is the art of Norman J. Olson Erotic Art? 

by:  Norman J. Olson 

I do not get a lot of recognition for my art…  in fact, few people, even people who know me, know about my artworks…  partly, this is because I have never really tried to sell art or be a part of the local arts community, or any arts community, for that matter…  also, I think that this might be because of the nature of my artworks themselves…  

1) they are not formally innovative…  in fact, they are pretty much old fashioned works in oil paint and various drawing mediums…  2)  they are not topical/political and much officially recognized art today is expected to be topical, to have a purpose of setting the world right, or at least to make some kind of political statement…  and 3) my art often uses the old European/art history trope of the nude figure…  which, I think makes my art less than commercial, as people today, are very uneasy with using images of naked people as such in artworks… 

some years ago, I discovered the world of Erotic art…  Erotic art is sort of high toned porn, or art about sexual matters that is accepted in certain quarters, if it makes statements in line with current academic thinking on those matters…  and has a bit more depth than the average porn video… people often assume that my art is erotic art in that it portrays naked people, occasionally sexual activities and seems more sophisticated than what most people would call “porn…”  so, the question is, does my art fall into the category of “Erotic Art…”

the  fact that it may, brought my work to the attention of the Wilzig Erotic Art Museum in Miami, Florida and my history with that museum led to an interview with me by Melissa Blundell, Director of Education for that museum…  this happened last summer (summer 2021) and was one of the most exciting and public expositions and discussions of my art that has ever happened…

If anybody is interested in seeing some images of my artworks and hearing a discussion about my art including the question of whether or not it is erotic art, you can check out this interview at:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/57268513383 

The Sanity of Doubt Filled Dreams

She wears crimson lips /	
	like poppy petals 	dancing on a breeze.

Her house falls down around her, as she picks through 
	pieces of her dream,

no opening left 	to 	fill.

She has nothing to do right now,
	so, she wades barefoot into the sea.

Waves crest above her ankles /
	as she sinks slowly into wet sand.

The white, and red, and gray of her		reaching
	for a prayer.

Gulls cry out, forsaken,	as she loses her mind,
	and softness closes in. 


When the Child Within the Child Has Parted

Go backwards forty-nine years:
I am the child / that carries a son within my shell.
He does not know that he exists / he was not meant to be.

A mindless act, not planned / chalked out on a blank board.
My vacant childhood / locked in a discarded box, fighting 
for latitude /suffering seeped out. I rebelled my torture / 

choosing freedom, only to be caged by my own witlessness.
I ran away to hide / wanting to adult. I did not know how 
to resolve pain. I perpetuated the sin that I tried to escape.

Wanting love, I could not shelter the lie. Tearing down walls / 
I braved conclusion. Torn from my screaming frame, 
I let them take you away. The fire left within me burned 

through my weak flesh. I bled out all sanity / needing 
to hold you in my arms. Two broken souls / both children.
A turbulent future opened its hands and we fell out.  

Tangled roots / intertwined we grew apart. 


Voices Inside My Head

I wash my sins down the drain,
with the taste of you on my tongue.

Your bitterness fills me 
with loathing for myself.

Broken bed.
Broken chair.

I am splinters, strewn about the floor / 
discarded confetti / last year’s party.

I try to grasp thin air,
while breathing in blue / or was it purple?

Trying to hold on to what sanity I have left.
The golden dawn is too far away to reach.

I curl up in an empty soup can / to be recycled,
with used up guilt and broken dreams.

I wonder – 
did you ever think of me / did you ever care?
The voices grow louder / I cannot shut them out.


Solitude of Mind

You invaded my body	     never giving me a chance to resist.
There was no escape - no place to hide.

Silent echoes slowly sinking into a clouded pool of dreams.
Captured, alone, released. 
	We sat upon empty promises. 
We carried fingerbowls of restitution - not owning anything 
	but our remains.

Subscriptions of lost forevers     drift above the realm of facts.
	We do not know what we cannot understand.

Years stole away the joy of future hope, aging past our own design.
How could you be so cruel?  

We walked into a grayness that would not allow the sun.
	Time counted out each step     we had no choice.

We are here now - ravaged by distant loss.
	My body decays in increments with each breath. 

Alone, I sit with my desires 	there is no turning back.
	You have dismantled all that is left of me. 

There are no answers - if there be questions.
For in the end, 
	we die alone.


