B. Taylor Harrison

Painting
Drawing
Graphic Design
Notations

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Notations

For the back pocket

Already, but not yet
Hypostasis
Relativity: The Special and General Theory
Jack Whitten: The Messenger
Dust
In Praise of Shadows
Joy: 100 Poems
The Weight of Glory
Faux Pas.
Art + Faith
Walking on Water
Ninth Street Women
Fractals
Pacific Art
The Unseen Realm
Category Crisis
Monster Project
Giambattista Bodoni: His Life and His World

July

I stopped by Gray Station Road on my way. I didn’t have the address, but I found it just the same. I parked in the gravel to pick Queen Anne’s Lace and turn the heads of the cows in the field.
I hope I got a few chiggers in the process.
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June

He wore a suit the color of Blake’s studio flowers.
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April

Light versus the effect of light.
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November

I once imagined that roaming new routes would pass the minutes more quickly, but the familiar backroads condense a daily commute. It’s the dearest things – those nimble time-travelers! – we are at constant risk of taking for granted.
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Still.
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October

The choreography of inter-animation.
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September

Oh, to overcome chronos with kairos.
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August

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Don’t mind me – I’m just learning how to stitch Peter Pan’s shadow back on.
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Duff & loam.
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The older I get, the more I realize how unrealistic my childhood expectations were. The forests of the Real World aren’t boobytrapped with boggles or goblins...but invisible obstacle courses of happy little spiderwebs.
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The images linger like photographs I never thought to take: the Mother Goose jar of frosted oatmeal cookies; the BB gun standing watch by the fridge. I can’t recall seeing that BB gun in action. I can’t recall the neighbor’s cat coming near the bird feeder either.
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July

They smelled like fresh air and adventure, and they whisked it into the car as they hustled in off the curb. The scarf they brought me smelled like that too – like the squeeze she gave me when I dropped them off at the house. The heat has been brutal here, but I bundled the wool around me as soon as I got home.
It’s folded back up in its little paper bag now. I hope it still smells when I rediscover it for winter.
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It seemed to me that tonight’s summer sun was the first to melt in the sky – butter-soft, dripping off the oaks.
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Standing on the roof – sun above, tar below, sweat everywhere in between – I felt the breeze still for the gliding swifts, the building sigh, gently, beneath my feet.
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June

The bobby pin hit the public bathroom floor.
And there it stayed.
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Just a momentary aside. You return to find hands folded, colors faded, memories clinging to every surface, like mold. Did the glass shatter or are those — bones? The residue of the senses produces the stubbornest stains.
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I need to say it – more for me than for you, so please don’t be offended:
I am not my website.
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May

There are seasons when I hesitate to call myself a painter. “Gardener,” on the other hand, and for whatever reason, seems more harmless. I suppose slinging dirt and dung carries less expectation than slinging paint and turpentine. If not less, at least different. Isn’t that silly?
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April

As light skips across billowing shades, paper quivers.
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October

The murder lies stamped into the scarred and swollen clay, sawdust pooling like blood, seedling spawn scattered.
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September

The birds abandoned their gnarly post, casting their bodies against the blue – gravity shattered by their silhouettes.
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March

A love like starlight – shimmery, captivating, reeling, reveling – aching bewitchment in spite of the cold. Wonder bursts into a blinding streak. The night swallows me whole. I drift in her depths.
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July

What a perfectly dreary day. I wish I had savored it more. Running down for the mail in the rain was simply fantastic.
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June

Soft wrinkles and Southern roads, evidence of frequent travelers – meanders and belov’d expressions.
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January

We know who we once were, the backroads we once haunted; but who we will become is rooted in the moment – in the static, in the still.
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The muddy pigment between expansive future and vivacious past, the streaking blaze in our ever-shifting memories. The yellows and greens and pinks and greys nestled between the setting sun and oncoming night – the twilight, the becoming.
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December

The shadow blinked – once without thinking then twice with a smile. It stepped from its corner, a generous gesture, but still to be questioned considering the wily flick of its tail.
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November

I miss the days when we would sit on the swings, heads thrown back, falling into the sky.
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A familiar space – reflective, uncertain. The delicate moment at the koi pond’s surface, crumbs kissing its face, colors emerging, mouths gaping.
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October

An endless reel of memory and blinding color, billboards and passersby, plastered with voice-overs and one or two soundtracks, conversations from last night’s dinner on the patio; and red yarn, strung from building to building to billboard to person to color to noise – everything tangled and connected somehow. Standing in the center of it all, eyes out of focus, every detail meanders by in turn, intricate and precious, then all at once undefined. Eyes into focus. Daisy grin.
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