paint
although I cannot use them as well
but I can twist e without complaint
and watch the symbols gel
our own meanings are created
as we try to understand
so simply stated
I like to keep e and circles at hand
everything is connected
and that’s why e is round
in a world so disconnected
simplicity I have found
The world is full of stories
but the stories are all one
so why do we need categories
when really there are none
We experience things in different ways
but it all comes back around
have you ever had one of those days
where you heard another’s sound
I like the sound of e
and the noise that doesn’t stop
it’s a pretty common letter you see
and it spins me nonstop
so you can choose where to start
but end I’m not sure you will
because time is a circular art
and e is everything still.
ACCEPT
UNDERSTAND
2
Teal Porrini (1991-)
Steven Alexander (1953-)
Vernon Fisher (1943- )
Edward Ruscha (1937- )
Jasper Johns (1930- )
Duchamp (1887-1968)
Odilon Redon (1840-1916)
Delacroix (1798-1863)
Pierre-Narcisse Guerin (1774-1833)
Jean-Baptiste Renault (1754-1829)
Jean Bardin (1732-1809)
Louis Jean Francois Lagrenee (1724-1805)
Carle Van Loo (1705-1765)
Benedetto Luti (1666-1724)
Anton Domenico Gabbiani (1652-1726)
Vincenzo Dandini (1607-1675)
Pietro da Cortona (1596-1669)
Andrea Commodi (1560-1648)
Cigoli (1559-1613)
Allessandro Allori (1535-1607)
Bronzino (1503-1572)
Pontormo (1494-1557)
Leonardo (1452-1519)
Andrea del Verrocchio (1435-1488)
Filippo Lippi (1406-1469)
Massaccio (1401-1428)
Giotto (1266-1337)
Cimabue (1240-1302)
I would like to but I’m lost
small because I’m modest
cant take up too much space
won’t work because I have no words
sometimes get in the way
discarded because I’m done
shouldn’t look anymore
ashamed because I’m not proud
can’t get behind
tired because I need time
take too much
shaking because I’m not ready
but I was told I was.
Steven Alexander (1953-)
Vernon Fisher (1943- )
Edward Ruscha (1937- )
Jasper Johns (1930- )
Duchamp (1887-1968)
Odilon Redon (1840-1916)
Delacroix (1798-1863)
Pierre-Narcisse Guerin (1774-1833)
Jean-Baptiste Renault (1754-1829)
Jean Bardin (1732-1809)
Louis Jean Francois Lagrenee (1724-1805)
Carle Van Loo (1705-1765)
Benedetto Luti (1666-1724)
Anton Domenico Gabbiani (1652-1726)
Vincenzo Dandini (1607-1675)
Pietro da Cortona (1596-1669)
Andrea Commodi (1560-1648)
Cigoli (1559-1613)
Allessandro Allori (1535-1607)
Bronzino (1503-1572)
Pontormo (1494-1557)
Leonardo (1452-1519)
Andrea del Verrocchio (1435-1488)
Filippo Lippi (1406-1469)
Massaccio (1401-1428)
Giotto (1266-1337)
Cimabue (1240-1302)
I would like to but I’m lost
small because I’m modest
cant take up too much space
won’t work because I have no words
sometimes get in the way
discarded because I’m done
shouldn’t look anymore
ashamed because I’m not proud
can’t get behind
tired because I need time
take too much
shaking because I’m not ready
but I was told I was.
3
5
What is painting?
Painting is responding and reacting to the world around us. It is interaction. It is a way to figure out life and existence. It reminds us that we are human and mortal. It is energy and presence.
Painting is responding and reacting to the world around us. It is interaction. It is a way to figure out life and existence. It reminds us that we are human and mortal. It is energy and presence.
Hi, my name is Teal. I like alliterations.
“The only thing that is different from one time to another is what is seen and what is seen depends upon how everybody is doing everything. This makes the thing we are looking at very different and this makes what those who describe it make of it, it makes a composition, it confuses, it shows, it is, it looks, it likes it as it is, and this makes what is seen as it is seen. Nothing changes from generation to generation except the thing seen and that makes a composition.”
