West Eleven Opens Its Doors for The Brewery Artwalk Mar 31 & April 1, 2012 1

West Eleven is proud to open its doors as part of The Brewery Artwalk Spring 2012.
Come visit, in person, the paintings and installations, the stories, and me.

When: March 31 & April 1
Time: 11am- 6pm both days
Location: 642 Moulton Ave w-11 90031
Parking- plenty

Added bonuses- over 300 artists live here. You get to walk through many of their studios, see live performances, and grab food and drink from the restuarant, Barbara's.

See you then.

Yesterday

"Text, Skype, iGoogle, Facebook, or Just Call Me"
Photograph 2011
Kim Barry



Yesterday, I picked up a little side work equipped with, my neighbor and cohort, Ryan. The adventure of the day? Being  extras for a car commercial. These are the dirty little secrets we do to hustle while we create our next great big thing no one shows up for.  So, there we are, it's 5:30 am, in the car rolling into downtown to find base camp. We arrive to a super cool crew. Oooo, do I hear German accents?
Conversation is good
The coffee is better
Then
The professional extras show up.

The parting of the Red Sea begins as the crew begins to get hemophiliac from the energy of the "silent talent." I am no stranger to this. I  have seen and experienced, first hand, the feeling of having the stinky girl game played upon me as I did this "extra casting" when I first landed on Planet LA, last year. Everyone's cool until the secret is out- you are an extra. Oh. As though my immediate situational title drains the life out of everyone else with a better one. Ok. Whatever. I go off to graze with the rest of the cattle.  As I sit, watch, & listen, I get it. I watched grown people complain and even fight over lawn chairs, meal points, placement in lunch lines, and SAG credit for DOING NOTHING. I was drained from the banal words being passed around the room like a newborn pet rock. So, I warn Ryan. "We gotta stick to each other and protect our energy, k?" He looks at me as if I am the Topless Psychic in Mallrats stroking my third nipple for visions.

We discuss the upcoming shows we are going to do and the ones we are going to visit, how cool the light looks on the buildings as the sun slowly creeps over their horizons, and such. We find a spot close enough to hear directions from a particular 1st AD who got my attention and far enough to quietly enjoy the moment of the day.

Then a sound began that gave no moment of rest for the next 16 hours. That sound? A 100 mph lost train from Missouri that was currently circling the set at full speed. What was she saying? Hmmm, considering she mentioned the word "hooker" 32 times before lunch, I assume this to be her deepest hearts desire for her life. Her first roommate was one. Her latest "break out" performance was that of a one two days before. I couldn't help but pick up on the underlying accomplished pride of sexual attractiveness she felt by playing the role- as she scarfed down half the catering truck. I am thinking a  bit of competitiveness with the former roomie, maybe? I can only imagine those talks between those two. At times, we couldn't help but be in awe in watching things go in her mouth as the sound from within never ceased in volume.

My conversation with the world is getting clearer and the people I choose to share conversations with in my daily outings is getting more and more relevant.  So, naturally, I was prone to staying as far way from that conversation as possible. Why? Because there IS no conversation there- just bullets of BS that mean nothing and lessen my ability to keep my thoughts where I want them to be.  Apparently, not only was she spraying word bullets in the air like a Colombian Terrorist, she especially honed in on the ones trying to avoid direct hits. Ryan and I, thought by walking away it would give a solid indication of polite disinterest and that would be respected and duly noted.
No.
She followed us.
HARDCORE.
Like by jumping in between our faces to announce, at maximum volume, that she was going to inject her face with green tea right then. I got the gist that my growing annoyance with her chosen one way, highway conversation only spurned her fire not to be ignored by me.

I began to think through all the engine smoke while ever more curious about that 1st AD. There is something happening here I must reflect on. Never in such a more pronounced way is there a situation where you have the great minds of creativity, who truly own their thoughts, language, and action toward the world brushing nose hairs with the lost souls of casting who couldn't value it any less or notice your lack of interest in listening any more.
I have watched an Academy Award Directing Legend standing in the food line and get bumped by a dude who can't seem to stop complaining about his lawn chair and the only thing that comes across his mind to say to this legend is," You think they can get better seats?"
Wow
Kinda awesome.
Like when my "unskilled-at-skiing," 5' Australian friend knocked a 6"4" Swede like a bowling pin out of her uncontrolled way down the slope at Hidden Valley. He flipped twice in the air before landing. Amazingly awesome and horrific. We thought she killed him, for sure.  But as he lifted a pinky in survival triumph, we knew all would be well after a couple months of rehab.

