suspense

"suspense"

mixed media collage on canvas board

gregory a. milinovich

here's a collage i made last week. have a great weekend!

from blah to canteloupe

while home without kids earlier this week, i took advantage of the empty house and painted the master bathroom (which may be the world's smallest full bathroom - the sink is the size of a camping sink!). it is hard to tell in this picture, but the color was kind of a drab pale yellow. i believe it was called blah. shannon chose to replace "blah" with "canteloupe slice." if you know me, you know that i had no complaints about this.

here it is after the first coat, with the tape still on.

and here is the finished product. it isn't as orange as it looks up by the lights. you'll get a better idea if you look at the color of it immediately above the sink.

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we all need repainted from time to time, huh? at least i do. old ideas grow stale and worn out, bitter like old paint, raising on the edges and flaky. my growth as a person, as a husband and father, as a Christian and as an artist and so forth requires that from time to time i get a bit of an overhaul. its not particularly comfortable as i would much rather just keep the familiar, but God keeps saying things like "new thing," and "behold, i am making all things new." really, God? really? do you have to say behold? and can't we keep this color for awhile? i was just getting used to it. i know its a bit, well, blah, but still. i've grown quite fond of it. but whether i'm up for it or not, it becomes painfully obvious that a fresh coat of a new color is necessary. and so i grow.

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o maker of every color (and the ones we have yet to imagine):

repaint the bathroom of my heart. make me new again. forgive me for ruts and religious routines. color me fresh and alive. i want to reflect the whole prism of your light.

playlist

i just spent about 5 hours in my car, listening to my ipod on shuffle. its got 8,771 songs to choose from. these are some of the artists i heard on my trip:

johnny cash/bright eyes/greg laswell/pearl jam/queen/the myriad/over the rhine/the innocence mission/band of horses/patty griffin/steve earle/frank sinatra/bruce springsteen/david crowder/dwight yoakam/u2/ben harper/ben lee/harry connick jr./keane/jars of clay/grits/altar boys/nickel creek/yellowcard/willie nelson/mute math/asleep at the wheel/collective soul/something corporate/mxpx/pierce pettis/radiohead/taking back sunday/emmylou harris/joshua radin/wilco/ray charles/of montreal/great lake swimmers/gillian welch/bing crosby/julie miller/amos lee/page france/lost dogs/playdough/mat kearney/ray lamontagne

i heart my ipod. sigh.

ticket to providence

it is nearing noon, and i'm just now getting settled into my office at work, not because i overslept, but because i met Jesus this morning. he didn't look the way i usually picture him. he was about my height, but with a bigger belly and a sandy moustache that covered his upper lip. he was wearing some sort of boot-like-cast thing on his left foot. he said "man" alot when he talked, like a hippie. he told me how he needs to get back to rhode island, and how bad his foot hurts, and how he only has three dollars in his pocket. he told me a great deal about the last few months of his life, a convoluted and confusing stream of consciousness kind of story. i would never call Jesus a liar, but i wasn't quite convinced about every detail of his story. it started getting a little fishy around the part where someone stole $1000 from him at the pancake house. still, the lines on his face and the desperation in his eyes (not to mention the severe limp in his walk) told me all the story i needed to know. i got him a train ticket to newark and an amtrak ticket to providence, and then took him in my minivan to the train station. as we sat there in the parking lot full of commuters' cars, empty, Jesus sipped on his cup of coffee and we talked about things like how he likes that jennifer hudson song about the river, and about how his dad abused him. we discussed smokey robinson and God's love. after awhile, i offered to pray with him, and he agreed, adding that we should pray for michael jackson's family as they mourn his passing. so we did. we closed our eyes there in the front seat of my minivan and i asked God to help this man get to providence safely, to ease the pain in his foot, and to help him see again just how beloved he is. i also asked God to be with the jackson family, and Jesus became quite vocal during that part. he moaned several "yes lord"s and then we said amen. i shook his hand, he thanked me, and then i left him there at the train station. i drove off in my minivan, noticing his empty disposable coffee cup rolling around on the floor, and i was simply struck by the fact that a man with an aching foot, an aching heart, and an empty wallet would be so concerned about someone else's hurt.