—Gertrude Stein, “Composition as Explanation”
Statement:
Photography:
Electronic Dailies:
Repurposed Meaning:
Shy by a day
short by a staple
throw it away
a dash of disaster
paint it gray.
~
Fresh smell of wax
colored and flaking
for me.
Thrown in the bag
zipped and carried
plastic container.
Piled on old lacquered wood
pushed aside
waiting for that moment.
64 options
narrowed to 8
stolen.
False shame shed
thanks for that
neon confidence.
~
Fixated on fiction
or is it honesty
unsure.
Walk by
or stop and stare
mindful.
~
Poom, poom, poom, click, poom, shwoop, click, poom.
PAUSE.
RESUME.
Poom, poom, poom.
FOLD.
Poom.
~
Light blue
the walls miss you.
~
Muddy green cover
yellowed white
sugary scent
colored object
plastic impression.
~
Understood
pure navy warmth
brown gaze
liquored fears
echoed voice
tinfoil tears.
~
Cobblestone paths
buttered walls
sitting with you
listening
living
tangerine tomorrows.
~
Mobile material
fallen fabric
worn and worn
painting the pavement
boring or bored
seams next to cracks
folds next to bends
lost litter
perhaps it depends.
~
I found these in a book
these yellow circle stickers
screaming at me to stop
caution slow down
so I stick one securely stuck
and flip my frown.
~
I write poems.
I paint paintings.
I write paintings.
I paint poems.
I write paint.
I paint write.
Poems write me.
Paintings paint me.
I paint.
~
e edit emulsion
~
drunk on words
not high
the words are always mine
twisted but not altered
failing but not fathered
birthed, formed, followed
meant not merely uttered
felt not floated
pondered
honest
wander
drunk
unaltered.
~
life is a series of images/moments
disorientingly beautiful
fond of the letter e
~
Organization
Disorganized organization
Train of thought
Touch
Intentions
Symbolism
What I’m not
Shame
Codes
Honesty
Acceptance
Rhizomes
~
(TO: Cecily Brown)
(FROM: Teal)
She titled her painting
and I knew we were going to be friends
with the noun of a word that I used as an adjective
as I adjusted out the door
Where are you going?
to a bacchanalian party
it was always a lie
foreignly funny
from an AP English course
painted furiously as the familiar color intake
distorted through the squares in the screen door
as I half turned before parting each evening
I miss that pixel view
orderly
and now I’m left with just this messy word
and oil on canvas.
~
It’s hard to work when the floor is so clean:
We talk about things
and you dismiss my daydreams
what the fuck are you talking about
my minds a mess
I won’t work
the floors to freakin’ clean
~
I used to think you could smell through the phone.
~
Sometimes I’m awkward
mental slap in the face
why did I say that
words work against me
but they’re not real either.
~
I am bright color forced abruptly and forcefully onto the surface I will call home. I am paint of all forms – watercolor, oil, acrylic, latex, etc. Sometimes I am not even traditionally termed paint but I still consider myself as such. I am a pigment in a binder used to create moments (as perceived by my manipulator). I am quick and humble and evocative. I am a member of a team of other colors who work together to create a cohesive whole. We chit chat about the world and our perceptions of it. When we drink too much caffeine you may find us running around all over the place to effectively capture what it is we are trying to say. We are and I am derived from observation but I am not a recreation. I am a response to time. A collaborator. Sometimes I am a precious response. Other times I am thrown into that plastic lined bin. It’s dark in there and you can’t see me anymore. Good. Sometimes I beg to be looked at. I often await your approval. I am a material conversation with a friend on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I search for truth and honesty.
Art of Disposal:

The discounted hand
admired
offered existence
evaluation
only for a moment
that’s how long it will last
Who cares?
Well I do.
E (for spontaneity):
A fist full of air
edges tear
patterns unpattern
is reality there?
