Tumeyland

June 5, 2010 I glanced a few times at this image, while painting it. At some point, a memory of rendering a large pen-and-ink drawing based on this image when I was 15 or 16 came to me. I think it was shown in a county fair 4H art show. I remember it was matted and placed on a wall across from the prize goats. On the album cover, his t-shirt prophetically shows a Triumph motorcycle. A couple of years later, he would wipe out on a Triumph, disappear from the public eye for a while, and re-invent himself. I am also shape-shifting... so perhaps that is why I painted this image. However this is an artist rendering an image from 1965 in the year 2010... and so the final painting has some of his 2010 shape in it: Click here to see a two-minute film displaying more of my paintings.

A few scans from my notebooks.  A drawing made in an organically inebriated sun-induced haze on a Kaui beach in February, 2007. That's a weather-worn tree in the drawing, clinging to the beach... I identified very much with that tree. Memphis Slim. Check out his comments on Blues In the Mississippi Night . Waiting for a couple of Moons Over My Hammy plates at Denny's, my boy and I made up this comic strip.

Mollysongs ~ For Molly B.1999  -  D. May 6, 2010 Mollydog I called her usually Molly and once in a while damn dog! She had some songs, like 'Sweet Brown Dog,' which made her smile Sweet brown dog of mine, loves to be patted on her behind and then there's MOLLY: Queen of all she sees, Molly - Queen of the seven seas, Emperess of the dog treat Majesty of the light of the moon Friend to many, enemy to no one Comforter of my bruised heart Maker of the snooze fart fog, My Molly - My sweet dog. Sometimes in the car I'd sing to her Ohhhhhhhhh there once was a dog named Molly She was quite quite jolly She loved sport but not folly thaaaaat Molly! Now I am singing the song of soul pressing mud grief missing her, and the song of gratitude for her gifts - the gift of showing I could be a father the gift of saving me from abject, desparing lonliness the gift of someone to care for when my son had to go away every week the gift of...

April 25, 2010

The first SHADOWMAN comic I made was inspired by Art Speigelman’s Prisoner On The Hell Planet . This is a graphic narrative in the Expressionism style, rendered in scratchboard. Scratchboard is a heavy sheet of white paper covered with a black clay coating. To get the white lines, you have to scrape away the black part. So when you render in the way you normally would, you get an eerie negative image. Using this form for comics was brilliant, and I wanted in!  I played with the idea of darkness, shadows, and positive/negative parts of both visual and emotional realities. Here’s my scratchboard comic, made in 1983: Over the years, I’ve drawn several SHADOWMAN comics. I moved the style from scratchboard into into ink on paper which is a lot faster.  I think of them more as comic book haikus. Here’s one that, by my best guess, was done in 1995: And here is a SHADOWMAN comic I made today, Feb.10 2010.

In 1990, I was living in Leominster, Massachusetts with Susan. We were soon to married. This was my two years of experiencing blue collar America. This comic book shares my experiences and feelings about working in a factory. (Click on each image to enlarge and read)  

(Record Review)"Simon's Graceland: A Masterful Musical Meld by Paul Christley Tumey First Published: Capital City Magazine #24 (Nov, 1986) Where were you when you first heard Paul Simon's Graceland? It's one of those events where things are different ever after... especially if you were listening in the fall of 1986, when the record first entered the world. It was like nothing else we'd heard. I was 24 and living with a 44-year old lovely lady. She procured a copy on a cassette tape and lent me her Walkman (remember those?). The music heralded both a new optimism and realism in my life as I matured into a freshly minted adult American. (Click on the image at left to enlarge and read. ) It's my belief we become different people when we listen to some songs. Graceland's new sounds subtly made me into someone new. Part of that newness for me was becoming a published writer. This article was one of my first published articles. My b...

As I grow, I see ever more clearly that the essence of staying centered is to allow yourself to constantly shift and reconfigure. This set of four square panels I painted in December of 2009 is designed to fit together in any orientation and sequence. The paint was applied on each panel using a different tool and technique, brush, rag, sponge, and fingers. The design was inspired by a cool toy I picked up at the Chicago Art Institute in 2008. The word "Center" is written on one of the panels. Can you find it? Here's three random configurations (click to make larger):    

