Posts Tagged ‘drawing’

“Yes, the wind came up–” Mrs. Sharpe began. She paused. “And changed us all,” Petra said softly.” ― Blue Balliett, The Calder Game

Eyes Wide Shut, graphite on paper, A4 (8x10)

Eyes Wide Shut, graphite on paper, A4 (8×10)2015 —

The story Continues….

In my 3 decades as a professional artist, I learned that no one survives on talent alone. It takes sponsors with connections, galleries with connections, and other artist willing to bring you along with them up the ladder, and most importantly it’s all about timing.

I knew nothing of these things in those early days as I was wrapped in the warmth, comfort and magic of the great grandfather mountains of Santa Fe, my illusions were undauntable, my addictions intense; because for me it was all about the paint. I jumped into that rich emulsifying pool of art and swam with the sharks never realizing that what I was painting was unique and would give way to a lifetime of exploration, adventures and more failures and rewards than I could even imagine.

Those first years I rode the western wind which allowed me to define what I would paint giving me my women in robes who took center stage and brought much acclaim as I participated in multiple shows dealing with women in art. My landscapes of Stairs and Awnings brought my first exclusive contact with a gallery. Everything clicked; I was in the right place at the right time with the right stuff. I became a member of a very small group of 5 artists called the Multi-Cultural Artist Group and we painted large murals on the sides of many buildings in Santa Fe. The one on the old Records and Archives Building on Guadalupe St is now considered a local landmark. In addition I was elected to the Board of Directors of the Santa Fe Society of Artists. I began teaching on the side to mostly young and talented teens. My reputation was growing, and it was quietly said I had created a new genre.

Five years in Santa Fe and then we moved to Tijeras, New Mexico. By then I was represented by 2 galleries in Florida, one in Houston and a third small gallery in Albuquerque. My work was too different to be considered “New Mexican” and I rarely sold within the state. Aside from the galleries, I was getting into multiple competitions nationwide taking many awards.

Twelve years later as my work was continually growing and evolving with the times, the west wind changed course bringing a warm southernly breeze that entered the window one cold Thanksgiving and a seed was planted. It was watered by my love for the woman who was my aunt but whom I thought of as a mother, one who came to me and begged a favor.

When I could not say no, another path opened, this one darker. In my Pollyannaness, I did not know at that time it would require every ounce of my heart and soul, every fiber of my being in order to accomplish was was set before me, and to survive the battle to come. My husband would latter say that my whole life was leading up to this point, and was preparing me for the final confrontation with Capitán.

I would not pick up a paintbrush or a pencil for the next five years.

“May you always walk in sunshine. May you never want for more. 
May Irish angels rest their wings right beside your door.” Irish blessing

©2003- Beginnings-graphite on paper, 25x30 cm (10x12)

©2003- Beginnings-graphite on paper, 25×30 cm (10×12)

An Aside to the Story…….

 

We all reach an age when life begins to take away those things that were given without pause, and certain memories tend to surface as a reminder of how very generous life was in those days. Touching on the major events that propelled me forward does not even begin to touch the incredible amount of people, events and things that transpired in the spaces in between, things that truly added shape and definition to my being.  Each one of us has a myriad of stories to fill those spaces, stories of who, what, where and how, all birthing, living, dying, being constantly replaced and renewed guiding us on this journey.

My return to Houston opened many doors for me as well as for Garry. He always had a magic touch and could pick a mean 12-string guitar and even meaner banjo. So a band was formed and achieved great popularity in the clubs on the Landing. They drew enough attention that the Playboy Club offered a contract to play the grand tour of its Clubs. However, fame and fortune do have a price and within 6 months the band had spit and Garry returned to Houston.

Coming back, Garry resumed tenancy in his old apartment, which was just below mine. It was at his welcome home party he met my roommate Kathleen and they immediately fell in love.  She was tall, very slender and Irish to the core. Raven hair with freckles splattered across her face. Dancing green eyes and a contagious bell-like laughter completed her persona. She also had that bit of magic. The kind that makes heads turn and people smile. Kathleen was a professional model working at Neiman Marcus, earned a good living and had a very bright future.