A blanket fort
watch the world contort
lines line
pink plastic to sort.
A hand out the frame
don’t know your name
participation participates
and it’s not all the same.
A vermilion vault
time to a halt
malleable mind
don’t trust the default.
Things overlap
fall in between
fit inside
and are stained green.
We and they
sunset Fray
separates separate
blank stay.
Shelved scent
perceptions bent
boundaries bound
in the out went.
A sticky seal
reversible wheel
immeasurable measure
and the e (for evaporation) in teal.
A fist full of air
edges tear
patterns unpattern
is reality there?
A blanket fort
watch the world contort
lines line
pink plastic to sort.
A hand out the frame
don’t know your name
participation participates
and it’s not all the same.
A vermilion vault
time to a halt
malleable mind
don’t trust the default.
Things overlap
fall in between
fit inside
and are stained green.
We and they
sunset Fray
separates separate
blank stay.
Shelved scent
perceptions bent
boundaries bound
in the out went.
A sticky seal
reversible wheel
immeasurable measure
and the e (for evaporation) in teal.
Humble hums from overhead;
ordinary out of the blue echo;
even the tickling tune has been heard before
but not yesternoon you.
Today I’ll steal your sound.
ordinary out of the blue echo;
even the tickling tune has been heard before
but not yesternoon you.
Today I’ll steal your sound.
Dear James Lee Byars,
I need to know.
I will never know.
You will never receive this letter.
You are you no longer.
You know or knew and I am left to wonder.
A letter to a previous you.
The you that was.
Perhaps more of a letter to me.
Why the letter P?
Precious, pristine, perfect, peculiar, precise, pretty, and purposeful.
But, don’t forget personal.
I like the way you write.
Did you?
Letters and letters that produce a letter response.
Would you have sent one my way if you knew?
Send me something.
Why words?
Why impermanent pencil?
Why pink?
Why white?
Why tissue paper?
How?
Who?
I must know. I must.
Why?
Why squares and hearts?
But, more importantly, why CIRCLES?
Circle me that.
Why me?
Why you?
Whose letter is it now?
Sincerely,
your shoulda, coulda, woulda been friend
I need to know.
I will never know.
You will never receive this letter.
You are you no longer.
You know or knew and I am left to wonder.
A letter to a previous you.
The you that was.
Perhaps more of a letter to me.
Why the letter P?
Precious, pristine, perfect, peculiar, precise, pretty, and purposeful.
But, don’t forget personal.
I like the way you write.
Did you?
Letters and letters that produce a letter response.
Would you have sent one my way if you knew?
Send me something.
Why words?
Why impermanent pencil?
Why pink?
Why white?
Why tissue paper?
How?
Who?
I must know. I must.
Why?
Why squares and hearts?
But, more importantly, why CIRCLES?
Circle me that.
Why me?
Why you?
Whose letter is it now?
Sincerely,
your shoulda, coulda, woulda been friend
Experimentation of
paint poured on the floor
peeled and pulled
assemblages of thought
aggravated and annoyed
schizophrenic schizophrenia
sentences and slop
positive process
pressure and putdown
innovative innovation
ideas and identities
rootless research
red and read
evolution of idea.
Caught up in concept
failure to fully express
mental madness
thinking thoughts
feeling feelings
honestly honest
impressed impressions
certain circumstances
sign, signified, signifier
relationship
molded meaning
social seeing
my madness.
Intense intentional moments
handwritten decisions
abandoned in a blue box
in, out, over and around
between places and through hands
with meaning, without, and with again
kept by the door
compiled and considered
reassembled, reordered, rethought
wandering.
What if all I’m good at is seeing?
seeing potential
witnessing happiness
cast out by and onto
operating in a gap
creating presence
and allowing it to be enough
observing
lingering
wandering
collecting perceptions
a collector who doesn’t collect things
thinking about color
and time
points of view
moments
filtering through the bullshit
and lies
allowing my whole body to work with and for me
a sponge
looking
hearing
I am a monad.