But the bigger idea I think I am grappling with is the high or low awareness we have for our own level of thought, word, and actions.

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?? AND WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING??

People say "I want to be friends," as they play grabby grabby and call it a joke when they know the only one who really wants to be friends is the person that is about to go Kill Bill on them if they don't stop copping feels .
People say, "Oh my god I can't believe I played a hooker!', while they make sure everyone in the room knows what color the prop thong was.
People say, "I want to take things slow" as they hand you the key to their place after one date and if you raise question, they "break up" with you.
People say," I want to be successful," and then focus on the lint build up on their sweater all day and tell everyone else about it.

People run in circles with their thoughts and meanings. Those who know what they want and are clear about it, seem to get it. It seems to me that the more one's inner conversation matches their outer conversation, the more confident, stable, and successful they tend to be.  So, in the end, I was grateful to learn a lesson here.

Oh, and that 1st AD? He was clear in asking me out.
I was clear in saying, "yes."
Nice work,  Cowboy.

What If There is No Enemy? Then it's just the Fear Talking

What If There is No Enemy?
2012
Acrylic on Canvas
Kim Barry




My mother locks doors. She locks windows. As soon as something cannot appear at her immediate recollection,  the first envisioned and, clearly logical, explanation is that some hoodlum ran through the house at warp speed moments before and grabbed the one and only treasure on my mom's mind at the moment-  a key, a folder, and my personal favorite, a Hummel.
Of course.
Because that happens.

I wonder if the simple act of locking doesn't create the exact "Last Door on the Left" scenario one would think they are actually attempting to avoid.  Maybe not always in the physical sense, but the in the way that the supposed enemy has achieved the goal- getting in your head, scaring the shit out of you, and your actions and thoughts are a reaction of their power over you. And now you think like them. Yeah, they won and didn't have to lift a finger from their various Dr.  Evil Dens.

Fear. It's the four letter word that is our nourishment. We have taken way too much of it with our daily morning jo-- so much so-- that we actually celebrate and create our livelihood around it. Economies, communities, and societal interactions are based on the idea of fear as we ignore the growing results that include but not limited to...

Rings round  eyes
Wrinkles in face nooks and corners
Panic stricken eyes waiting for the next explosion of events to come true
Only preparing for the worst case scenario as insurance companies and banks reap the profits of our nightmare imaginations of the "what if."

No wonder we kill the happy people who encourage us to enjoy each moment that unfolds.
We are miserable, self limiting, locks hopped up on serious caffeine.
I'm scared. You're scared. And we have spent too much time, stress, money, and preparation to have someone tell us it could actually be ok.  "Screw that guy, I will lose my investment in despair!! It's my effing pension!!"

Everyone is out to get you, so get them first.
If you open up, people will take advantage of you, steal, lie, and betray
Keep yourself protected. Those who don't protect themselves deserve it when others strip them of their lives.
Attempt to "save" others with your mantra but don't ask yourself if that same mantra actually brings joy to you or others.
Do not let people know what you really want. They will use it against you. Then take that which is valued by others.
Though you desperately need help, never let anyone see you sweat or else you are WEAK
Oh, and Dad is trying to kill you.

Gee, I feel so warm and fuzzy. All this, while we market the Beaver Cleaver commercials that run in between all 300 versions of Law & Order, CSI , & Judge Judy running 24 /7 on 800 channels.

This is not easy language and I rebel in every environment. I don't mean to. It's just a trigger habit. But considering the language surrounding me, good thing for this survival technique.
So, I unlock doors.
I leave windows open.
I let my dog breathe a little by a revolutionary act of letting her walk around on her own a bit. She is vocal in her need for this and if someone doesn't get it, they can try walking her on a leash. It's like trying to walk Jackie Gleason. Really.
Most of all, I don't look for limits and road blocks to excuse myself from the game.

