Check out my online store powered by GOODSIE, an e-commerce platform that offers artists, designers, and small businesses to sell their product in a stylish, fun way. View the feature of my store on the Goodsie Blog here.

I named my store NIKY FURY, an alter ego as a venue to sell smaller works on paper. Currently, I have 18 x 24 inch pieces that I created with my hands and black acrylic paint on paper of abstract representations of disco balls.

Each work is only $ 85.00 and I can ship it to you unframed for an extra $ 15.00! I will be making more and posting images monthly. I can also do commissions for color pieces of the same style if you’d like!

Please pass the word on and I hope you will add something to your collection or buy these works as unique gifts!

THANKS! <3 XO NICK

free

silly

desperate

literal

I just completed my first term at the School of Visual Arts! We had a great turn out for our Open Studios on December 15th for the opening reception. I showed my recent paintings (see above / below) and received a bunch of great feedback.

I made two large paintings on canvas (Deep, deep outside (purple) and Eden in Gustave (blue) ), one large painting on paper (Disco Hall), and a group of drawings I made with my hands with black acrylic on paper (see below).

Breaking the universe, (14) drawings on paper, approx. 10 x 15 inches each.

Friends enjoying the studio

Fellow MFA artist at SVA Jessica Bowman wearing a complementary dress!

Viewing the drawings

Me & Naormi Meija Wang, fellow SVA MFA Artist

A Decadent Manifesto

I want to wake up at dawn and squint my eyes to an azure sky cuddled

by falling ochre leaves of a hundred and two year old tree hovering over

a warm bed of stargazers as they slowly rise their spotted scalps

and stretch their lean chartreuse pistils to say “good morning” to the bulk

of flying stone buttresses of a lonesome Gothic cathedral who has

just settled into his red velvet tufted coffin amidst the opiate candle light

of juicy, exhausted candelabras that mimic the crusted columns

of scratched gold angels protruding out of broken mirror balls that reflect the endless linked bronze, copper, and iron chains that secure, rather aimlessly, the violet stained glass windows sulking in the tainted, tragic love of Romeo and Juliet’s coupling just to get you wet from the misted dewy light, the all-encompassing, extra-terrestrial embalming, caressing, clouded, ultra ultra light that glides down like a bald eagle on a ruined village steeped in honey tide pools with sequined turquoise mermaids searching for diamond glitter to powder their porcelain cheeks and bosoms for the evening soirée in the grand ballroom dressed in embroidered draperies of hand-knotted Chinese silk, grazing the backs of open-armed Bergere chairs, caramel ostrich leathered ottomans, black and white checkered settees, Carrera marble credenzas, rich mahogany armoires, herringbone oak wood parquet floors that shine from an over-waxed meditation on a bejeweled tortoise that carries the weight of a sinner’s guilt from a forbidden kiss behind the awkward greenish grey boulder sitting cold and stern in a modernized forest littered with weathered prostitutes in white mink fur knee-length coats covering their soiled laced slips and sagging garters that resemble the worn out leashes tugging the choked necks of black curled Standard Poodles that belong to Monsieur & Madame Henry de Paris-Versailles, patrons of Verbeau, Marquis Soule, Roland Daphne, and other painters of the Ombre School that relish in the everyday malaise of an irritated smoky eye or cracked yellow tooth deadened by excessive wine, pipes, sweets and snarling in a piano bar seething with the intense oppression of a passing thunder storm that aggravates the bartender, provoking bulging veins from his generously sized forehead, sweating with an abundance of baby tears, screaming for her mother’s malted milk scented by  potent gardenia perfume and salted, accumulated body odor that could drive any maddened sailor wild with desire, lusting after a three hundred and sixty four day voyage over international seas, forgotten landscapes of coconut palms, birds of paradise, fuchsia bougainvillea, drooling springs, swishing waterfalls, turning rivers, boiling geysers, and refugee slaves seeking the shelter of gypsy families huddled under basket-woven tents that break the setting sun into golden prisms of tender strips of healing scars from centuries past battles of victorious Vikings with clanking, charming armored breast plates severing ripe, matured forearms that lead to ogre hands that grip sanguine swords, slashing the dreams of yesterday and threatening the birth of tomorrow.

N.F. 11/7/11

092711 (soft intentions)

Soft cotton candy

touch me on the hand

know that spot on

make me wanna come on

come to my apartment

I’ll give you free rent

just give me your soft intention,

that supple, sweet, savory attention,

that little place on the corner you mentioned.

I crave your soft intentions.

“Look at the clouds – they’re talking!”

“What are they talking about?”

“They’re saying, ‘ should we make a blanket or a throw?…It’s Fall don’t yah know.” But looks more dramatic than a nursery rhyme to me…

(From The Fashionisto, Luke Stevens in Agnes B. Photographed by Henry Hargreaves in 2010)

As Summer draws to an end, I find myself dreaming a lot. France is on my mind and after reading an article about Agnes B. in Vanity Fair. I am both envious of and inspired by the life she has lead and still leads as a true artist indulging in la vie romantique.