The Dying of a Mighty Fortress

The castle stood a thousand years, bowing to 
the sun. Turrets rose above clouds, piercing 
heaven’s realm. Stone by stone we plummeted
to earth. An abandoned shell that lost its soul
to the sheering wind /whistling through vast 
emptiness. Its throat had lost the taste for 
blood centuries ago. We used to be so strong. 
Now a place of curiosity. Its heart no 
longer beats. Sky falling all around, as 
daybreak pulls open tattered curtains, & 
ancient walls crumble into dust. Imprisoned 
within these screaming rooms are countless 
ghosts. Tales of knights in armor & ladies 
veiled in silk, echo through vast halls. 
Stories no longer told. Ravens perch on high 
sills, overseeing their domain. I stand on the 
precipice calling out your name. A wayward
gust swallows my voice. Once a monument to 
greatness, the ages claim their derelict prize. 
“To be or not to be,” a tribute to the past. 
Time rules all things with an iron hand. 
Nothing is powerful enough to last forever. 
The castle weeps a final tear. 

BIO:

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 14 poetry books, and one short story book. lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. 

Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, Poetic Sun, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore.

Thieves of time

My name is Doniyor. My neighbor Abdullah and I have become close friends. One day we couldn’t find any any way to have fun.  We had no goal.  We didn’t know what to do. When we were making something from a piece of wood, my father suddenly woke up.  His eyes were half open when he said:

“ Hey, thieves of time! Are you wasting your time?”

I didn’t understand the meaning of my father’s “time thieves” at all. I wanted to ask, but he fell asleep.

My friend Abdullah also asked “Are we thieves?” 

When daylight came, he went into his house. I also fell asleep from exhaustion. But I remembered that I was late for school, so I quickly washed my face and drank tea in a hurry. I do not remember what I ate. ..  I thought I would be late for school, but class had not yet begun.  As soon as I arrived, the teacher came in.  We all greeted the teacher with respect

“ My dear students!  I am overjoyed to see you.  My joy is boundless.“

 Just as our teacher was explaining the subject to us, one of my classmates came in and said,”Teacher, I’m sorry I’m late today.” 

“Doniyor, don’t be late anymore., the teacher said.“This time I forgive you, but next time I will punish you.”

“Dear students,” the teacher said, “you must build a new Uzbekistan, and at the same time justify the trust of your parents, ready to give their lives for you. If you become famous, I will be proud to say on the street that I taught this student, “ she said. 

These words of my teacher had a special effect on me and increased my self-confidence. Various whispers began in the classroom. 

“Will you come to my birthday tomorrow?” I heard also those words.  It was clear that our teacher also heard these words. 

“Time thieves,” said the teacher. Her sharp gaze at the students was marked by regret. “Thieves of time”.

I had heard these words from my father while I was playing with my friend.  That’s why I was not surprised to hear them.  My classmates were stunned.

Doniyor, trembled with fear, as if I, his friend Abdullah, ,had committed a crime.

“Doniyor, why are you trembling?”  the teacher asked. 

“You called us thieves, didn’t you? After all, aren’t those who steal punished?“

“Time thieves are punished by time itself. By doing so, you are hurting yourself. “ the teacher said.

“Teacher, I do not understand the meaning of this sentence at all. Please tell us about the theft of time.”

“Usually, those who steal are punished,” said the teacher. “Time thieves are no exception.  True, the thief of time is not punished.  He is not even accountable before the law. But wasting your time now is tantamount to stealing your time, your future. If you spend all your time in science, you will save time and become a mature person in the future. 

Ohh, my friend Abdullah and I are the thieves of our future. Doniyor thought. These words of the teacher inspired Doniyorm andat that moment, he realized what a “time thief” was. 

He even came to our house in a hurry: “Anvar, are you there?  Starting today, I can say that I understand the value of time.

“Yes, Abdullah, you understand, now we are not stealing our time, we are just following the path of knowledge.  In the future, we will be among the mature people mentioned by my teacher.  I agree with you.  Don’t waste your time!  I will always remember that it is a trophy!

Author: Abdumominov Abdulloh

Pupil of school No. 102, Shayhantahur district, Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Age: 13

Christmas Monologue

Will you come back this Christmas?
When the December sun pulls together through the alley 
the bamboo bank swings and
calls to the wind
swallows call the flock to the
spring ball...

I'm still looking forward to this
Christmas
the day is still long...still a lonely
garden.
The girl from the past is no
longer a baby
Why does the rose flower quickly fade?

My heart will be close to each
other
like flowers and butterflies on a
busy spring day
Christmas is here...why are you
so far away
in the middle of Christmas, my heart suddenly ached

Nguyen Thanh Hai
(Vietnam)

Voyages

It all began on a sea-voyage to Egypt during my teenage,
where I fell in love with the Pharaohs and their ancient heritage,
with the eye of Ra and the ankh which their deities held,
with the pyramids,
that I even contemplated becoming an Egyptologist. 