She was grace, beauty, and intelligence; everything I thought I was not.  We formed a quick, fast friendship in which we shared everything, or so I thought. We had been roommates for nearly a year but within Kathleen’s bright exterior she held a deep, dark secret, one she hid very well and could not share.

I came home late one night from work and found her lying in a pool of blood on the floor. She was breathing shallowly, her wrists slashed. I called 911 and they talked me though keeping her alive until the ambulance arrived. I stayed with her all that night and the next day when she regained consciousness.

The first thing she said to me was “You bitch, if you were really my friend, you would have let me die! Get out of my life!”

I had notified Garry the previous evening and he arrived at the hospital that morning, spent time with her and then took me back home were we packed up her things. He had already contacted her family, she would be going back to New York; they were coming to get her.

I did not go back to the hospital, but heard that her family arrived the next day, but only to collect her corpse. While in the hospital she managed to open her wrist again and succeeded in leaving this mortal plain.

We talked about Kathleen a few times, neither of us understanding the whys of the events that transpired, only that she was someone special we had both grown to love, someone who touched our lives deeply and would always be remembered. Her death marked an awakening to the changing times. The 70’s were upon us, and Garry finally having enough of city life moved to the Hill Country.  Our paths would not cross again for many, many years.  I found a new apartment closer to my work and never had another roommate.

It was events like this where I would realize time and again, just how very small and insignificant we are in the grand scheme of life.  Major, devastating and life-changing personal events are just clogs in the ever grinding wheel of fortune.  Funny how life just goes on, no matter what happens, all of us just ripples in an eternal pond.

 

“It’s when we’re given choice that we sit with the gods and design ourselves.”- Dorothy Gilman —

Observation 3- ©2003- graphite on paper, 25x30 cm (10x12)

Observation 3- ©2003- graphite on paper, 25×30 cm (10×12)

The story continues……..

In spite of what many would have us believe, truth, I have come to realize, is quite singular.  My truth, your truth, it is all true. We hold our memories and beliefs tightly to our breast believing that they fortify us within our self-created history.  The illusion of our created lives is like a crystalline cocoon within which we wrap ourselves, reflecting that singularity. Unknowingly we assume we are safe, but reality comes along every once in a white with a little silver hammer.  Tap, tap, tap…it goes, and cracks begin to form.

When I speak of being socially ignorant, it is the truth.  I have memories of making friends in school but never being allowed to see them after school.  There was little free time in school to chat with the exception of the bus ride to and from school, and my classmates were never on my bus. Unfortunately, I had already become a quite child and listened more than talked. I remember being allowed to go to parties, but only to enter the room, say hello and leave, for Capitán was waiting for me in the car.

I had the freedom of a bicycle, but that was eventually taken away when I never would come home in time, riding until it was dark, not wanting to come home.

I did have one special friend and it took my family a long time to find out. She was a year older than me, German/Ecuadorian, and lived on my bike route. We met by accident one day and found ourselves to be kindred spirits.  On my first visit to her house I immediately fell in love with her family, they were intellectual, musical, loving, kind.  I never told my family about them for fear they would stop me from visiting. It was a secret I was able to maintain for several months. They had a beach house and would go there often on the weekends, one day during vacations; I just went with them, lying about having permission.  It took my family 4 days to find me and of course that was the end of that friendship.

Sometime during the flight from South America to New York to Zürich and then a train journey to Fribourg, Switzerland I became a fearless Pollyanna – ready to conquer anything that came my way. Very few people spoke English or Spanish when I arrived at school. Since classes were taught in French, I learned the language quite quickly; then Italian and German within the year.  Two years at a prep school, because I was so young, and then to the University. I remember very little about school itself, one of my many memory “holes”.  Capitán had already written letters documenting my “mental disorders” manifested by cheating, lying and my overall delinquent nature, so teachers accepted me with trepidation.