I began young by combatting fear by reaching out, no matter how many times I got knocked down.
Be friends.
Be open
Do Not Lock Things
and look for the best in everything and everyone.

But goddammit, if  those fear voices don't remind me just how close to the surface they hide and are ready to scare the Benny Hinn out of me when doubt of good in the world enter my perception. It brings me back to  the post traumatic stress disorder I received at the ripe age of six after my sister conned my mom into having the family celebrate her birthday at the premier of "Poltergeist"- that was, in her 12 yr old lawyer argument- a comedy.  Real effing funny. To this day, I will never sleep in a room with a tree at the window or a clown on the rocker.

It's a struggle to embrace perceived failure,  a let down, or a hazy moment when you have been taught that God punishes when you misstep.  It creates a fear of living and resentment towards those who try.
But what does it mean to eff up?
What if it's something that makes you better?

What does it mean to be let down by someone?
What if its just two neutral conversations not meant to match up and it's a good thing for both- forcing it would be the real tragedy?

There is no honesty in hiding in corners, acting like  a Vera Wang wedding dress at a "Graffitti on Your White T-Shirt" Party. It just means you are too scared to engage. It's easier to wrap yourself up in the faux safety of faux self righteousness and self appointed judgement.

I remember playing rockstar to tracks of Stevie Nicks, Chrissy Hynde, and Debbie Harry on my mother's bed at eight years old, envisioning my future self in their current shoes, while simultaneously, petrified of the future public scrutiny and my having to deal with my perceived value of hiding the all too familiar story of family crazy behind the curio cabinet.

Reality Check
There are no fans
There is no scrutiny
People love the real
There is nothing pure
What is pure is mess
Just swim
It's fine and so are you.

And no one likes a wet, white drip anyway
I feel better already

What if there is no enemy? Then it's just the fear talking.
Maybe I should inform Cheney and the boys so we can move on to better things.

Now go be that which you want.

I'M BR OK E

I'M BR OK E
2011
Acrylic, Stencil Templates, Screws on Gypsum
Kim Barry

I have a knack for finding value in the hard to reach places. I see it long before most are being spoon fed the cheap, mass produced, rufi laced version, sometime after. It comes in all forms of nouns and verbs. I don't need the centerfold interview or highlighted mention in the latest "IT" magazine to learn and know its value when staring it in the face. Viceversely,  I sometimes see sugared coated poo a mile away but always hope it's, at least, Mr. Hankey. Putting it on the line all the time can create more than a few sightings of him.

Value, as of late, has been a shaky word in my vocabulary. Everyone is constantly having devaluing conversations, negotiating yard sale issues, and bargaining their ideas at a penny to the original dollar. "It's a recession," they all say. "Oh, times are tough." And "We are so broke. I can only do so much."

It's thrown me off. I had always demanded worth in my action and encouraged others in theirs'. Events in 2011 shook me to the point of seriously considering throwing it all away and resigning myself to a reality of bargain basement living. WHY? Though I was speaking value into my actions, everyone around me was speaking louder as they were auctioning off my latest move on ebay. "Why are you focusing on creating this idea when Widget World will pay you a whopping $12/hr and healthcare for simple, safe monotonous movement and you can count on it?", they'd say. Gee, I don't know, cause I value the concept of what I can do as more? Those not willing to agree and support were eventually dropped off at the next Yum Yum Fauxnuts for their own job application.

The residual energy of their words was harder to shake. Am I delusional? Am I setting myself up for trading in the 401k and, in return, receiving a bed at the shelter in 6 months? Paralyzing panic set in when I was alone with myself- no longer fighting against the others. My inner voice traded to their side and beat me up over every decision I had made and could make. So, I did what anyone losing their grip of their world would do. I got strep throat from my ever helpful bud, Danni, and slept for three days straight. So did my beagle, Rory. She looks for constant excuses to lay sideways.

