Unknown Art By Unknown Artist

"They (all artists) want to be loved, and at the same time they want to be free. But nobody is free." -Francis Bacon

It is incredibly humbling to fly into Washington DC, hug the cute guy you met on the plane good-bye, respond to a flirt-text and then answer the phone to a US Soldier who begins the conversation with, "Hello. Mam. I am Credential So and So of the US Insert Military Branch. I will be your personal driver and at your service for the next two days."

For me? A soldier? !!! WOW. If it were a movie, it would be so hot. But this is my real life and like it or not, I am a born citizen of a country at war and not only am I woman and artist who can say and do pretty much whatever I want without getting killed, there is a young man concerned that I get to Starbucks for a coffee before he carries my paint to a concert and arranges for me to receive a wood saw that I forgot to pack. Oh, and if I need anything else, this US Soldier has volunteered his days to do that too. He is on duty and he cannot accept the beer that I offer him. I have to wait until the next morning to treat him to a goofy thank-you breakfast at IHOP.

And did you get to touch the guns fired at the inauguration? I did. I also raised my daughter primarily according to the first half of a book called "Being Peace," by Thich Nhat Hahn. Breathe in. Smile out. It is the solution to every trouble, large and small.

Breathing in and smiling out is the reason that I have a career as an artist. If I hadn't been practicing breathing in and smiling out when I worked as an intern at Warner Chappell Publishing in Nashville where it was my unpaid job to hang thousands of awards on the walls of the building, then John Rich never would have noticed how happy I was and he never would have thought to introduce me to Big Kenny who then decided to look out for my young daughter and I- by demanding that I "get out of the house- don't care what it takes- bring your crayons out and draw- but you have to be part of this world to share your talent." Next thing I know, I'm painting on television and I've shared my talent with millions of people all over this county. Word of my talent has leaked to South America, Australia and beyond. Kids in other countries get in trouble for doing book reports on me and my talent, my art, because they found it before the history book did. The Tennessee State Museum happens through my studio one day and agrees with the kids. Now I'm history.

I breathed in and smiled out and the guns still made me cry.

If I were a woman born to Afghanistan, I would probably cry for something else and though I don't know if it would be my freedom, my lover or my child- it would not for the guns.

"Hey. You did my husband, " Lee Ann Womack announced from stage, in the middle of her set, at the Patriot Center in Fairfax, Va, where I was painting at a concert for the American Freedom Festival, "You did the painting at my husband's birthday party years ago," she added, once the audience had gasped and then everyone laughed and the show went on.

Of note:

1. Yeah, I'm primarily a fan of edgy shit. But would there be edgy shit in my life without the tune, "I Hope You Dance..." ??

2. I knew that Phil Vassar was Phil Vassar, but I didn't know his music and band was excellent- or that he can slide across a piano on his back while singing until now.

Graciously. I was introduced as beautiful, single, talented, famous and unmarried. Half the male crowd made themselves known to me, but it was a US Soldier who snuck in at the last minute and out-bid a beautiful young woman with pocketbooks by $1,000.00 for my painted dress, after the concert. I donated it at the last minute. "I'll break a heart when it's worth it," he told me as he wrote a check for a good chunk of his earnings to the American Freedom Foundation, "I respect your work, Mam."

"I want to be loved, and at the same time I want everyone to be free. But the meaning of this is unknown." -Rachel Kice

Photo: A Grave of An Unknown.

Time, Place and Waking Up

“If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?” -Chuck Palahniuk

Survivor, Lullaby, and Choke are three books by Chuck Palahuniuk that I read in a row, putting a book down only to go through security at the airport and to pick up the next book. I ran into a pole while reading and changing planes. It hurt but I didn't stop reading. By book three, I felt overwhelmed and decided to rethink my obsession by giving the books away and playing the piano for days. At some point, I woke up a different person.

So the answer to Chuck's quote is yes, but with my personal explanation of waking a different person being so vague and piano sound driven, my Dad answered it in a conversation that I had with him recently about the Vietnam War. My Dad feels that Vietnam Vets were, for the most part, not supported as individuals upon their return from the war. He and his fishing club take Vets fly fishing as part of therapy program. He enjoys it though he knows that fishing is a slower means of waking up a different person than is war.

