Out of the Gutter Art

Outrageous Bipolar Expressions

  • My Time to SHINE!!

    Ooooooo!! Pick Me, Pick Me!!

    SHINE Mural Festival is a Huge Deal in Saint Petersburg, Florida. Every year the best and the brightest mural artists are chosen; some internationally known, some nationally, and a few locals. There are interactive online narrated maps that take you to each mural virtually, from anywhere in the world.

    Each year I long to participate. For as long as I can remember, I have loved painting murals. Oh boy, give me a can of spray paint and a wall, you will soon be amazed at the wonders that pour out! I have long admired the works of underground artists, such as I was. I am admitting my age by saying that in my youth, murals on buildings, bridges, highway underpasses and box cars were the standard locations. These works were most often created at night, in a hurry. Many times the record on the artist’s passing by was marked with a few empty beer cans, cigarette butts and a roach or two. Or three…

    Other tell-tale sign of haste were drips, dabs and unfinished words trailing off as the artist booked it away from the scene. A charge of defacing public property carried a hefty fine, and if a possession, trespassing on railroad property or underage drinking charge were tacked on, a trip to the precinct and an unwelcome call home to the “rents” was in the offing. Most unfortunate consequences indeed…

    As time went on there was more of an effort to paint over such “graffiti”, even using this process as community service to the offenders who, sadly, had to paint over their art in drab shades of grey or funky beige. Often these endeavors at rehabbing the artists wound up in a defiant repainting of the boxcar or bridge girders, perhaps with an expletive or two directed at a certain public servant. Ah, the free and easy days of youth…

    My work graced the interior of a specific race car shop where giant vampire mechanics worked on their mid-engine mustangs, as my boyfriend and his mates furiously readied their real mustangs for the next Friday drag races. These murals became a locally “famous” conversation piece and backdrop to pig roasts washed down with kegs of beer and fifths of Jack. Unfortunately, the parties ended with an eviction notice taped to the garage door; my masterpieces hidden from the public eye, only to live in the haziest memories of youth.

    As I moved on to marriage and adulthood my dreams of painting extraordinary murals had to be put on a back burner. My Father had long before decided that a fine art education was not a ‘realistic’ path for me; in defiance I stomped off and got a Retail Management degree-I really showed him! So life had veered me off course, but art was never out of my hands for more than a few minutes. Doodling turned into having my doodles copyright, an undertaking I am rightfully pleased with, and hope to use again some time in the future.

    And murals? Well, I still paint them. Every chance I get. After nearly n years of living with and caring for my deceased husband and both of my parents I began creating art full time, and have thrived ever since showing again for the first time in 2014. I get commissions for murals and other works, which I find so satisfying, and I spend the remaining time creating all manner of ingenious art using substrates such as vintage and found housewares, furniture and building materials. I also create tamer works such as acrylic and mixed media on canvas’.

    Until last week I thought I had missed my chance to paint a mural this year… Then, I saw The Call for the Wall, a chance to get in The Shine St. Petersburg Mural Festival… So, I’m going for it… Even if it means painting giant Praying Mantis in my spare bedroom!

  • Calling Down thru the Centuries

         Tracing a Trail of Tears…

       The Trail, so long ago. Now see the traces of hot tears down our dusty cheeks. Feel the same blood pumping thru these veins as in those:

        Red like the purest ruby, and it will pour forth if you cut us. Your words cut like the edge of a knife, a ruby red blade across a human throat.

       Do not gloat, you who know the glut of Buffalo meat, blood red heart still beating in hand, Son of man.

        A man of the Sun, of the People, the Black Hills, the Antelope Valley…The Mohawk mountains, man.  The salmon-colored sands of the Sonoran Desert.

       We chased the sidewinder, ran with roadrunners. Our feet bled walking empty highways, empty citrus groves, riding empty boxcars.

       We are women, tired and beaten. Down the tears ran like the scars on our back, scars on our heart.

       Where are you, raven-haired brother? Do you hear me , calling across the centuries?   

