Michael R. Jacobs Pre-Posthumous Publications

Cosmic College/Universal University

Selected Artwork 2004-2006

Face-filled Vision (2006)

freedom comes at cost

At face-value

that face you cannot see

face-filled visions

unreality

Michaelangelo (phoenix fetus) (2005)

Acrylic on cotton paper

Introspection (2005)

Acrylic on cotton paper

1 2 3 4

Crystal Mountain Ranges (2005)

Acrylic on cardboard

Astral Projection (2005)

Acrylic on canvas

meetings on the astral plane

Astral Minstrel (2005)

Acrylic on canvas

a serenade for a siren, music for a muse

a duet offered up to Anima Safari

Her seductive spirit an addictive substance
traces in my veins calling out her name
a haunting heroine who steals my mind
and wears my obsession like summer fashion

Abduction/Seduction (2005)

9 X6.5, white ink on black paper

Nighty the Sky Plowing Thru the Earth's Owlish Underbelly (2005)

Acrylic on canvas

I joined Yo Mama's Big Fat Booty Band on stage at LEAF in the fall of 2005. One of the bandmember's five-year-old daughter Niramaya sat with me before the show and we drew together. She is an old witch growing up in a little girl's guise.

"I can already tell you're a good person," she said. "Shall I make you a wizard?"

"I already am a wizard," I replied.

She just looked at me...

"No, you're not," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I haven't made you one yet," she said with conviction. "Shall I make you a wizard?"

"Sure," I said and she placed her hand over my face. Through her fingers her witchy eyes intensified.

"You 're wish is my command," she said and dropped her hand.

(Later she threatened to revoke my wizardness.)

After performing in the LEAF poetry slam finals a woman approached me and asked, "Are you Michaelangelo, the man with a voice like a wizard?"

Oh the Booty band, band of ecclectic misfits and musical mutants. Their explosively charged funk dynamic propelled me facefirst into my canvas, forced onward, inwards, ahead of myself, beyond, attempting at breakneck speeds to document as many connections as I could find.

The central awareness in this painting is radiated from the scintilized brain region of the dark, cat-eyed being at top center. This could be viewed, hypothetically, as "Me" as I was painting under the funkified super-vision of the Booty Band band. The yellow effigy next to it, in some abstract way, represents Greg, their sax player, who was wailing his axe right next to me.

Stripping away a layer, taking a step back, reveals various activated brain cicuits shown glowing within the neurological manatee,

emanating a fucia consciousness that permeats the eight orbs.

When I first begin a painting, I have no pre-conceived notions of what I will create. My art is a form of divination. "I" haven't a clue what is going on, because what's going on is, binary in nature, always going on and off. On slow shutter, the world slips in and out of being and everytime it comes back, something novel has been added. So it is usually not until I study the finished product afterwards, and relate it back to the actual time of creation--contemplating toward greater psychoanalytical understanding--that the existence is infused with narrative essence. When the orbs innitially surfaced, a side of me was unpleased. They seemed to be "cheap" shapes: futile, bubbly forms with little substance. But I've learned to ignore that part of me while I'm documenting the fluctuating frequencies-- that ignorant part that attempts to distract from the process, only recognizes the parts, and ignores the rest, speaking before its turn. Pushed over the apocalyptic threshhold by the music and the energy of the crowd, there was no choice but to keep going. And you know what? The number of orbs just happens to correspond to the number of band members, with an extra orb floating below representing myself, each touched by fucia - the unifying factor - the music.

And here, beyond the mental meta-structures, down to earth, we find The Organism propelled into the mystery. This being has no limbs but is able to hover by means of bioluminous pulsations purring from its underbelly -- a force that through a sort of counter-active magnatism allows the being to slightly levitate and move along the ground. A guardian on its "shoulder" acts as conduit and allows it communications with ancestral guidance. The Ancenstor, appearing like a foggy version of The Organism hovering above, is shaped somewhat like The Netherlands, my native land.

I considered the orbs/performers at one point to be bubbles exiting The Ancestor's mouth as it dispenses guidance. The present is a Karmic perpetuation of past paths; we are enduring reverberations, contituations of the past, here to straighten its crookened ways, to realign our souls with our minds so our bodies may regain entrance into paradise/eternity.

...entranced entrance into the mystery....

Michaelangelo emblem....