 I woke with a thought.  Broke is simply the state of mind where you can't see the value of your surroundings and how they can work for you.  The value stamp and devalue stamp get all mixed up. I've seen some people throw their life on the line for their car but think helping their relative a waste. Yesterday, I found a beautiful poem in the dumpster. It was about feet. Ironically, the writer was demanding that we value our own, as she then, threw the argument in the trash. We throw out what should be treasured and painstakingly devote years of cleaning and, consequently, a small fortune in Minwax in preserving what should be laid to rest. Btw, did I use "ironically" in proper context? I hate all forms of that word.

Words can be used to infuse everything with value and can also be used to strip faster than a BMW left in Southeast D.C. This is what makes words a form of alchemy. Once we realize this, the priority list should be made, checked, and revisited to keep us straight.

The single cause of mental suicide is putting your own worth in the hands of others. Trust me, if you don't set it, then know this. Everyone else is looking to get you at yard sale pricing.  It's the Fall-mart way. Pay less, live more! Truth- you are not living if you were willing to become one in the mob fighting for the last $2 waffle maker last Holiday. Ho, Ho, ...yer crazy.

So, look around. There is value in everything. Use your head, your heart, and your imagination. Most of all, value yourself.

Even with $3 in your pocket, you are BR OK E.

It's 1:23am
I am value-ing bed.

Disconnect II

"Disconnected II" 2011
Acrylic on Gypsum
96'x48" 
Kim Barry


"I paint figures with little or no senses about them- no eyes, ears, noses, mouths. This is a constant and for good reason. We tend not to use them. In Disconnected, the people are running to and from ambiguous places without sensing where they are going and where they have come from; never taking notice to those around them and feeling isolated in their own action.  Before I turned on to real living in the small town of Jacksonville, FL and learned to build a sense of community and true friendships, I was, temporarily trying my hat as one of the figures with a laundry list of non essential material wants and superficial relationships based on getting ahead. It comes down to trust. Trusting yourself enough that you can create a life better then the life sold in the commercial."- 2007? 2008? KB


It's 3am, my beagle, Rory, is snoring louder than most 300lb men with acute sleep apnea, and I have been avoiding having to write this blog regarding this painting for over a week. Above, was my brief quip on the first version of this piece, Disconnect I, written and published in 2007 or 2008. At the time, it felt much more objective. Like I had gained some guru foothold on the mountain of self righteousness by letting go of a few materialistic virtues and thus, feeling above it all for a little while. I was living in utopia. The peace, then clarity that comes only when the basic necessities of life are checked off the to do list while "work" is then, currently defined as making coffee and sitting in a kiddie pool all day thinking up what I shall paint this evening, makes for a nice little pot bellied Buddha of tranquil judgement of everyone in the rat race. I could slow down enough to see how my former corporate comrades were burning out with 25 more years to go. I saw interviews for mutual life venture capitalistic gains instead of naturally developing love stories. I saw people too scared to really stop for moment and notice that someone has crossed their path, just for a moment,  but stopping would screw up their perfect running stride to nowhere and damn if the abs don't look great. But to the one with open, visionary eyes, what an amazing moment to notice. Maybe this is THE moment everything could change for the better because that person noticed the other. Noticing. Taking note of what surrounds you and reaching out because it's worth it. There are no coincidences. Maybe there are consequences, sure. Maybe the other person is blind as a bat running to their next lipo laser, chem peel,  Oprah rerun, bunko party. But my gut says likes attract likes- for the most part. So, chances are it's worth the reach. This is a testament in faith coming from one who's first love was commonly known as, "Wing Ding" and a steady as she goes record since.

Enter Phase II of the Disconnect in us all. 
Language. 
Communication. 
Breakdown. 

I have met many people in my travels. I have made some lifer friends. I have made a few enemies, and find the road between the two is a 2" painted yellow line. It's what you say, no it's not what you say, it's how you say it , no it's not how you say it, it's how you texted, emailed, googled, signed, spoke with your eyes........., no,.......... it's........ I don't know!  

