All images #©2021WillBrady
2021-04-23
Vignette: "Second time in New York City
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| Night Scene NYC |
My second time in New York City was the first time I’d seen
it by myself.
On invitation of a stranger, I’d gone for a weekend of
debauch but he was a no-show. I stayed anyway.
It was the summer of 1967. I’d gone to get away from a
convulsed, confused scenario living in a house of drag princesses and a heroin
addicted male housemarm whose grandmother thought I was fourteen. Coming to NYC
was a liberation though I did not yet know this.
That first time I strode out the Port Authority Bus Terminal
doors, walked down Eighth Avenue searching for Greenwich Village, a place I’d
long ago wanted to see.
I refused to look up or stare at tall buildings, not wanting
to appear a rube. Instead I admired them from a distance, but I was in awe!
Crossing Thirty-Fourth Street, the Empire State Building,
with its needle-like spire jutting into the sky, like a syringe taking in the
atmosphere to imbue the city with life.
Going south, passing Fourteenth Street, the streets no
longer on a grid, I knew I’d reached “The Village”.
Sauntering down Greenwich Avenue I found an eatery known as
“Mama’s Chick-n-Rib” (infamous as a pick-up joint where boys and their admirers
planned illicit assignations). Smug in my ability to find it, I went in and
ordered lunch.
Inside it was impossible to discern the hunters from their
prey; those coy young lads or the older men seeking them. One thing was sure,
there were no innocents here.
I set my eyes on the cook, an elderly gent of maybe 35 years.
He invited me to the Stonewall Inn. I said, “I’m only 17.”
“No matter; it’s a
private club.”
That night turned out to be another first time – but that’s
a different story.
2021-04-21
Illuminated Text: "Powers throughout the Universe"
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| watercolor and ink on paper |
In Memory of
Ken Brady 1953 - 2021 / Bruce Pfau 1938 - 2017 / William Pelletier 1954 - 2013
Curtis Jarvis / Bruce Parkes / Lynn Pfau / Herb "Buddy" Smith / Robert Bagwell
Marie Jassey / Peggy [Margaret Buterbaugh] Brady / Robert "Bob" Hankal
Brian Cockarille / William "Bill" Brady 1927 - 1995 / Hubert Crowley 1991
The 10,000 Sunflowers East Haddam CT Unity Project
https://www.facebook.com/EHSunflowerpower/
Welcome to the 10k Sunflowers Project! Let's cultivate a brighter community!
A project of growing sunflowers throughout our town to symbolize our community members growing together trying to reach the goal of one sunflower grown for each member of our community.
In short, the goal is to plant and cultivate 10,000 individual sunflower plants in and around town.
Why?
According to last year's census, East Haddam has just over 9,100 residents. The goal would be to plant a sunflower for every resident, and a bunch more for residents who have yet to arrive.
This community effort will require as many of us as are able to get involved and get dirty - no ideological prerequisites desired nor required. Through this mutual community labor, I hope we are better able to appreciate one another as individuals as well as model what community effort can accomplish in a town like ours.
Need advice? You're in the right place!
Want to give advice! Ditto!
Interested in sharing pictures of your beautiful sunflowers? Do it here! 
Regardless of experience, expertise, or access to land and resources, I truly believe we can accomplish something together that is beautiful and meaningful.
Please feel free to contribute in whatever way you are willing and able to this community effort.
Thanks you!
Drew John Ladd
poem: Dak To
Dak To
Atop a beaucoup hellish hill
inside a searing, dusty
NVA trenched
and tunneled
mortar-riddled outpost
He gets posted for MacArthur
Out of water, no supplies
Six UH medevacs shot down
Trying to get to 2/503
Add to the carnage
Westmoreland’s friendly fire
Blowing away the backup
Turning medics into oxen fodder
In the middle of it all,
during a November chill
– sleep deprived –
Joe Turner tried a nap
while body bags
piled higher right next to him
almost toppled over.