       Does my black mother bear my sorrow, black Mother-bear?

        Alone now; my voice reaches all the way around this broken bowl of me

       The wind washes the empty, clay basin of my soul…

       I am not whole-I wholly am not holy, man.

       Holy man, what is better than this sweet sorrow?

       Or more bitter medicine than this abiding pain, Medicine man?

  • In the Arms of Angels: Rise Up

    Taking a Memory in a New Direction

    I’ve been living with PTSD for a couple of decades now, many years. Many years… There has been miles of road covered in my healing journey, at times I feel as if I have dragged my body over continents of rough terrain. I am road weary and saddle sore. I have a sense of who I could have been, if my road had been kinder. This does not grieve me as much as it used to, I don’t mourn as much, but I do get caught up in the quicksand of the past now and then. These days I know what tools to use to work myself free, even if I do drag some dirt along for a while. I have a support network to do a deep cleaning when needed.

    But my trauma never truly ever leaves. It just gets rammed back into it’s footlocker faster, and I keep more cinder blocks around to pile on top. When the stink seeps out I open the windows, pull out a fresh canvas and paint till the air clears. Ahh, how clarifying. Washing the walls of my mind with ‘Spic and Span’, that excellent cleanser of bygone days. When the walls of my childhood home were turning brown from nicotine, Mother would open a box, make a batch of suds in a bucket and with some hard work (and many smoked cigarettes) she would turn those rooms from gloom to gleam! (Damn, I can turn a phrase !)

    Some of us are just born ad men (and women)

    Anyway, that’s what creating my art does for my broken mind. So, when this call came out, “Rise Up, Remembering 9/11” I had serious emotions bubble to the surface. My memories of that day are not of one who was there, or who lost a loved one, a family member, a daughter, son, beloved husband or wife, a dear friend or even a colleague. My memories are the memories of collective, enormous grief and horror.

    Detail of Flashback 937

    How could this horror be reframed in any meaningful way? Dare I even intrude on someone else’s trauma to say how I have healed? What could I show, thru my art, that might help someone hurt one smidgen less? I have just come out of creating my most painful work to date…a painting you watched come to fruition here and on IG. That piece tore my heart out and tears are mingled in the paint. This piece was going to hurt to.

    I remember sitting in the darkness of my lonely room, watching videos of the towers, before they fell. Feeling guilty for watching, but needing to see the reality of what they were experiencing. Watching them clinging to window frames as the billowing jet-fueled fires raged at their backs. I was their mother, their wife, their sister, tears pouring from my eyes, mouth open matching their silent appeals for a miracle please GodpleaseGodPLEASEGODSAVETHEM SAVEUS SAVEME!!!

    Detail Flashback 937Reworked

    Then their hand is forced by the pain, or they make their decision and leap…l e a p…into oblivion. I gasp…time seems to stand still as they let go…slowly, they fall, like beautiful leaves in a September wind, suitcoats flutter, white shirts billow, sensible shoes on beautiful bloody feet, top side up, bottoms up, arms akimbo, embracing the darkness rushing at them at terminal velocity. I am them, What do I feel? Do I feel? Will I feel? Bye Mom, bye Johnny, bye Laura…

    I close my laptop, sobbing silently, drying my snotty nose on the bedclothes…I feel guilty,dirty, like I just did drugs or had sex. Was I depraved to watch that? Was it forgivable. Maybe it was like the people who watched me get beat, not calling for help, just watching. No, I could not have helped, no one could. Wait a minute…

    I could help now. I could change the picture! It was like a time machine! I could send an angel! A strong, loving , beautiful angel-radiant and shining- to intercept her in midair! Because that’s what really happened, right? Yes. YES!

    This is Rising Up! A New Direction!