By the time you read this blog entry I will probably be in Fairfax, VA painting for the American Freedom Foundationconcert featuring Lee Ann Womack, Montgomery Gentry and Phil Vassar. The proceeds from the sale of my art will benefit this foundation. I feel even more excited about painting at this concert after the convo with my Dad and I truly appreciate living a country where I am free to say and do pretty much whatever I want- like create art, write, zip around Music Row in my HHR, meet interesting Birds of Prey, eat well, sleep well, and do it all over again.

Something else that I did today was my Lion Homework- which means that the Lion might be a muse and if so, beware Birds of Prey. "But if the Lion is not a muse, what is he?" I wondered and this was my homework.

When Song Bird was young she started a game called "Alpha Wolf." Alpha Wolf was all about acting like an Alpha Wolf and telling me what to do. When you play alpha-anything, if you are not the Alpha, then you are but a pawn of the Alpha. It's an excellent game for to play with me, for the imaginative Hummingbird types slip into it frequently anyway. I did what the Alpha Wolf demanded and it usually involved feeding Song Bird feta cheese and cleaning her bedroom. About half of the time, I was aware that I was a pawn, so things have turned out relatively cooperative now that I'm teaching Song Bird how to drive a car.

Playing Alpha Lion is a little different.

And this video "Her Morning Elegance," by Oren Lavie is about time and place and waking up.

“If I wake up a different person will I be in a different time and place?” -Rachel Kice

Photo: "Failed Block" a football painting. acrylic on canvas, 36x48in, by Rachel Kice, 2009

Excusing Art

"He knew the value of his work, and he didn’t make excuses for it." Donald Trump, on Picasso

La Poule and Hummingbird had a horrible phone conversation concerning the difference between art and life. La Poule lost sleep for three nights and Hummingbird fell asleep for a whole day. It was drama that didn't need to happen about a drama that didn't need to happen. It had the feeling of a fatal accident and here, years removed from the accident, they realized that we knew what we were doing at the point of contact. It was a crime, not by law, but by nature.

"We all feel more calm when we are getting the right attention from the right people," Midnight Bird of Prey uttered from the grave with dirt in his teeth, determined to continue to fertilize the situation.

"That car needs to be crushed into a little cube and recylced," the Pyradzz showed Hummingbird the dimensions of a crushed car cube with his hands and arms.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I make machines that separate the metal, plastic and foam," he answered, in a rare event of discussing the details his life-long work and with only a small patch of grey hair to prove it, "Have you seen plastic wood?"

Hummingbird had seen plastic wood as well she had landed on a plastic wood bench in a park. It was unromantic.

"I hate the way it looks and feels but when people use my machines to make it, I really appreciate it," the Pyradzz snapped his fingers.

Hummingbird cast a web of thought. "What happens to the foam? Isn't it disgusting by the time a car needs to be crushed into a little cube and recycled?"

"It is extremely disgusting," the Pyradzz verified, "And typically incinerated."

Hummingbird figured that car metal was used to make more cars- only different than in Cuba, and the answer was yes and no.

The Pyradzz changed the subject to a Messenger Dove named Fred. Fred had a huge crush on La Poule in the late eighties that turned into a one-sided love affair. He was injured when he met La Poule and she nursed him back to health, but when Fred became strong enough to walk, he only followed La Poule. He practically stalked her to the point that one day, he tried to sit on her lap while she was driving. It was then that La Poule asserted herself and threw Fred out of a station wagon with wood grain siding. Alone and standing strong in the middle of deserted street, one could see Fred's hope fail in this instant. He was quiet and his head dropped to one side as he watched La Poule abandon him. Fred was certain that he felt more Love for La Poule than any man has ever felt for a woman and just in case La Poule felt anything at all, he waited for La Poule to drive away before he died.

Hummingbird's eyes filled with tears and the weblike workings of her brain directed her to Oscar, who was a fly caught, shriveled and died in her web. His dust was thick and clouded her memory for Hummingbird shunned Oscar though he went so far as to regurgitate seeds onto her lips. He greeted her with sincere desire always and not since Oscar had anyone fed Hummingbird with the same selfless love. Hummingbird gave up on expecting such measures of Love and for this, she cried.

"La Poule was honest and married to an unassuming Bird of Prey," the Pyradzz explained, "She had baby birds to protect and never considered an affair beyond her duties."

"Oh my dear La Poule!," a sharp memory of La Poule flooded Hummingbird's mind. In it, La Poule was running swiftly, though she appeared to be low to the ground, as if seated. Her elbows were extend and fixed and her arms behaved like oars making half circles in the space in which she ran. What La Poule traveled was toward was a duty that she called "Hummingbird." The memory was like Love itself rained down on Hummingbird and regurgitated seeds meant nothing.