Self Portrait in Robe (2005)

Acrylic on cotton paper

Mating Rituals of Clouds (2005)

Acrylic on canvas board

I once knew a cloud—
which is to say, I didn't really know her,
but I once met a cloud who bared to me her cathedral soul.
Through a Fibonacci webbing cast between she and I
like a net for realing in
I watched her willed to grow as she was pulled apart
to reveal that she was not just One but Many clouds
wonderfully woven as One!
But I tried to show off to my friend who was present on the earthly planes—
to whom my infatuation with this divine mural was but a travesty—
and I said that I could make the cloud move in a spiral—
or better yet— I could make it move to the upper right with my mind
to which she, through the sunflower face filigree, was connected.
And as I said it, of course, the cloud rebelled to the lower left.
Just because we had a connection was no reason for me to manipulate her to my whims,
she seemed to say—using her like a common circus cloud— a clown cloud— to perform tricks for mortal onlookers.
I felt ashamed.
She was right of course. I had gotten cocky.
I felt I had betrayed that beautiful cloud, who spread for me her fiber.
But it was okay, she said— I didn't know better.

The Ascendence of Deininger (2005)

Acrylic on canvas

I invited Craig Deininger, poet extraordinare and author of "Rejected by Aliens", to paint with me in my garden. He had painted but once in his life, for an hour or so, but went confidently to work. The application of white alone thrilled him; the paint seemed to speak to him and he in turn spoke to the paint. The upper left part of this painting should be duly accredited to Craig.

She, object of my mind's obsession, caught the wind, the moons imagination, on her streamlined mermaid visage, in seeming remembrance of the sun.

Spirits dressed in clouds came to visit, hanging over Craig and I as we were busy at work in "the office", which is what we called the garden. The cloud-shrouded spirits began to helix over us, one and all, something I've never seen clouds do before. Peculiarly, this was happening only in the sky over us. A rainbow was imprism'd in one cloud's fractal fabric; another one asumed the goddess form that I depicted in the orb, and danced--danced--overhead for some time.

The ascendence scenario: Everything in this painting works to uplift the great white winged one, who, inspite of having been struck by an arrow in his side continues to fly torchbearing over the crystal mountain ranges. Heavenly Mountain, the Transcendental Meditation monnestery where Craig had been living and working for five years, was about to close down, and he was torn between moving back to the desert of Moab, where he dwells dunes as his last name etymologically implies, or staying in the mountains, to asume perhaps a teaching job. A tallon extends retrograde, clinging to the mountain, where Craig eventually stayed, to teach Tolkien as comparitive mythology.

Note the turquoise comet streaking accross the sky below the spectral wing - Craig's proudest accomplishment.

"What nonsense, these intentional strokes. Where's the xtc in that?"

"No, this mutant Turquoise, enhanced by yellow, is not the central deity of color. Though it has its authority, it does not reign supreme. Ever crawling to the surface of our attention, its attractive shimmer is one of high aspiration. Without the other colors to outshine, Turquoise on the center stage would be but a star-studded and tongue-tied buffoon, with little triumph in its expression. It is the maniacal struggle to get into the spotlight that gives Turquoise its integrity and makes it the fine gem that it is. No, I will not grant it the entire canvas, but I will grant it this aside."

The insect mystic gazes upon the distant submarine star, blinded by the light and paralized by the mechanics of ascendence.

He sends forth psychic frills of light to explore his fear of flight to sense what awaits beyond the threshold of the abbyss.

The memory of a flower upon him, awaking him to his tensely folded gossamer wings clinging to his thorax...

Before this entity appeared, as the chaos of the canvas developed into more and more complex order, "the lower right of the canvas spoke sorrow-fully of simpler times, when it was just blue and purple—before Turquoise and the tyranny of red."

June (2005)

acrylic on cardboard

In a Reflective Cloud (2005)

white ink and pencil on black paper

Vibrational Location (2004)

Bast, Daughter of Ra (2004)

pen & white ink on black paper

Tuvan Throatsong (w/ Overtones) (2004)

9 X 13, white pencil on black paper

A Syrup of The Bees (2004/5)

acrylic on canvas

the final vision in brazil radiated from the earth: a biomechanical dreamfactory with hivelike cilinders that measure vitality in a gaian cathedral where insect gods and workers carrying to and taking from, adding and subtracting, draining and filling, giving and receiving, sifting to and fro, trailing, trailing, trailing, sifting, trailing, in hyper-aware states of Unconscious, illuminated Id entities, fiends bent on nectar. What's the purose of this flux, this beating heart? The enjoyment of the purpose, rung the answer, self-evident, to and fro, sifting and trailing, draining and filling, trailing, trailing, trailing... infinite

Mamalian (2004/5)

Acrylic on canvas