Artist Statement:

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Hello my name is Henry I am from Brooklyn, NY. I am a multi-disciplinary and multi-modal artist with interests in all things international, cultural and societal. Please enjoy this selection of my  work!


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If you are still reading this please feel free to click around the website.






Seriously. you can stop reading this now and start clicking around in the website.

 

 

 

 

 
You're still here... Can you please stop reading this?


 

 

 

I'm serious.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Uh, okay. I'm not into this anymore. yeah, I've had it. Mmhmm. Yep. NO! STOP!











Okay, bucko. Looks like you just used up all your luck. Why don't you leave now. And when you leave, remember, you leave with what you've got!





 

 

 

 













I didn't want to do this, but you made me do this. That's all I'll say.
















You are so bad! oh my godd, stop it. 

 

 

 

 

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Yes stop it! Yes I'm being serious! Yes! I mean no. Correct, no. No, as in the opposite of yes. No does not mean yes. I repeat, I am NOT enjoying this. I told you I don't like that.

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I'm going to count down from three. And when I get to the bottom, that is, one, you had better get your shrimpy ass out of here! Or else...

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three.

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two....

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don't let me get to one...

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Oh you've reaaally done it this time.

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Do you want to read the beginning of a short story I wrote?

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Many years ago, I found myself on the island of C———, in the southern Aegean near the Turkish Isles. I was staying in a beat up little place near the Red Gate of the old city. I came at the end of the season, the coming winter settling the air and picking up a cold wind from the sea. Those who remained were the owners of small bars that couldn’t afford to close for the winter, and the hearty hangers-on from all parts of the world. And each night, without fail, we all found ourselves  at George's.

 

It was a small bar a few blocks away from my hotel, in the old square of the mosque. Here, as everywhere else in C--------, the streets were paved in the upturned rocks drawn up by the boiling sea. As a matter of fact, you couldn't walk anywhere without feeling them wedge between the heel and the navicular. (Or is it the cuboid?) Aside from the stones, there were more species of cactus than you can count, and tall fibrous trees whose names I’ve forgotten. George’s stone bar sat blue beside the low wall of the mosque. George was a fat, dark man, and kept a framed photograph of his dead brother above the bar. He had died only the year before. His sister, equally stubby and rotund, served drinks and [assiduously] avoided eye contact with any expectant buyer in the nearly-empty bar, answering only to the most vibrant hand gestures—and this, with a meaningful glare.

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"What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you?"
"Funny."

"Another alpha."

"One alpha. And you? What'll you have?"

"One alpha for him, too."

I felt a jab in my right side.

"You're old enough, aren't you?"

"Old enough? Yes, I'm old enough."

"You'll have to make that more convincing if you want to talk to her."

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The man who was talking to me, in truth to my profile, had pressed his big head within a few inches of mine.

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"Would you do us a favor and talk to her?"
"Who?"

"Us, everybody here. Hell, you'd even be doing George a favor."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just look at her."

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He raised his neck in the direction of the server, who filled two tall glasses with the national beer. Her forehead was round as a ball, overdeveloped in a congenital sort of way. Even with her back to the bar she emitted something unpleasant.

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"She hasn't had a lay in years. I mean a proper fuck. She's all twisted up and gray and I'll tell you why. It's not because of the menopause, and it's not because her parents were cousins. Do you know why she's the way she is? She hasn't met a man in twenty years -- or if she has, not a one has wanted to fuck her. That's just what she needs. If you could talk to her, you see, the whole lot of us might benefit. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Why do I have to talk to her?"
"You're right, it's better I do it."

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She returned with a tray of beers caught between her stubby  arms.

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"Thank you dear. Say, has George been in?"

"Not unless you've seen him."

She gave a look that said, "I haven't."

"So you have no idea where he is."

"Are you going to give me a hard time all night?"

"Forget it. Forget about George. It's you I wanted to see. Hold on! Just hold on a minute, what's the hurry?" He grabbed her by her shirt tail and she raised an arm. He let go. "Have you met my friend, here?"

"No."

"Would you like to?"

She disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, carting off a plate of the national dish to a table outside.

"I haven't had the pleasure," she said, and twisted her face into something coquettish and awful.

"How do you do?" I said.

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