Next came a flight to Algeria where most people only spoke French. 
My inability to communicate made me appreciate lingual skills,
thus an enhancement of the language brought me translation thrills
of Les Fleurs du Mal and other Baudelairean gems.
 
My own odyssey to Melbourne and Sydney was fraught with hardships.
I thought the status of an immigrant was nigh to that of an explorer like James Cook,
so in the valley of humiliation I learned what it is to be caught 
in the labyrinth of employment agencies and social benefits.

My journey through Caledonia was the most inspiring of all.
I became enamored with kilts, with tartans, with the bagpipe’s call,
with the Sun-Cross that dangled from my left-ear’s lobe,
with the Celtic twilight that permeated my academic work.
 
Middle Age

He dwelt on his receding hair,
the sluggish pace of a healing wound.
He monitored each wrinkle on his face,
camouflaged the fast-greying phase
with a reddish beard
and a trendy, golf headpiece.

We argued about our difference in age
to no avail,
and though my visage had borne no trace
of corrosive time
or the passage of numerous days,
I assured him that my heart was a sage
with the blows of events that do not discriminate
between the infant and the far advanced in years.

I sat and pondered over my ill-chosen mate.
I though maturity would come with the lapse of decades,
but that was not the case,
for our love began to crumble with every physiognomic change,
and from his facial topography of my fate,
I knew the dissolution of our bond was a matter of weeks.
 
Confidantes

My first confidante was a school classmate,
who also resided down our street.
Our golden hours were when we sat beneath
their huge Christmas, pine tree,
and in the glow of tinsel, bells, and crimson beads, 
we poured into each other’s ears
our life-long dreams.
She wanted a glamorous husband. 
I desired something more unique
that would take me somewhere beyond the ordinary.

My second confidante was a fellow flat-mate,
who was nearing completion of a postgraduate degree. 
She intimated her wish to marry her current date
simply because she dreaded becoming an old maid.
I told her the idea had never crossed my mind
although I was her senior by five years.
I was only planning a future career
after the completion of my Ph.D.

My third confidante was my first intimate relationship,
a man whose date of birth preceded mine by two decades.
I confided in him my inability to love again
for monogamy was my inherent trait.
He said seeing other women would not alter his esteem for me.
I disagreed
and left him wallowing in his own creed
of genteel promiscuity.

Web

Extraterrestrial spider,
Invisible;  they say...
Spins a web of deception,
That is growing every day.
Possessing insatiable hunger,
A master of deceit,
Its web a snare for humans,
Who become a prey at its feet.
The web is becoming stronger,
Tightening every day,
And the spider is wiser than humans,
Determined to have its way.

   first published in UFO Gigolo



The Scourge

We all can see that
It is here...
We can run,
Or hide,
Or just choose
Not to see...
We can join,
Or fight,
Or watch...
And understand.
There is no place
To run to,
There is no place
To hide.
What you choose
Not to see
Will find you,
Even if you
Are blind.
And when you face
What you are blind to,
It will not be kind.

Circle

The lesser stars have yielded,
Another Sun is near,
But every star that fled the sky
Will surely reappear.

The darkness nearly ended,
Dawn will bring the light,
The daystar will appear,
Banishing the night.

The part in all
         of us We Share 

             Well Being
       Sets Foot on Every
             Beach on a
       Warm Breezy Day 

       I'm being an Idealist.

 I'll Back down 
               When You're Back up,

      and that's a Condescending 
                   Style   I know.

         You Know Better
  the Greatest Joy 
       than I could    ever find 
                                   for You 

The presence of LOVE 
     is ,   You You You Are  .

       I studder for good 
             Reason 
   It  Bears  Repeating 

Sit Here and I promise 
      not to look at your shell.

    The guarded Soul 
makes its own 
        And your presence has 
my Heart 
              on a Rock slain 
      Before and after the time 
                 of Danger   But no precision 
                                     can threaten my
                                           Eternity 
For size and mass are 
     Part & Parcel to the canvas 
           that, "What's it called?",
              always Rises the caller to 
                   Bring more Fresh Ideas. 

        What You Like 
                  is Already 
                          known
           Faster than time to 
                                 Savor the 
                                       passing Brush. 



By John Edward Culp

         All Rights Reserved 
first drafted on  December 2, 2021
In a Castro Valley CA coffee shop ♡