so Jesus taught me a lesson today. i got him a ride home, but he gave me a valuable reminder that life isn't all about me and my trivial concerns. i'm too self-absorbed.

thank you, Jesus, for the reminder that there is more to life than my silly worries, or my even sillier schedule. i hope you made it to providence all right. catch you later.

considering the birdsongs by my window

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artwork: "gypsy bird" by samarra khaja

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considering the birdsongs by my window

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you sing so

boldly, within earshot,

shy little birds.

what gives you such courage,

such charismatic colorful carefreeness, to

lift your voices

so?

is it because you

do not worry

yourself with what's next or

what people think?

i consider the songs you sing,

with your strange high whistles

and morning blends of unashamed goodness.

do not worry.

i am blessed by your artful joy,

and am looking, today,

for a way to sing along.

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-gregory a. milinovich

at the flea market with my head down

when you have kids you give up some luxuries. that's just part of the deal. it might be that you give up walking around the house naked, or your propensity for colorful language, etc. for me, though, one of things that i surrendered was my saturday morning at the flea market.

going to the flea market with children is just not cool. for whatever unknowable reason, they don't seem particularly interested in 70 year old photos of some russian family on holiday at what looks like yosemite. and they aren't as enamored as i am with sorting through crate after crate of barry manilow and englebert humperdinck albums in search of that brubeck or nick drake album. instead, we go off searching for "toys," which mostly means broken transformers. sigh. i miss my saturdays at the flea market.

however, due to some divine providence (and eager grandparents), i was provided with a child-less saturday this weekend, and i headed down to the golden nugget flea market in lambertville, nj. now you need to understand one thing about me: as a collage artist, part of the draw of a flea market to me is not just what is on the tables being sold, but what is under the table and all over the ground being forgotten. flea markets are my art supply stores. so as i perused the albums and antiques at the golden nugget saturday, i also kept my head down quite a bit, and i walked away with all of this at no cost:

a few months ago our kids had been given some kind of melissa & doug stamp set for kids, and it came in this little wooden box you see below. most people would have thrown it away. but not me. i took the open side of the box, which had some little shelves in it, and i painted it black, as you can see in the next picture. that painted box has been sitting around in my art room for a couple of months, just waiting for the right moment.

and finally, the right moment arrived. i came home with a smorgasboard of scattered sundries, all desperately begging me to tell their story. so i put them together in ways that interested me, made me chuckle and made me go 'hmmmm...,' and then glued them down and covered everything in a clear finish. and i got this:

"at the flea market with my head down"

mixed media assemblage in wood box

gregory a. milinovich

another piece of evidence in my case that there is art all around us; grace in the gravel and the garbage. another witness to my call to keep my eyes open (my name, gregory, means "watchman," or "observant") and notice the joy in the most unsuspected parts of the journey. the little bits of color of life. the strange relationships that emerge when two previously unrelated entities are put together. the redemption of rescue.

and so i give thanks to God for a sabbath-like saturday at the flea market.

saturday song: laughing with

i have liked regina spektor ever since i began to discover her last year. she is a bit on the eccentric side, as far as her music goes, and some people really can't stand to listen to her, but i really quite enjoy her creativity, and playfulness, as well as her ability to be poignant. the latter is the case with the song i want to share with you today. i found this over at eric park's blog, and you can read his excellent analysis of this song, as well as his own meditation on it for his life here. that link also includes the lyrics of the song, which are worth checking out if you have trouble understanding her in spots. give it a listen.



i'm curious what you think about this song. what do you think she's trying to say here? is this a song of hopelessness or hope? i challenge you to take a moment and reflect on this little piece of art regina spektor has created. and let us know what you think...