"La Poule is Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," Song Bird, with the duty of herself in tact, reminded, "And she watches MTV."

"If La Poule were ninety-seven years old and wealthy, she would make a fine trophy wife," the Pyradzz confirmed.

"I like La Poule the way she is!" Hummingbird exclaimed, "Please get her out of the car before we crush it into a cube!"

"La Poule is guilty!" declared The Excuse, "MTV is crime and a beast!"

"Is that the truth?" questioned the Messenger Dove, "Is there any chance that that might not be the 100% truth?"

"There is always a chance!" Hummingbird and Song Bird recited the teachings of La Poule, who ducked her head under her wing declaring that she was more of a behind the scenes person.

"Sometimes I do feel that MTV provides more information than I need," La Poule whispered in fairness, "But I do know that the artist is trying to say something and that is what cause me to care."

The Excuse was pissed and angry and jealous if not afraid that there were no place for it in this crumbling world where heaven is sometimes called a metaphor, although it is real. The Excuse was accustomed to providing relief and wallowing with others in itself. It felt threatened when something as external as MTV was given the attention. "Hell!" The Excuse swore.

"If La Poule wants MTV, she should have MTV." Hummingbird announced excitedly feeling that she had finally found a way to apologize to La Poule for causing the three sleepless nights, "Let's incinerate The Excuse and keep the car!"

"OK," Song Bird suggested, "More foam for me!" she reasoned, producing a match and seizing the opportunity to play with fire. She behaved like the wisdom of the ages and took advantage of free speech by briefly reminding the Birds that there is good in evil and evil in good and expired excuses can RE-spire. Then Song Bird jumped in the foam, still too young to be aware that it was disgusting. She suffered no injury, yet.

"The art knew the value of itself and the excuses were absorbed by it." -Rachel Kice

Photo: Kristi Austin, modeling her latest commission, "Guitar Self: Kristi" acrylic on canvas by Rachel Kice, 2009

The Beg Blog and Kansas

“If dabbling in art didn’t amuse me, I beg you to believe that I wouldn’t do it.” -Renoir

I don't know how to beg and this is what my thoughts have amounted to on the last night of my trip to Kansas.

Songbird played Auntie Em in her Wizard of Oz choir concert as she were a pro. She forsook latex wrinkles for an intense version of her daily make up, which involves heavy black eyeliner and glitter. A flirty loop of a pony tail played the part of a bun. As usual, her zest was contagious. I have been laughing and smiling for five days straight and based on today's blog-photo in which who cloned who is unknown, we have a new family rule: "You best check for Rachel's birthmark (front of left arm, potato looking thing) before you kiss her." This rule is in effect for at least another 5 years.

Back to the begging. "Begging is always welcome on the Savannah," the Lion tells me.

"Really?" I ask myself and I wonder if that means I ought to beg the courageous Song Bird to come back home with me even though she is very happy and wants to remain where she is. Everything is fine. We both have what we need, we enjoy our time together and everything is excellent. It's just, whah. I love her. I miss her. I want her with me. I want to pat her on the head every day even though it messes up her hair do. I want to insist that she eat more broccoli. I want to know the names, birthdays and thumbprints of all parents who allow beer parties. I am not done playing the role of "Mom."

"It's different when you beg a Lion," the Lion points out.

"How so?" I ponder, eking into the awareness that of all the roles I play, "Mom" is the one that I believe most. It is a role that is part of the rest and has been that way for nearly half my life.

I decide not to beg my daughter. She is happy. She is treated well. She is loved and she is aware that she is loved. Our relationship is excellent. She is getting to know her dad and be a part of his life. He is good to her. I leave my phone on at night. She has access to both of her parents at all times. All of this is wonderful. If I feared anything for Song Bird or myself, I would not beg, I would demand.

Therefore. On begging Lions:

Q. What can I fear for a Lion?

A. Nothing.

Lions, like Song Birds, make me laugh and tell me that they are happy, safe, and got to go because they are sleepy. I believe them and even though I might rather that they sleep next to me, I am also happy, safe and if not sleepy, have an ongoing list of things to think about, read, paint, write, and/or play on the piano. Even if I were lonely, in deficit of the human need for attention or affection, who am I to demand that a particular Song Bird or Lion be the one to fill my need. From what I have learned, a need for another person can only truly be filled by one who has the same need to be with me. Why would I want to half-fill anything when I know that it can be filled to overflowing?