    It is a Work in Progress, and a humble beginning, but this is what I missed that day…this is what really happened…

    *note* John5:28,29 this gives me comfort*

  • *UPDATE*Hello Fellow Fellows of Art
    The Water Plant (sold) ©SusanTMartin2019

    ******To all my dear friends who were worrying about me, I am doing fine and I did have a Covid test 4 days after I first felt sick, and it came out negative! So, yay, for that, and yay for feeling so much better! I hope this finds you all doing well, coping with the turmoil around us by creating beautiful, strange and titillating works of art, in whatever manner your little hearts desire! (As long as no injury on any other living thing is involved!) I find that my art allows me to travel far beyond the confines of my tiny abode, far beyond the paltry and ordinary lives of the teeming hordes of addicts and vagabonds outside my door, far beyond the lunatic fringe…to a place so grand and majestic that even now-this very instant-I am transported to a wonderland, a vista of imagine-able delight. My imagination, my wonderland…show me, tell me, dance me…your vision!*****

    Undercurrents by Susan Todd Martin

    I have left you all hanging for a long time, and we were getting along famously… I hope we can again. I have been coping with some major health issues. An awful fall this past Monday night, a night in the hospital. Diagnosed with a ‘Wrenched Neck” which the Dr commented, ” You are the only person I’ve ever met whose neck is in worse shape than mine”. He had 3 levels fused at John’s Hopkins, I’m 3-7 at St. Lucie Med. Center.

    Passed On©STMartin2010

    He said I absolutely did the right thing calling the ambulance, the blow to the head and terrible twist of my neck could have been life threatening.

    So there’s that.

    Then, to add insult to near death experience, I contracted what I think may be Covid. It started Wednesday and has been beating me senseless ever since. Not like any flu, much more pain and headache, dizziness, stomach pain and toilet issues, terrible tiredness, bone aches, muscle spasms…I could go on but why? I’m not going to die, I had both shots thank God.

    The Insomniac’s Dream by STodd Martin2021

    I can definitely see how this could kill someone if the got the full on version. It has me whimpering. Its Sunday and my fever is down, and no funny smell in my nose or taste in my mouth. That was the first symptom, but it didn’t occur to me right away. I thought the neighbor was burning something, or I had a short somewhere. Then I had an awful taste in my mouth, nothing tasted right. Not even things I like.

    That’s what cinched it for me, right before a truck hit me…of course it was Friday night when I was at the peak of whatever this is. And CDC advice said don’t go to hospital if you can get better at home. I took my phones to bed with me so I could call 911.

    Even wrote a goodbye letter… Crazy, huh?

    Chalk Painting, just for fun, on my driveway.8/3/2021

    Gotta rest now. I’ll call my Doc and get tested tomorrow. Later…

  • Adventures of a Cross-Eyed Girl

    Nobody wants to go thru this… NOBODY.

    Even lying down my head still spins…

    Having a Traumatic Brain Injury is a real drag. Of course it is. Mine was not the worst kind, as we so often sadly see in war, car accidents, shootings.

    I was brain injured in stages, blow by sickening blow, at the hands of a man who had pledged to love and cherish me. It is not to discuss him, or my past that I bring this up. It is the aftermath.

    I had many concussions already when I suffered a series of falls in 2013 where I suffered another head injury. After that one I experienced vertigo “on steroids”. After coming home from the hospital, I went to bed, hurting from a broken ankle but otherwise ok. I had to get up and pee, so I teetered on my crutches towards the loo. Lo and Behold! I was so dizzy I toppled sideways into the closet doors and crashed headfirst into them, knocking them off their track! And knocking me off mine, you might say.!

    Detail of “Flashback 937”, a biographical work about my journey out of domestic abuse…

    Long story short, its been 8 years. Initially I had Physical Therapy for a span of about 2 years. The vertigo I was experiencing is called Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, or BPPV. Usually a quick maneuver by the therapist, turning one this way then that, is all that is required for a full recovery. In 99 percent of cases. You guessed it… I was not cured. So I have bouts of cross-eyed misery on a bi-monthly basis.

    “Unplugged” a digital finger painting showing my brain’s misfiring connections…

    You don’t realize how sick vertigo can make you till you endure this joy ride. First I want to puke, then I nearly fall, then I’m overcome with a fatigue so profound that getting out of bed is a monumental feat. And this Rollercoaster just keeps going round. The problem is that I feel so sick that I don’t recognize the BPPV right away. Until I snap a selfie and realize my eyes are out of whack again. Oh, I forgot to mention the blinding headaches… Yeah, those. Ok, the light is hurting my eyes… Back to bed.