I would learn much later about the letters Capitán would write to family members, my employers, my friends for the next 10 years saying the same thing and worse, laying the groundwork for the epiphany to come. But I get ahead of myself.

At the time, I processed it all just like anything else that was distasteful, uncomfortable, or hurtful: I ignored it, shoved it into a file drawer, made it disappear in my memory and moved on with life.  I was experiencing the illusion of joyous freedom and in spite of letters written or hard teachers who reminded me what a failure I was, I made good grades, earned a degree and made friends.

Not just one friend but three! Classmates with whom I would spend breaks and holidays, from skiing in Gstaad, Mont Blanc or Zermatt, to city hoping in southern Italy, to museums in Spain, a weekend in Paris, Easter in Athens or a summer in Germany.  I saved all the meager funds Capitán sent combined with money I earned helping other students with math or chores enabling me to travel and explore.

Everywhere I went I felt I had been there before. I knew the streets, I never got lost, everything was familiar, everywhere felt like I had come home.

In 1967 change arrived in the disguise of a letter I received from old friends of my mother who were currently stationed at the American Embassy in Belgrade, Yugoslavia. They extended an invitation to come and spend a long weekend. Eagerly I took the train from Fribourg to Belgrade looking forward to a new adventure.  Two days after I arrived they sat me down and handed me a plane ticket to Texas.  Telling me my mother had lost custody of my siblings but had managed to gain custody of me (I was still underage) but there were conditions. They explained I had a choice. I could return to school and continue with my studies or I could leave tomorrow, return to the US and live with my mother.  If I chose the first, Capitán would pay for the schooling but regain custody.

I think it was late September when a Marine Guard from the Embassy drove me in his green MGB to Zagreb where without a second thought I boarded a plane to the US and the unknown.

Tap, tap, tap…and the first crack appeared.

 

 

-“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end. (Jo March)”― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

Clothed Horse, c 2003, graphite, 22x30 cm (9x12)

Clothed Horse, c 2003, graphite, 22×30 cm (9×12)

-The Story continues…..

She was born the third and last child of a Sicilian mother who spent her life in the servitude of her 10 elder siblings because her parents did not feel she was intelligent enough to attend school. Her father was a Capitan in the Merchant Marines, born in North Carolina, whose British heritage dated back to the first colonist in America.  Her parents met and married while her father was on shore leave in Palermo in the early 20’s.  Upon their return to the US, they established residence in Galveston, Texas where the Sicilian family had already grown roots in the early 1800’s.  This was ideal, since her father would be away at sea, her mother would have the comfort of her family. However, once a servant in your own family, always a servant, and coming to America changed nothing; she was badly treated to say the least.

My mother carried the nickname “Francie” for many years. She was a strawberry-blond beauty that, in her youth, sat for many a famous artist. Very different from her dark-haired, olive-skinned cousins.  She dearly loved her father, but saw him rarely. Her mother followed in the footsteps of her own parents, no kind words were offered, just a cruel verbal abuse leaving my mother with little or no self-esteem, internally fragile. My grandmother favored her sons and ignored the fact that her eldest would repeatedly rape her daughter over several years.  Francie buried her anger and bitterness deep inside of herself, she became the bravest of them all, showing only a surface reflection filled with joyous laughter and a pragmatic but positive attitude. The anger, the bitterness, the pain she carried would emerge much later in life.

One fateful summer on her nineteenth birthday, finishing her sophomore year in college, she joined her father on one of the Lloyd vessels for a sea voyage to Cuba. On board she met a young, dashing first-mate, who promised her the sun, the moon, and swept her off her feet.  They were married two weeks after the return voyage.  I was born 8 months later.