At least they were warm
Dawn on Tuesday rose
permanent in Joe’s memory
Rotting flesh and napalm etched
yet still more hours pass
before his airlift to Support Base 4
Shipped from there to stateside
Trussed and restrained
screaming scenes from Bosch, Lovecraft and Dante
Finally scoped out by
exempted med school interns
The pukes sure knew how
to diagnose Joe’s inability to adapt
“He’s schizophrenic,”
they say
mortar-riddled outpost
He gets posted for MacArthur
Out of water, no supplies
Six UH medevacs shot down
Trying to get to 2/503
Add to the carnage
Westmoreland’s friendly fire
Blowing away the backup
Turning medics into oxen fodder
In the middle of it all,
during a November chill
– sleep deprived –
Joe Turner tried a nap
while body bags
piled higher right next to him
almost toppled over.
At least they were warm
Dawn on Tuesday rose
permanent in Joe’s memory
Rotting flesh and napalm etched
yet still more hours pass
before his airlift to Support Base 4
Shipped from there to stateside
Trussed and restrained
screaming scenes from Bosch, Lovecraft and Dante
Finally scoped out by
exempted med school interns
The pukes sure knew how
to diagnose Joe’s inability to adapt
“He’s schizophrenic,”
they say
End of story.
Watercolor: Ghost Dance Mask at Sequoyah Birthplace Memorial National Park
Ghost Dance Mask
I painted this on a visit to the Sequoyah Birthplace Museum, a memorial to the life of the man Sequoyah – father, soldier, silversmith, statesman and creator of the Cherokee writing system
Find out more about this National Park at http://www.sequoyahmuseum.org/
images in black and white - New York City
New York in Black and White
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| Midtown |
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| Traffic Light in Central Park |
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| Empire State Building |
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| Inside the Metropolitan |
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| Door Handles |
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| Chrysler Building |
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| Grillework |
Illuminated text: History Lesson
Cities and towns where white violence resulted in massacres of black people
2021-04-20
Combine: Interdit!
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| "Interdit!" A piece composed of objects found during a weekend in Montreal, PQ Canada. Friends walking with me hastened away when I cut an end off a police crime site tape; afraid they'd get arrested if I did. |
East Haddam Connecticut Scenes - part of an ongoing series
Four Images - All acrylic on wood panel; all 8" x 16" / 20 x 40 cm
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| Entering East Haddam Village, Norwich Road / Route 82 |
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| First Church Congregational from the gravestones of Venture and Meg Smith |
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| The fields at Cone Farm, Moodus |
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| Gelston House and a peek at the Goodspeed Opera House |
2021-04-03
Drew John Ladd's "Wolfsong Beloved" is now in print
Wolfsong Beloved by Drew John Ladd
Mystery surrounds the protagonists full bore . . . but we don’t meet them right away, and we happen upon them all of a sudden.
There is no comforting presence of an invisible narrator here – providing descriptors, pointing to signposts about that which we see. Here - we are in a story that calls for us to do the sleuthing ourselves. I like that.
How we process our exposure to beings and witness to situations that come before meeting the three who take us through the rest of this tale – shall help or hinder our ability to understand that to which we have been exposed and to whatever else may follow.
We happen upon this trio - an ancient fighter on a dangerous mission, a powerful caged child whose life memories eludes him, and a forthright talking sentinel wolf – and see they are enmeshed in pursuit of answers - names - and some great resolution. And we, are so enjoined to learn the answers with them.
My first reads of this tale were online. I’ve been following the paths taken in Drew John Ladd’s Wolfsong Beloved via Facebook and Patreon posts [patreon.com/drewwritesstuff ] as well as in podcasts and interviews in which he spoke about this saga.
As with many mysteries – returning to the clues can be useful . . . and most everything has clues within what we’ve observed. We find magic, grim parables, creatures and beings not generally known to us, and circumstances that trouble or astound on the path these three travel – and which we watch.
And much was found, and learnt; so much so that I hope this calls for more to come in the future . . . be they prequel, sequel, concurrent narrative, or some new form of chapter timelines . . . that I’m already looking forward to reading for I still remain wrapt and intrigued.