A bedtime story by Paul Christley Tumey (with help from Reid Christley Tumey) Once upon a time there was a lonely window washer. Every morning he would set out with his buckets, wipers, ladders, ropes and pulleys. He washed the windows of short and tall buildings, the circle windows of brick mansions, the large plate glass show windows of department stores, and the stained glass windows of churches. He even kept the little square windows of his glasses gleaming and spotless. He worked for a sourpuss named Mr. Doctor Professor President Commodore Octagus, who owned a company that cleaned everything. These titles were all self-bestowed, because Octagus felt he deserved to be looked up to, since he was such a successful businessman. Mr. Doctor Professor President Commodore Octagus was never satisfied with the lonely window washer's work. "Cleaner! Brighter! SPOT-less!" the Commodore would command. His voice, however, was squeaky and high, and he had two big tufts of wi...

by Paul Christley Tumey Tonight, home from the gleaming new shopping center, I am thinking of the poem the one I didn't write about that stand of trees It would have been a lot better than this, less artifice, truer to a tree than to a tree missed I would have said (I remember walking home to your brown arms late one night through them) the tall pinetops were green chandeliers The woods the most haunted of mansions where every night the wind bands played to thousands of dancing branches I would have said we were all millionaires The trees are gone now The few acres I would shortcut to work through to be in the woods before I was in the weeds They saved me but I could not save them I swear I saw hobbits and leprechauns in the gathering dusk And once I made love to you in the moonlight your back against the strong thighs of a magnolia They saved me The town started ten blocks away a hundred years ago, so it's a confound progress did not commence...

by Paul Christley Tumey I once stepped out into the mushy forest, I once did. Everything is without logic. The Han Nee Mulls touched all around and spoke: "Put on this fur and these feathers, Change your diet, and we'll all be that much better." Grizzlydigs! If only I could. The fur fit and I could live with the sneezing and tickling - "Take your eyes away from the front. Change your diet and the manner of your hunt." Yak! I stopped looking front and that was quite a change, But see the point? My diet, I could not change. Goodbye to the little Han Nee Mulls scampering away playing and laughing. If my world ends -- It certainly won't be their fault. I know we'll always be kin For I hear the growling within. Leominster,Massachusetts - 1986

 by Paul Christley Tumey We throw our lives together in a messy way Like panic at sea, confusion with life-lines Grope: find my hand It's there, Holding down my highway line Dividing devotion and despair But in a messy, messy way - Tallahassee, 1983

by Paul Christley Tumey When the rays of the rising sun Have shorn the spires of Shangrila And when the shadows of the seventh son Have thrice crossed every angle out Then, children, the time to dream Will have passed this night land. - Boston, 1987

A song in standard tuning by Paul Christley Tumey (First verse) G               Em           Bm John Prine walked in deep snow G           Em                   Bm On time mail delivery to people we know. G                      Em                     A                                  D    He saw.......a lonely senior...... John Prine was sent.... a song.......            ...

The catawbas croaked till morn When we go in fishing? Percy's asleep on his steering column horn Dreaming, searching, not thinking and wishing I stepped on a nail barefoot But I had to hurry up I worked the yard as hard as I could If I was late Percy would have pups He held up his charm of magic But would never let me see it When the sun sets it is tragic All the catawbas go into a croaking fit When we go in fishing today? Truck ain't broke down or nothing All the catawbas have pillars for bait But Percy got drunk and started cussing It was late afternoon so I went normal Tried to keep tangent from the things I saw This time the sun did it formal I guess it felt like dressing up for no reason at all - Boston, 1990

A stick fell of me It stuck in the ground became a tree A leaf fell of a book Proved well Memories need loving Ten things I willed To my past self I am graceful in the rain A word fell to my fingertip I put it to my ear Whispers my secret music A splendid breath arose To become rain-heavy cloud And to breathe me out - Seattle, 2010

by Paul Christley Tumey Last night your mama dreamed about you. You're only three months old but she could see your whole life in front of you. Welcome home son We'll have a lot of fun I'm your Daddy You made me Last night your mama dreamed about you. Your hair had come in and your eyes had turned. You could use your hands and your heart had learned. Last night your mama dreamed about you. - For Reid, 2000

by Paul Christley Tumey As I lie next to you, the train comes. Though I have lain with them open since the owl last asked his question and it is now time for the robin to report. I close my eyes to see better the train. I see it on the horizon, separating earth from sky, sex from sex with a steel line as thick as the tension in my spine as I lie next to you. I see pistons and fulcrums steam and smoke and I know that's my heart pounding like a sledgehammer, and smoke the light in my eyes that see only the train on the horizon. I am the train, and I no longer lie next to you. As you sleep on into the hot night, my slotted wheels hug the silver track and I sigh from relief with new purpose and direction as urgent as the pounding of pistons and fulcrums. The train calls and the house shivers. The engine and the cars clank on by like slaves in a chain. And you awaken and though the night is so hot you find my warmth and hold me close. I am the train. ...