In previous posts I gave history of where my art and style began. The thought process and what I had hoped to achieve. What I really wanted and still desire from my art.

Many have said I am a lot better than I think. (This is news well recieved and pivtol to making everything come together)

I had definitions for my style and approach to art. I still at times wonder what others can tell me about and what they would call it. Many have said it is comic book style and that is what I went with. I never argued. I am an anthologist, anyone that can take one word and develope the stories through images as I can is so much more than an illustrator. I was viewing some gallaries today and liked a lot of what I saw. $500.00 art pieces from minds that showed an ingenuity many would envy. There was one piece that I like called "Blue Resistance." (You would never guess how the artist decided to illustrate that idea and when you see it, you will understand why it is worth $500.00)

I could never recreat it and I never would want to. They did a mighty job though.

Back to the discussion at hand.

I am producing all this work and I love every piece. They are my children as much as my books are my children. Every piece or work is worth so much more than any asking price. So I don't ask. I just bask in the memory of that day when I had my table, I had my solitude and my ideas and brought them to life on the canvas, showcased them online and shared with the world my most hidden expressions of thought.

I was 16 when I really began to delve into the world of art. I was 16 when I realized that I could do it all and could make a go of it and have a gallarie and a showcase and a moment to enlighten people of what love and loss is.

That is what I had hoped to do with "RED LOVE.," and "Howl for your love."

There is something so warming in the thought that Red Ridding Hood could really have loved the Wolf and never wanted to see him killed. Maybe she really loved the beast and how he made her feel. To feel anything is better than not feeling at all. His gaze would ravish her and the blush of red that flashed her cheeks as he looked at her from across the field that seperated them. Any field, the fields of success, the fields of family ties, the fields of expectations;

Expecting a wolf to ever become civilized and roam the city streets with her, without making the town people throw pitch forks and flamed torches, constantly harranging her to stick with her own kind.

Kind, Kind: the very word implies that she or any man are something more than beasts: When she is alone with the wolf the truth is realized and it is only through acceptence of her role in the order of life could she ever come to terms with having loved the pelt that kept her warm at night.

Why was the seperation so hard?

Why did it take an Axe to grind things back into it's proper place?

Because love cuts deep, especially when it is unrequitted.

I could relate to the Wolf as a child growing up. Not  only because all the older women suggested I had the eyes of a wolf, or would joke and call me a wolf. That was only ironic. No, I related to the Wolf because deep down that beast desired love. So when the love was denied and rejection became a constant spoon full of medicine to keep my aritisic mind sedated and my family would not seek to cultivate this skill;

I had decied to Howl like a wolf for all the other artists, waving the red banner of love for expression, cheering the crowds that surrounded me and never denying those I find with this gift, the encouragement that is needed to be remember for more than the beasts that we are.