But back to reading . . . while reading online, or hearing excerpts kept me returning for more, that I might pore over and peruse jumping about the tale with abandon . . . something that can be vital when trying to make sense of the world put forth to learn about.
. . something that can be returned back to as often as needed to render the parable(s) segments to be in some tangible form, something that can be only really be done with an actual book.
The book is exists here now. I’ve already put in orders for several copies to share.
Here's a link to the lulu.com sales page: https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/drew-ladd/wolfsong-beloved/paperback/product-4dqyy5.html?
Collage: Waiting for Godot
Yes, Nathan Lane and John Goodman are part of this collage
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| Waiting for Godot collage - 6" x 6" / 15 x 15 cm in private collection (c) 2021 Will Brady |
2021-03-22
entries into an annual Peace Calendar competition conducted by Syracuse Cultural Workers for 2022
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| Sense of Dignity - watercolor 11x14 in / 27x35 cm |
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| Stop Coercive Treatments - watercolor and ink - 11x14 in / 27x35 cm |
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| Credo - watercolor and ink - 11x14 in / 27x35 cm |
2021-02-22
Original Photo Art - Various images - for sale
Bring Beauty into your home - inexpensively
Original Photo art for sale - $35 - per picture - OTHER IMAGES AVAILABLE
dry mount on archival mat board (11"x14" / 28 x 35 cm).
$40 if shipped to you within USA
Message me first - Can take VENMO @Will-Brady-5
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| Lighting Showroom Display |
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| Jardin du Luxembourg, Paris |
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Don Gummer's "Primary Separation" sculpture in North Adams, Mass. |
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| Solitary Chair: Musée des Beaux Arts, Montréal |
2021-02-03
Other Voices: Drew John Ladd - diarist, passionate voice against Racism, and spinner of sci-fi, horror and fantasy tales
There are times when one is mocked - and mistreated - for being different; often cruelly. But sometimes, there comes vindication, in manners that can be overwhelming to comprehend, yet which can be described.
In "God Don't Need No Matches" Drew John Ladd lays out one such tale.
First published a few months ago on his Patreon pages, the tale is well worth renewed attention. - https://www.patreon.com/drewwritesstuff
Once on Patreon, much of his work is available for free (though by all means, subscribe because his writing is captivating and warrants the support; you can subscribe for as little as a dollar per month) but you can find more of his writing such as:
* excerpts from his upcoming Novel "Wolfsong Beloved",
* a new look at Peter Pan - as the predator in the tale
* plus insightful essays on race, racism and the complex and difficult social circumstances in which we currently find ourselves.
for now: here's a tale of how mistreatment and abuse of someone disarmingly unique can end up horribly awry.
I remember the first time that I felt the fire, this bright red glowing thing inside me. It burned the roof of my mouth, my eyes, my hands.
I scorched my wristwatch to my arm.
In the quiet aftermath of a meditative cold shower, I peeled the melted watch from my wrist. My wrist was unharmed. I remembered.
The next time was Mr. VanDuke’s history class. Something about burning witches. Darcy Kellerman laughed and said some joke about me being next before screaming, clawing at her own face as her eyes popped like fried eggs. Her entire desk, it seems, had combusted. They say it was a good thing she was wearing natural fibers. They say, it would have been a horror otherwise.
Otherwise.
The last time I was mocked in the hall, I felt it rise in me like a light, this time with focus. I contained it. It was a success. They strutted past me, guffawing like lost mules, while I quietly celebrated the victory.
Over the next few months, I became adept at starting fires. Months later, I was able to quench them at will. I learned, of course, to spell my name on things, but used a new name, a name capable of housing this new found fire:
Tituba.
They called it vandalism; at first, anyway. There were cash rewards and suspects aplenty but no one they could lay hands on seemed to have any knowledge of the source.
Yet, I knew, it was only a matter of time before they got to me.
Like always, I played the game, went by their name, went by their rules, went along with their inquisition. I feigned fear, resentment, and, most of all, powerlessness. I gave them “disaffected demoralized queer” and they ate it up lip-smackingly.