Here in Kansas, we don't beg. We have everything we need and the simplicity of the landscape, a clear line on the horizon that divides the land from the sky, proves to us just how simple things can be and just how simple they are. We have wheat, water, and love and it's value is tremendous because it is what we need and all that we have. We can't afford to turn our backs on our crops to beg because our crops need us and if they have us, we have them. Begging is a risk because no one can predict the outcome and in the time that it took to beg, we have neglected what we can count on and now, everything is half-full.

We would rather appreciate what we have and take our Kansas with us when we encounter a mountain, "Kansas is on the other side," we think, and as we make our ways over the mountain- and so, all we shed is the mountain.

"Lions are Rockstars," a Messenger Dove informed me, "They are Rockstars to everyone but the Kansas in you. Now be a well traveled girl and applaud the excess."

"I love the excess," I informed the Messenger Dove, "But I applaud the wheat, water, and love."

"What does a Hummingbird like to eat?" the Messenger Dove pressured me.

"Sugar," I answered because I knew the answer.

"How do you know the answer?" the Messenger Dove persisted.

"I know the answer because I'm a Hummingbird not a Meadowlark."

"Good girl," the Lion yawned and then slept soundly and unbothered.


“If dabbling in your inspiration didn’t amuse me, I beg you to believe that I wouldn’t beg you for anything.” -Rachel Kice

photo: "Fun with Mom" Song Bird and I in Kansas.

American Freedom Foundation Date

This Saturday, Nov. 7, 7pm The Patriot Center, Fairfax, VA: The American Freedom Foundation presents: Montgomery Gentry, Lee Ann Womack, Phill Vassar and "Me and My Art." I will be creating one painting during this concert, inspired by each of the acts. The painting will be auctioned in a silent auction and proceeds from my art will benefitThe American Freedom Foundation, an organization raising money and awareness for veterans' organizations with special emphasis on welfare and educational issues facing those wounded in action."

Hello from Kansas, where Song Bird owns the place. Blog to be continued.

Elementary Art of Valet Parking

"I was feeling guilty in the beginning; it was frustrating to be successful when a lot of my friends weren’t. Also, I was constantly being reminded of that by people in my family making jokes." -Cindy Sherman

Mike is like a sister to me and that's probably why I experienced blog-regret when I sent him an email last night begging him to put his foot on the pedal concerning a favor that he is doing for me and also telling him, "sorry I missed your birthday, I was building a wall." It was not that I didn't get him a present that spurred the regret. Ask my other sisters. They are still waiting for me to make pajamas for them out of the fabric that I gave them for Christmas in '87. I still don't own a sewing machine and I feel fine about it.

My regret was art-based. I blog-tease Mike constantly and rarely give him blog-credit for being the exceptional and inspirational artist that he is. Of note: Mike and I have pushed restart on the band. We are communicating and rehearsing by text, email and blog only. His new lyrics are off the hook and it looks like I'll be playing editor more so that instigator on the next few tracks.

Other personal Business: Got your text, sis. The stories are in my bag. They will be in Kansas tomorrow.

Other birthday: Happy Birthday Annie!

I got my wall done just in time to celebrate Annie's birthday (coffee and pastry party) and to explain divorce to her daughter who had some serious questions when she found out that I had to leave the party in order to catch a plane to visit my daughter. It made me glad that I divorced before my daughter could say much and Annie's daughter feels that there is a man in her neighborhood who would make an excellent husband for me. She is certain of this because he is already married and treats his wife very well. She, like Song Bird, seem intensely interested in slotting a husband into my life. Annie and I took turns stumbling through explanations of all types of families. Which somehow inspired her daughter to conclude, "When I grow up, I want to make the world a more beautiful place."

On the drive home, I noticed that the neighborhood elementary school had valet parking. If only I knew so much when my daughter was in elementary school. I could have been more than the young naive mom who was assumed to be the nanny from grades K-2. I could have been the mom who championed valet parking.

"How would I do it differently?" I thought. With thirteen more years of life and mom experience, I would certainly do some things differently on the mom-front, but would my imaginary next child be able to find his/her way to baggage claim in LAX alone by age ten? I doubt it. My imaginary child has a stroller with a canopy. This child can't see shit or hear anything. This child is born with seat belts attached and a padded head. There are five foot spikes on the outsides of my arms when I hold this child. No one gets close. And we don't make our Christmas tree, we cut it down the old fashioned way.

