Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Works, Kait Masters

Post on Creativity
By Kait Masters of Larkspur + Laurel

I doubt I'll list these, but I wanted to share them because to me they represent a very important part of painting. I explored an idea without the expectation that what came of it had to be of the same quality of what inspired me to continue to explore. These little rounds also gave me a springboard for a fantastic conversation with one of my friends about what I am trying to achieve in my newest work.

Ira Glass has a fantastic statement about this.

"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through."

For more information about this artist and her work visit her page, Larkspur + Laurel.

Independent Film Series, John Becker and James Durham

This fall we will be sharing independent movies and web series made by friends and contributors to Affinity CoLab. If you would like your film or web series shared, please contact us at

For more information about this movie and the team that produced it, check them out here: THIRST

"THIRST is a micro-budget independent short film set in a post-apocalyptic world where a catastrophic event poisoned the global water supply, wiping out most of the population. A young girl struggles with questions of humanity on the brink of life and death while trying to survive with a disgraced uncle who yearns for forgiveness. Compelling characters drive a powerful tale of loss and redemption among the survivors who, tested to their limits, must decide what it means to be human."

Copyright 2016 Ochros Media and John Becker Media

Smile, Fred W. Feldman

We Don’t Talk Anymore
by Frederick W Feldman

Candace and I - we don’t talk anymore.
We used to talk all the time, but now our mouths are sewn shut.
We have surgical sutures stitching our lips closed. I don’t understand all the chemical details, but it’s made out of a substance that doesn’t degrade and won’t get infected. We are not allowed to ever cut ourselves free and remove the stitching, on pain of death. We are not to speak again. Those are the lord’s orders.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Razor Sharp Teeth, Fred Feldman

The Antique Chair
By Frederick W Feldman

The man let the door thud closed behind him. Immediately, he decided that he preferred the simple motel room to any of the hotel rooms in which he had stayed. This was the first time he had ever stayed in a motel and, truth be told, he’d been looking forward to it. Its single window stretched to the floor and let in a hatchet of light that cut into the opposite wall.
He shrugged off his tweed jacket and let it rest on the lone chair wedged in the corner. His tie soon joined it. The AC made the tie’s burgundy and white polka-dot tail sway like a contented cat. The man crouched and fiddled with the panel until he shut off the frigid airflow. He wasn’t sure whether the wire he yanked was supposed to come out of the wall. He would let the front desk know…when he checked out. Once he left, they could store meat in here, for all he cared.
He sat on the edge of the bed. He smelled linen and a faint odor of must. His train ride was over, he was on solid ground, and he took a moment to recalibrate to no longer being attached to the great machine’s external motion. No longer could he simply move; he had to chart his own course as well, and he had to compose himself for that. On top of the nightstand lay The Holy Terrors by Jean Cocteau, where he’d left it.
He checked his watch, and it was not quite four – still plenty of time to make a call. He un-crumpled a scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the scrawled number into his cell phone. It rang of few times, while dust swirled in the thinning orange light, then the owner picked up. The voice on the other end – a man’s – was low and smooth, like a tablecloth being pulled off a table.
“Is this Jerry?” asked the man.
“Are you calling about the chair?” answered Jerry on the other end.
“I am. I sent you an email earlier this week.”
“Yeah,” said Jerry. “I remember.”
“When would be a good time to come see it?” asked the man.
“I’m available now, if you want…I’m also here tomorrow evening.”
“Let’s do tomorrow evening,” said the man.
“That’s fine. We can haggle about price after you see it.”

Reflection, List Poem, 100 Words: Lydia Sudall

by Lydia Sudall