What I have come to understand is this. If people want to understand, they will. If they don't, they won't.  There are a lot of people that just don't, won't, and move on to an easier conversation. In my book, it's the norm. I am the first to champion these folks in sympathy.  Sometimes, being in their shoes with me,  is not  unlike  trying to understand a half rate version of Thomas Pynchon while being simultaneously wrapped up in 80 inches of great gams. It's a death throws match for most. I know.  And I, myself,  have usually gone for a side or two or the whole dinner plate of  the wild and crazy guy hanging from the stage, cupping  a bottle of Jim, wearing Woody Allen glasses, owning the crazy eyes, and bordering on comedic genius yet inapropro tourrettes syndrome.  And then I think, they sooooo get me. Ok, my delusion is well documented, noted, and in repair.  Let's get back to generalities.

Maybe people do not want to hear what the other has to say because they want it to work their way and are deathly afraid of listening to a slightly different, though neutral, conversation. Crap. Can't we just have MY conversation??? This is such  threat!  It would be so much easier for me to build something with you.

 I have been telepathically asked, over and over, with friends and lovers to do just that and have gone monk silent for upwards of 2 years at a time.........until crazytown was complete. Then it was my single duty after such due course to be the 20 foot toddler in LegoLand.  Not good.

So, overcompensating is a natural, obnoxious pendulum swing back to the middle and I am avoiding direct hits via you fine people. 

Truth? The bigger the city, the more disconnect. There are bigger egos, less patience, more ambition, less care, more to prove, less opting to learn, simpler to objectify than to humanize, easier to function in daily routine, harder to pull one out of a could be funk.  Who knows? Maybe it's just me. But I like a place where everyone knows my name cause they know me, not because they Googled me from afar. 

Quick fix? Meet a neighbor. 


And stop checking out your abs. . . . .jesus. 

It's now 7am. Bed time.



Big Love to D, R & DR

Buried Child

"Buried Child" 2007
Acrylic, Ink, Joint Compound, Screws on Gypsum
Kim Barry

Maybe I had it easier as the baby of the family. . .  ok, I had it a lot easier in learning to  do my own thing.  When the real life Flying Nun marries the real life Mickey Rourke, pops out a few spawn, and tries to make a go of it as a family Oral Roberts would envy, there is much more crazy to focus on than the daily adventures of the smallest member.  I liked it that way.

The freedom to experience the world that was, from my & my friends' perspective, a HUGE, twenty city block playground for our taking and, as we grew into teens, the city itself was immeasurably influential. Oh, and we took it by storm.

As an adult, I have reflected more than once on the massive contrast between the breathing room of my own youth versus the restricted realities of many today.  When we are children, the impulses  and instincts we naturally gravitate towards reveal so much more about who we are and will become than any conditioning and social etiquette could ever dictate or, hopefully, override. I was lucky to have the space to figure it out myself a little more than most though not completely unscathed.

I have watched and experienced parents, teachers, television, and societal circles attempt, on various levels, to re-mold and re-create a most self conscious culture striving to fit in before knowing what exactly they are fitting in to with all the best intentions in the world.  The goal being the the action, not the place and position.
Why?

Even with having a pretty strong will and direct sense of my desires, the first few years of my adult life was a struggle in living in the moment amongst my comrades of this shared reality. For all my conviction, doubt set in as to how practical dreams were. People around  me were  dropping off daily in to some branded perspective that pushes the real imaginary words of - "safety," "practical," and "social acceptance" AND they wanted everyone to come with them into the Cave of Dull-life.  As it turns out, it never seems to stick for me, though, I did give it my best, neauveau yuppie effort, at one point.

Feeling like the Last Mohican, I was lucky to re-enter the magical kingdom of childhood wanderlust by taking a position as an art director for a camp this past summer.  The complete imagination, natural confidence,  and constant straight forward conversation those children had inspired in me the beauty of life all over again. As I watched and encouraged their instincts, the younger the child, the less of an effect my words  had one way or the other.  They knew they were doing exactly what they needed to do AND they knew it was awesome.  No one had to tell them that. It was like I was surrounded by 30 mini Van Wilders.  I dug it.