Song Bird learned life with me. I predict that she will marry at age 22, have five kids by age 27 and stay that way. Her husband might even be shorter than her. She will own and operate a ranch in her free time. Her kids will pick lettuce from her sprawling organic garden. My imaginary next child will be raised in part by Song Bird and if Annie's daughter and Song Bird have not approved a proper husband for me, I will be the grandma who spearheads valet parking at the elementary school.

"I feel guilty sometimes; it is frustrating to be an artist when being a mother feels like the same thing. Also, I am constantly being reminded of that by people in my family making jokes." -Rachel Kice


Photo: The space between my "married since age 22" parents is where I was laying before taking this photo.

Gift Art vs. Wall Art

"The songs just sing themselves to me. They kind of write themselves. I just stand back and listen.” -Cindy Walker, Songwriter

Aside from being completely fascinated by Cindy Walker today, I finished building a wall and totally messed it up by glazing tissue paper on top of it. It was not what I had in mind for my wall nor did it work nearly so well as the brown paper that I glued to the other wall. Walls, walls, walls. My family was proud to hear that I was building a wall until they realized that I was not speaking in metaphors.

"I cannot live with this," I said to my wall.

"Look again," my wall said to me.

"Well. Shit. You're art."

And just like that, I saw that I needed to tear down my wall, throw it on the floor, add some thickening elements to my acrylics, throw latex and swipe it with a few words.

"But you have a plane to catch," the wall answered, "And sample pieces to finish."

"I would have finished those pieces if you had cooperated," I said to my wall, "The other wall was easy."

When Cindy Walker was married, her husband woke up in the middle of the night to find her writing a song. He demanded that she quit and come back to bed. She left him.

It reminded me of The Star of the Last Bad Relationship. "Stop painting!" he bellowed, about ten minutes after I started my first piece in months. Lucky for my imaginary patients, I weren't a doctor. Would he have told me to stop reading medical journals? I could have been a doctor.

"It's done. I like it the way it is," he heaved my patient, still cut wide open and in surgery, onto the mantle and there I lived with a show piece of stifled expression. Pain. It was muddy. The strokes were weak and incomplete. The flaws and the discovery (point of completion) that I did not reach, grew in my mind until one night, I could not sleep. I got up and ran to the living room where I took the piece off the mantle, threw it on the floor, painted a ridged looking pair of wings, outlined them in black, hung it back on the mantle and went to sleep. It was a horrible painting. I took it with me when I moved out of the house and into my studio. Before unpacking, I painted the words, "Home Sweet Home," on it because it made me laugh. Weeks later, I completed the painting, inspired by a beautiful day in Los Angeles.

"I will tear down your wall," roared the Lion.

"Would you like a piece of art?" I asked him, but he didn't know the answer. Lions are fearsome but they do not understand that earning and deserving are not the essence of art. Like a Midnight Bird of Prey, a Lion inspires art by being what he is. Art is not the native tongue of a Midnight Bird of Prey or a Lion and they each take to tonics by rolling their eyes. They seem to believe that they have something to prove even when they have already proven it.

"Don't you see how that could be confusing to a Lion?" the Lion asked Hummingbird.

"I can close my eyes and see how confusing it is," Hummingbird agreed.

"What would I do with a piece of art?" the Lion wondered.

"You could hang it on your wall, enjoy it, and remember all the ways that you inspired the artist," Hummingbird suggested.

"The artist is so angry that she won't go to dinner with me, yet she will give me art." the Lion stood still, like a pyramid and looking like a pyramid with his thick legs supporting his soft underbelly, his shoulders, slightly narrow compared not to other Lions, but to his own base. His eyes were sharp and full of light and in them one can almost see the tips of his thoughts.

"Did you tear down her wall?" Hummingbird suspected.

"Yes," the Lion was honest.

"Then you must have torn down the wall that was restraining her anger." Hummingbird concluded and shrugged, "I bet she made a list of positive aspects and realized that you weren't so bad."

"Hummingbird," the Lion purred, "You are so insightful."

"Excuse me Lion," Hummingbird excused herself, "It is late and Midnight Bird of Prey is waiting for me. He is not a patient date- even in the Afterlife."

"The paintings just paint themselves to me. They paint themselves while I build walls out of them and until I step back and notice.” -Rachel Kice

Photo: "Los Angeles" by Rachel Kice, 2008 acrylic on canvas. Two panel, each 36x48in.