The vandalism escalated to more elaborate “terrorist” acts; the grocery story burned completely to the ground in less time than it took the local fire department to respond. There was no direct evidence of the use of accelerant, but, in the aftermath, investigators intimated strongly that the blaze was deliberate; they just could not “reasonably account for the apparently complete and extraordinarily rapid simultaneous incineration of the building and all that was housed therein”.
I liked that.
Prom came and went, and I did neither. I had promised my grandmother that I would graduate, and I intended to do just that, so I had no plans on sulking my way out of graduation. But, it seemed, a new graduation was taking place of its own accord and with my encouragement. I decided to speak with her about it.
“I don’t know anything about any of that you’re talking about. But I DO know that there are gifts; gifts that are given, gifts for which we are responsible for being good stewards, until it is time to return that gift.”
I thanked her, and she hugged me like usual, only I thought her hands felt… warmer than usual.
“You have many gifts,” she said, still holding me in her arms. “Go and be a good steward”.
I had been “churched” so hard as a child, I knew exactly what she meant by “good steward”. And, I had been “churched” hard enough to WANT to BE that good steward.
But I remembered another song. Something about “God don’t need no matches…”
I thought about saying it, about whispering it like a prophecy into her ear, a thing I knew she would feel just as I did. But, in her warmth, I withheld it from her. “She has carried more than her share,” I reasoned.
The last time was after graduation.
We had walked the stage earlier that afternoon, my family smiling, hollering, snapping photos with their phones. That night, I sat alone in my room and thought of what to wear.
In the woods, I could hear them far off, even with the twigs and branches snapping beneath my feet. I walked closer and heard them laughing, the crack of their fire, closer still and I could recognize voices.
I thought of the people connected to those voices, how they had shaped me, how they had “arranged” me, how they had dug into me against my will. I thought of the scars I carried and felt myself grow warmer.
Before any of them could see me, I had taken account of who they all were. It broke my heart that none of them were exempt. None of them (not here, anyway) had ever seen, much less respected people like me.
Tyler Jepsen, hand in my pants, freshman year - “horseplay”
Sendica Ire, “What ARE you?”, freshman year - “misunderstanding”
Tony Mendez, “Let us see ‘it’!”, junior year - “jokes”
Hannah Glass, “Its not fair to us who are just ‘like that’ naturally.”
There were so many others. Too many. Tears stung my eyes and burned away on my face, leaving salt stains and bloodied eyes.
By the time I was in view, my fire was brighter than theirs. I incinerated them all, one by one, savoring their cries for help. I learned after the first one that I had done it far too quickly. I practiced, though. And there were so many to practice on.
Hannah was last, fruitlessly trying to shove a car key into an ignition that I had melted shut. When she saw me, she stopped.
I waited.
She waited.
The woods around us burned, hot smoke rose, black and grey plumes, us in a hell of my making.
Our making.
She got out of the car and faced me. She looked ready.
“I know I don’t deserve your mercy. We put you through hell - there’s no forgiving that. There’s no apology for that. I know. I just wanted y-”
And that’s as far as she got. Sure, there was a scream as she clawed at her mouth, melted shut, her teeth, fused together. I turned her tongue to ash and watched her choke, black tendrils of ash and mucus hanging from her nose like idiot mascara.
Her hair went up instantly - she almost didn’t feel it. And when I took her eyes, I took my time. I wanted the last thing she saw and felt as her cataracts melted into nothing was the force of my fire.
Some of the others had worn their prom dresses as a sort of last chance to get to wear something opulent before being turned out like paupers to the college of their parents' choosing. No doubt, they also relished in the irony of wearing evening wear to the woods for a beer and pot party.
What they did not count on, was Tituba.
Very nearly to her credit, Hannah had worn all natural fibers - while the others smoldered, gurgling pleas for help from half-hardened plastic shells that once were jackets and skirts and showoff wear, Hannah stood alone. Tall. Bright.
Burning like a candle.
-
D. John Ladd
2021-01-30
Logo Design: Moodus Sportsmen's Club Signage
Logo / Signage design for local hunting club.
Acrylic Latex paint on wood panel
(c) 2006, 2020 / Will Brady
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