    Another Night blurs into Day…and on, and on, and on…

  • The Land of Lost Names

    ” The place I was found is where I remain; a scar on the ground in The Land of Lost Names”

    I paint intuitively, I guess you could say. I do have some “book learnin’” as far as laying out a proper painting; sketch it first…wait. I don’t do that. EVER. I’m sure it’s a great idea, and I’ve kicked myself many times for not doing that very thing. But that won’t make me do it the next time. Does this limit me? I have no clue, because my imagination is endless, and part of my process is digging myself out of whatever little jams I get myself into. It’s the Thing that makes one of my paintings MINE.

    I am sorry sometimes that I paint over certain elements, but I usually have a photo of the previous version for posterity, and if anyone ever wanted, I could print it. I’ve thought about doing just that at times. I think the whole “paint over it” thing stems from not being able to afford canvas. But also, perhaps developing simultaneously, I feel a need to change what I just painted to something new. Not because of a mistake, although I will admit I’ve made one. ONE. No, not that…I love to morph people into new faces, new poses, new emotions. Life is very fluid. My thoughts are fluid.

    These are the first thoughts that lived on this canvas. Starting 2 years ago

    Then I put the piece away. It just hurt too much to keep remembering ‘the event’, and I moved on to better projects. Every now and then I would look at the piece, in the corner of “The Cat Box Room” which was to be my studio in some “before reality set in” lifetime. It bothered me. The yellow duck was grinning foolishly at me, the strange red lady still watched the activities in the green Skylark with sad resignation, and my “self” still looked on in anger and loathing…

    The Day My Focus Shifted…

    I was scrolling aimlessly through my Facebook feed, tired and disgusted with my couch-potato-ing lifestyle, when I came across a sad post on a friends feed. She likes to re-post searches for lost animals, found animals, missing purses etc… This was different. It was a photo of a fresh faced seventeen year old, grinning at his sister who held the camera. I knew that look, I grew up with one older brother who I adored, and followed around constantly, snapping photos.

    But my brother did not leave the house one sunny day in 1987 to go down to the Seven-Eleven, only to vanish forever. Poof. Gone. No packed bag, no argument with the folks, no history of drug use, gang affiliation, criminal past…nothing. He was not upset over a break-up or being treated for any mental illness. He had no history of depression, there was just no reason for him to leave home. But he was gone, and has not been heard from by his family since that day.

    His sister was still grieving thirty four years later, as if it happened yesterday. A fresh bleeding gash to her heart, all these years later. As this sunk in , I felt it keenly. I scrolled thru the comments, ready to send a sympathetic emoji , then reconsidering. It seemed petty, trite, in the face of such profound grief. Then I saw a comment that just said, “Have you checked namus.com?” Namus? I never heard of it, and thought it was awful that someone was trying to promote a Counseling firm or therapy place. So I went to the site myself.

    Wow. Oh.

    So, I scrolled thru that site for two hours, crying. I tear up now. Just a shoe sometimes. Or a picture of a section of a deceased persons body with a grey-looking tattoo. Maybe a Lakers cap and a dirty pair of blue jeans. Or the phrase “Location not mapped” and, instead, a set of GPS coordinates. Often, these were all that remained of somebody’s brother, mother, sister, father, son or daughter. Or their wife, their best friend, their twin, their beloved cousin.

    No ID, nothing. Even if an ID was found, perhaps the unidentified had no face left to match it to. Oh my, the scenarios are endless…and the locations were just as enigmatic in many cases. East River, park bench in Central Park, found in front of hospital, in a tent by the roadside, a culvert, a ditch.

    But for me the saddest were in Brooks County, Texas. Seventy miles north of the Rio Grande, on American soil, owned by incredibly rich rancher corporations. Dusty, dry brushland, miles of it, where remains are often found. Scattered remains, usually.