The Decadence movement at the turn of the 20th century is very much about the end of an era as it was about opening up to the beginning of modernism. Now that another century has passed, I can’t help but feel that all we have opened up to is Industry, leaving nature, whimsy, and romance by the waste side for a dump truck to take to a land-fill. I may be a pessimist with optimistic tendencies, but doesn’t it seem like everyone today is bummed out? Money is at the center of everyone’s malaise and even creativity is becoming bound by monetary terms. Agnes B. may have come from a romantic background growing up in Versailles, but she also started her business before licensing and expansion became the quest for every fashion label. I enjoy the simplicity of her manifestation, the romantic aspect of her personal life, and the support she has for emerging artists around the world.

(Gustave Moreau Museum – Salon)

When I went to the Gustave Moreau Museum in Paris last October, I fell in love. I fell in love with Nostalgia with a capital “N” and the Artist with a capital “A”. Most of the larger paintings (see below) on the main floor were unfinished. Moreau was ambitious and brilliant. His oeuvre was beyond extensive and his imagination was limitless. I started to think more about mythology and why it was so intriguing. The idea of ethereal powers as allegories for human drama is exciting and very very romantic! Leda and the Swan, Jason and the Argonauts…these themes are about nature and humans converging. Moreau’s canvases are dream-like and the scale lends itself to the vastness of the myths, something to get lost in and ultimately, to escape from the pangs of modern human misery.

(Gustave Moreau Museum – main floor)

In my quest for “La Vie Romantique,” I look to artists like Agnes B. and Moreau for that mythical something that can’t be found in the cyber, virtual reality of the internet, the mundane worship of celebrity, the artificial draw of the google-eyed hipster, the “missed connections,” the text message melodramas, and the next best thing we have already seen before. I’m looking for a secret garden, I just haven’t found my key yet.

A couple posts back, I wrote a poem called I’m saturated in black inspired by graffiti I saw on a brick wall in Bushwick. Today, I was walking on the same block and a little further up on the next block was some new graffiti with the continuation “and now I’m crushed in velvet.” I’m obsessed! I had to write another poem:

071811 (and now I’m crushed in velvet)

and now I’m crushed in velvet.

and now I’m crushed in velvet on a concrete wall.

I’m crushed in velvet in the dress of a porcelain doll.

The themes of Decadence I read aloud were bound to fall on illuminated ears.

It seems like I waited years to feel the kiss of Age and Beauty ignite an emblazoned

Inferno of the unRequite.

I’m crushed in the Cerulean velvet of an azure sky, where dusk becomes dawn and all is too abstract for the intoxicated eye.

The light begins to dim and all that was Excitement is put to rest, for dreamers need to dream and reality is too mean.

The emotive sun is too strong, and for this I am certain.

Can you please pull down the curtain?

I’m saturated in black and now I’m crushed in velvet.

(Photo: Michelle O’Brien from mistersaturdaynight.com )

My new obsession: Mister Sunday in Gowanus, Brooklyn!

For the past few weeks, I’ve been going to Mister Sunday, a daytime dance party in a grove off the Gowanus canal in Brooklyn. What better way to spend a Sunday than with good friends, good food, drinks and dancing with a great mix of people! Here are a few pics of me and my friends and the infectious atmosphere:

( Faryn Einhorn / Shawna Rosen )

If you like House music, tacos, beer, sangria, babies, hipsters, port-o-potties, and summer time, please come!!!

XO Nick

A poem I just wrote inspired by last Sunday’s graffiti:

061611 (I’m saturated in black)

I’m saturated in black.

I’m saturated in black on a brick wall.

I’m saturated in black swimming walking crawl.

I’m saturated in black sticky tar subway sweat, hot living sublet,

Bird in the sky on the rooftop, happy hour drinks nonstop.

I’m saturated in black of a teleprompter,

Feeding the lines of: he said she said this and did they mean that I meant this –

Save it for a therapist or your mom, replace it with that Parisian Dream of dazzling mirrors, metal, marble, water paintings, fier de mon génie.

Keep your eyes closed, get it saturated, saturate it in black, saturate that shit in black, saturate it, soak it in black, opaque black, deep black, jet black, crow black, saturate your entire being in black.

I’m saturated in black so the light will be that much brighter.

I saw this display in a store window in SoHo on Sunday morning and could not resist a pic! It reminds me of my chain series – I may just have to tackle this one and make a big piece out of it!

I went to the Chelsea Flea Market on Saturday and had the best time! From the moment I walked in, I saw this colorful 70′s dress and was immediately drawn to the fuschia and pink in the pattern. The dyed linen is so colorful!

I got to this booth with all these paintings of the same man. So iconic, so familiar. I wasn’t sure if I had seen them before. The artist is Robert Loughlin. I love how the repetition really is appealing in a Warholian way. Not to mention, the sexy gaze and the drooling cigarette.

Today, I saw this graffiti on a wall a couple blocks from my apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I was taken by the simple phrase. It seems so dumb and playful as most graffiti is, but it hit a spot in me somehow. “I’m saturated in black” on a brick wall. I’m saturated in black…