Monday, April 26, 2010

My official website: has been REVAMPED, thanks to my awesome brother Jeff Jacobs (link to his work on the sidebar, check it out!) Old and crappy photos have been replaced with better ones, taken by John Cafaro, and some new works have been added.

An Appropriate Amount of Torture

She was free as effervescent energy, bubbling over in her body, spilling like a spiritual mess into the earth. These were days of the past when delusion struck a chord, maybe even sung a song, deep inside the music hidden in her blood. There was a great aching that slept underneath the warm blanket that was her heart, something she was aware of. But it was easier back then to keep it sleeping. Ignorance and hope were the pills she had to feed it to keep it from waking.

Day after day of slipping the pills into the mouth of this monster was tiresome. She had wanted to kill it, but did not even make an attempt because she knew how powerful the beast was. Just watching it breathe while sleeping was enough to make her fear for her life. One day her exhaustion and anger convinced her to give up. She did not want to feed it pills anymore. She thought that if she pretended it didn't exist, it would disappear. When it woke up she looked it in the eye for only a second. A vista of images flew through her mind like a movie reel in fast forward. She was the star of the show. Visual displays of violence seemed to cauterize bleeding emotions. Memories of guilt and manipulation from a secret childhood were like grotesque toddlers with knives for feet, dancing maniacally on her brain.

The monster, in all of its self-pity, began to lash out on the girl. But this aching could not kill her, knowing that she was the reason it was at peace for so long. So it maintained what it thought to be an appropriate amount of torture. A mother to her pain, she tried to understand it. Tired from the battle, she fell to the ground into a deep sleep. The years brought many storms to the mountains where the monster lives. Nature had taken care of her the only way it knew how, covering her in blankets made of wind, fire, snow and rain. Now a hidden fossil, she remains unseen and undiscovered imbedded in the rock.


Down there with him, her wings were wet. He loved her so he convinced her that they were fins. But the storm lifted her from the waters and cast her onto the tall rocks, where her feathers dried in the sun. It takes a storm, sometimes, to find out what you are really made of. As she took off with the wind, she smiled and thought, 'Wish you could have seen me fly, Merman.'"

Sunday, April 18, 2010


Long ago, and far away, this could have happened.

There was something impossible about the image of her as she sat, perfectly poised, yet somehow ragged in demeanor. She was an expensive wooden statue with a crack that continued to grow upwards, slowly from her feet, like a tree. The crack branched out into her face, and she laughed as if breaking tickles. Her gaze was glacial, like an oiled glass she slipped away from the present to be in a place without time. She took a drink and felt uncertain.

There was something terrifying about the image of him, as he stood quite admirably in doorways, forever arriving, and always almost leaving. but there was a flame that flickered in his eye, and it was a flame from the hell inside that kept his demons. Regardless, he looked happy, and somewhere under the veneer of skin, past eyes like stones, there was a beautiful ghost that could be seen in his smile. He took a drink and waited for a moment that never happened.

Beyond desire the wooden girl stood with her back to the Devilish man as he waited in suspension between this and that. And his ghost wanted to haunt her in her haven of timelessness, and oh how she had wanted to feed his fire.

Instead she walked away and did not look back. The crack travelled all the way up through her head. She split in half. The man stayed standing in the doorway, and ultimately burst into flames.

There is everything unknowable about the castle on fire. As the people looked yonder, they wondered, "How did it start, and is anyone inside?"

But the ashes keep secrets. They do not tell stories.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


The little girl looks back at me
I turn away

As I watched him take her by the hand
I did not want to understand
How a wolf
Could tear apart its young

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Makeshift Eyes: Middle East Show in May

Makeshift Eyes: Old and New Works, May 1st - May 31st, The Middle East Restaurant, Cambridge, MA
Tentative Opening: Saturday afternoon, May 15th

This flyer sucks. It's preemptive.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Primeval Mutations: Artist Statement

Primeval Mutations: (A collection of work in charcoal and mixed media)

April 1st - April 30th at the All Asia Cafe, Central Sq. Cambridge, MA

Primeval Mutations is descriptive of immaterial concepts such as the first thought (which is seen in the mythology of the gnostic Sophia) and original sin. In history these concepts are archetypes, or symbolic macrocosms that convey the human condition and the mystery of sentience while addressing the truth that to be human is to be flawed. On a personal level, human experience affects our emotions and our thought process, and also chemically alters our brain; the seat of consciousness. These experiences and their resulting emotions form a chemical thought structure which affects our perception of existence.
This exhibit is a collection of drawings that serve as visual interpretations which depict the process of metaphysical evolution through mutations in thought and emotion. Primal feelings rooted in reality, such as sadness, can mutate to a delusional madness; and happiness can evolve into the state of surreal ecstasy commonly known as romantic love. These sentiments are often fleeting, leaving us to witness many births and deaths of various mind states. Because of their elusive and ephemeral behavior, they are difficult to explore. Often times they leave us confused, for it is in the mysterious nature of the heart to feel both love and hate, pain and pleasure simultaneously. These images pit happiness against psychosis, morph innocence with monstrosity, and at times elegantly romanticize death. It is up to the viewer to personalize these images and attempt to reconcile the dichotomy that exists in the work, by drawing upon their own life experiences through conflicting emotion. Whether understanding or confusion ensues, whether two opposing perceptions harmonize, or further separate, it is important to recognize the beauty in this process of metaphysical creation and destruction, accepting it for what it is, and to appreciate it’s potential for what it can become.

To Touch An Angel