As children get older, the results of critical, controlling, and re-directive words visibly take a toll as self consciousness creeps in. Many become unsure of their natural abilities of using their own head and hands. I thought- This is how people, when they reach "that age," ask the question, "What do I do with my life? I don't know!!!! Who is going to tell me who I am and what my purpose is? Friends? Parents? Snooky? Anderson Cooper?  They have forgotten to be themselves and trust it.  Do they know they just unconsciously signed a deal with the devil in order to fit in, gain acceptance from those that think it's needed (eff em. these people are lame. trust me),  and prove how worthy they are of praise, envy, and desire for a McMansion and newly plumped up fish lips?

For all my outward convictions, I was caught up, too. Who isn't? But at some point in your life when your true self can't take it anymore and will fight to get out no matter how many meds, therapists, cool cars, and hot chicks/men you attempt to combat it with, there's the rub. There's the choice. You can choose to change and become the real you at any time. Sure there are consequences. Sometimes big. I lost everything materially that was the product of my Great Fake Pyramid. I lost some people's respect, admiration, and envy for things I had attained that didn't really matter. It is not easy to let go when you are dug in, I know. As for me, it was the singularly best choice I ever made.
But, it doesn't have to be so dramatic. Lesson- leave the children alone. They know a hell of a lot more than adult egos care to handle.

 Avoid the Buried Child Syndrome
You are beautiful as is

Keep Your Boxes....

The idea of sharing the impulsive moments of my life on this blog, while simultaneously, being understood as a serious artist has seemed an act of self indulgence with a side of professional sabotage. People need boxes. People need to sum you and your work up in speed dating time and then they freeze you, Hans Solo style, into that conceived mold.

Every creative person striving towards success is playing a one way laser tag game in the woods with the proverbial Jabba The Hut. Ooooo Jabba liked your last move and (crap!) you are out in the open. Haha! LASERBEAM........ Next thing you know you're making the same work every day as if you've become Phil in Groundhog Day.  But it's safe for investors, safe for fans, safe for everyone who wants to quickly understand you and move on.

Enter dark, emaciated, asexual, brooding artist wearing fedora in the corner with perfectly coordinated awkwardness holding a hipstamatic sign that says-
 "No one understands, you don't understand, I don't understand. I glue kittens to toilet seats. Understand? Don't talk. I sign."

wow.
brilliant.

Second Entrance-  angry feminist artist dressed as Bertolt Brecht's costume designer  that shoots paintballs from her crotch onto angry canvases and identifies herself with her pet Honey Badger- her animal spirit. Honey Badger don't give a s###. Powpowpow- oh no,  wait, Honey Badger just got hit with a paintball! It doesn't give a s###, it gets up and wants another.

But expressing yourself on more than just a sure fire marketing platform and NOT having printwork that includes at least ONE celebrity face somewhere? This is a joke, is THIS the joke, wait..... which joke are we talking about exactly?! WHERE"S THE FRIGGING LASER?!?!?!

Who wants to back some chameleon who follows their instincts, not the critics and investors?
I would and only them. Why? David Bowie

 I can't help myself, being myself, whatever part needs expressed for the fitting moment. I have been trapped in what feels like R. Kelly's LA closet this past year with most of my friends, reality comrades, and sounding boards on the other side of the country leaving one lone friend to bear the brunt of my conversation. Presently, she is on life support but it's looking up.

Many a person in my life have lovingly and, sometimes, not so lovingly, indulged themselves in this particular treat of being absolutely real and ridiculous while simultaneously working out the bigger serious issues of the world around us and how we relate to it and each other. I, for one, am up there in the adventures, with the tenacity of a certain Beagle I know with a serious addiction to cat food.  To me, that is real truth, real honesty, real living, real art.

I am not speaking of some unattainable ideal. I repeat the tangible- David Bowie.  I was first introduced to his ideas, music, clothes, & rockstar attitude (see pic below) at four years old by my coolest of cool oldest sister, Karen.  Here is my oldest, dearest friend in the world, Jul, who agrees. 

Be yourself, if it true, in all moments, though the outside may only see a potential multiple personality disorder, that is the true reflection of journey and experience. 

And to those who prefer the cut and dry, stale tried and true, keep your boxes.

To be continued....

In the meantime, enjoy learning more about Honey Badger through the words of Randall.