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Hey - Let's Exchange Mail Art...

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Here's something I've been wanting to do for sometime amongst friends (and any one else who's interested). It's fun to get snail mail from friends whose names are not "bill".  Imagine how much fun it would be if it were art mail!!!! The Big Idea Here's How We Can Connect If you want to play, contact me at anfurst@gmail.com.  Send me your snail mail address and a hello,  also optionally : a picture, how you feel about where you are right now, a number between 1 and the square root of -1, a piece of pecan pie, your best report card, your worst report card, the nicknames of all twelve apostles, an explanation as to why there are so many vowels in the place names in Gaelic countries, a bottle of campbelton whisky, a recording of you reciting all the street signs you see when you go for a drive, and an essay in which you prove the antithesis of your most cherished belief.... Well send an address any way I'll provide a  postcard template  you can use.  You d...
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Artists Book 042

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This is another addition to a series of artist books I’ve been creating over the past several years. It features a collection of untitled images and photographs that come together as a unified whole. I find satisfaction in this collection, as it represents the result of years spent taking photos, modifying them, setting them aside, and rediscovering them through the power of computer search algorithms. Recently, much of my effort has been focused on this rediscovery process—searching through thousands of photos and images I've accumulated over the last 20+ years to uncover emotional and visual connections. I hope you enjoy the book. Please let me know what you think.
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Quilts Sewn from what’s on hand, Scraps of love, and comfort, and longing. Each square tethered to the next Like family at the table.  Threaded with tea and troubles. Steeped in unspoken sorrows and sequestered joys. These disembodied fabric versions of ourselves,  Linger over the dreams of our daughters and sons  In forms and memories  we might not always abide. Published in Gravitas Dec 2019
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My Poem "Names" accepted for publication in the inaugural edition of Zoarium Magazine.

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  Got a short, polite email at 7:00 AM this morning from Craig at Zoarium Magazine.   I even got an (entirely unnecessary) apology for taking a vacation and still responding within 11 days.  It was nice to find a home for this poem.  It is filled with ancient memories of my mother's parents (and donuts!)
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Poem - Over Near the Big Christian Indian in Lowell

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  Over Near the Big Christian Indian in Lowell I got to a Lowell cemetery to the gravesite of Jack Kerouac. They say that information Is just alienated experience. That’s just another way of saying life is more fucked up than the news. So, it follows that the grave is just alienated information about a life. Senseless too.  Senseless as Jack, whose is dead,  and oblivious to the rhythms of you and your soulmate making love to the idea of screwing near Jack,  and each other. Drunk on Cognac or boredom You’ll eventually come to terms  With how separate anything afterlife is. It’s more meaningless than information.  Less than memory, or being hated,  or sharing a smoke with your soulmate  after a good lay in the graveyard. Published in Duck Lake Books August 2019
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Paint Cards

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these paint cards are artifacts of my paintings.  I frequently use paper to lay over blobs of paint on the canvas to create a worn, speckled effect.  I usually save the paper I use for this purpose for additional design touches and then mount them.
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A Poem - No Home

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  No Home Where do I put this dust; without a mantle  and the yellow paste of nicotine to hold it fast? Walls and windows cling to me, Desperately; Like a name to a place or a face Or like my love is stuck to you. The brown bristly welcome mat tells me The universe is not a home.  As do the locks, the lamps,  and the chimneys. My coffee stains and I Would have no place to leave our mark. Words would make no sense. The dog would just go anywhere. What a stupid thing  to think the universe is anything but a cold dark other. What else could it be? There are no floors and no ceilings. Breakfast and the cycles of love and hate Are left, space less. As if God had nothing to say And the trash had nowhere to go. The preachers that say,  “the moss on the house won’t need washing”  They lie. It was cholera that built these walls, not love, And I won’t give them up. Published in Ink In Thirds June 2019
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