    The one that still is burned into my brain is the little hair barrettes…lovely little beaded things that probable graced the braid of a beautiful girl with bright eyes who had dreams of being on American Idol one day, or of being a veterinarian, a doctor, a mother.

    These are the people who came to inhabit my painting. And the reason I titled it the way I did…

    ” The place I was found is where I remain, a scar on the ground in The Land of Lost Names”.

  • Chicken? or Pig? Just Flesh, please…

    “What’s the Deal? Am I a Coward?”

    Where does it Hurt? Unmasking,©SusanTMartin2021W/P

    Commitment to put out my best work…not just work. To push my limits, expand my thought processes…remove boundaries.

    Flashback 937 ©SusanTMartin2017

    I was reading Eric Wayne’s blog , @artofericwayne.com, and he focused a piece on the fine art of Suzzan Blac. (I will refer you to his article and won’t share her work here.) Holy Toledo. The things I allude to in some of my biographical work, the fact that I thought I was being so brave…no. This artist lays it bare…flays it bare.

    She nails the darkest emotions that creep into my nightmares, 50 years after the events. Nothing held back. I admire this work, even if I look at it in secret, as if it’s evil perps can see me, too. As if others can tell that the abuse made me want to hurt someone just like I was hurt. That is the most disgusting part to me, the stain on my soul. That’s the painful truth that I thought my God could never forgive me for…the filthy truth that kept me out in the cold sticking needles in my flesh just to forget for a few minutes…kept me out there for 23 years. I wanted to die, just like I want to kill the perps she pictures so perfectly…

    The Inheritance of Daughter’s ©SusanTMartin2018

    I can’t say I love her work, or even like it, it feels too real to me. It makes me respond like the people I have told my experiences to; that half smile and and nod of understanding while their eyes glaze over with fear and a sort of loathing…like my very words are getting dirt on them. Suzzan is courageous in that she can look her demons in the eye and paint them. Nailing their guilt to the canvas forever. But her pain, her brokenness is palpable and forever on display for both victims and sick minds to see.

    I can’t look too long, and perhaps I should not look at all, for my own sanity. I recognize her need to paint her experiences. I have to also, to get the emotions out and onto the page, onto the canvas where they can’t rip me up inside, at least for a little while. I do this to heal, to repair my damaged psyche until my God repairs me permanently.

    I hope that she can find some respite for her pain, too.

    2018 Insights II WINNING Entry! ” Crossing the Delaware, Well Aware”©SusanTMartin2018 in the Permanent Collection of The Ryan Licht Sang Bipolar Foundation

  • I Am Grateful

    I started out whiney today…but I was readjusted…

    It’s so easy to forget how far I have come in my Art journey. I wish I could say that I remember to count my blessings everyday, but today, for most of the morning, I was not grateful at all. The things that were inflringing on my serenity seemed so monumental at the time, and I was vocal about it.

    National Park Land, ©SusanTMartin

    The venue didn’t do this, didn’t do that…didn’t recognize HRH Martin, basically…yet I claimed the day before that I was just happy to make my seahorse/mermaid sculpture, and did not care if I won.

    , SI did have legitimate gripes, the primary one being no tent, no shade, no respite from the blazing sun. It was their first rodeo and the poor organizer lady had a zillion things to do, and I believe she tried to snag me a tent. But I completely had a meltdown, and even Mer Sea was starting to lose her cool cause I used a lot of hot glue as fasteners. Not bad tho…

    I’ve carried her in and out of the house and car about 6 or 7 times so far, she’s held it together admirably! Better than me! As I was fretting a lovely young man appeared on a bike and parked it right behind me on the beach. He P I ioo up was there to take his daily swim and clear his mind. Did I say he was beautiful? Well, we struck up a conversation about gratitude, and mindfulness and he reminded be to breath. To look around at the ocean, put my toes in the water. To feel the love of God in the wonders of creation. To be in the present, fully aware.

    So I did. And I felt better instantly.. Up