They must have been happy for a while, he was at sea, becoming a Capitan of his own vessel, and she was raising a child.  For a brief period she lived with his parents in New Orleans; but Capitán’s’ siblings were quite domineering and judgmental. The conflicts and jealousies that transpired in those early days with Capitán’s’ family would never be forgiven. When he retired from the sea a full Capitan they moved to an apartment in the French Quarter (I have small swatches of dark memories with loud angry voices, dark stairwells, her crying, she is pregnant with my sister, and she is holding my hand.). Later when the second child was born they bought a small house in the suburbs near the lake.

Upon his retirement he went into a marine insurance business with his brother in-law. It was at this point that the spousal abuse began in force. From then on she was only happiest when pregnant, the physical joy created during that state allowed her to escape his wrath. However, when her child began to talk and show independence, she lost interest and began to think only about the next pregnancy. I was three when my first sister was born. From then on the other sisters and brother were born in close intervals over the next nine years. She had 7 children, one she lost in a miscarriage the other at 6 months due to viral pneumonia.

Smoking and drinking were common in those days but I think she began the heavy drinking when we moved to South America. She did not adjust well to the culture, learning only enough Spanish to get by in social circles. She carried on in a country where revolutions occurred every couple of years, crying and cringing at the sound of gunfire and bombs exploding. After a while the alcohol removed the fear of the country and Capitán enabling her to create an illusion of happiness. But she was falling deeper and deeper into herself and by the time I was in my early teens, she was a full-blown alcoholic.

As a mother she never neglected the basics. We never went without food, simple fare of beans and rice, eggs and potatoes, pasta and sauce. Capitán always had steak, shrimp or lobster ever night. We enjoyed meat only at Sunday dinners which always degraded into both parents drinking too much leading to intense screaming and yelling. One of the children always the main target for something we did, didn’t do or might have done, and my mother getting the sole blame.  We always had clothes on our backs, shoes on our feet, medical care when required. She managed the house and kept it clean, she catered the parties that would also inevitably end in drunken brawls, beatings, broken glass and blood.  Living in a country where as a woman she had absolutely no power, in a home where she had no control, no say, she was quite lost.

Everyone she met loved her; but only a few friends knew the truth and they consoled her as best they could.  It would take many years for her to build up the courage to escape.

 

 

 

 

MASKS

Posted: February 25, 2013 in Art, journal, painting adventures, Women
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“A mask can hide you from others, but not from yourself.” Marty Rubin

..not just another pretty face,  ink on paper,  45x35 cm(18x14) work done but never shown

“..not just another pretty face”-2005, ink on paper, 45×35 cm(18×14) work done but never shown

One would think at my age the Pollyanna in me would have long ago been cured of delusions and illusions. I know the world is not a pretty place, but in spite of my new self-awareness, I seem to have developed several shades of rose-colored glasses –after all most people do deserve the benefit of a doubt, no? Or better said:  an opportunity to hang themselves.

I use to be very good at recognizing those I should steer away from, those that mean me harm.  Then there are those that “ain’t got no sign” as a quaint song from the 60’s intoned.  The ones that stir the spidy-sense but give no clues, no hint. They make you shiver and you tend to tread cautiously. These slithering types have always shied away from my bright light preferring the dark cool shadows.  I always was protected by the barrier of my own vibration; but one fooled me, put on sheep’s clothing, crossed the barrier and offered friendship with a cold hand.

We all wear masks of one kind or another.  Hiding our real selves, trying not to let everyone know how insane we  really are, hanging on by our fingernails and praying for a few miracles all the while wearing a brave smile, our shoulders thrown back our heads held high, moving forward with life. Caught up in our own circles of interaction, action and inaction, seeking our individual dreams, we tend to forget there are those out there who are living dark shadowy lives.

Dual existences. Pretending to be one kind of person, secretly being another.

I have met a myriad of people in my years, from all walks of life, all faiths, all cultures, all segments of our society rich or poor, gay or straight, deviant in their preferences, fearful of inclusion, or delightful extroverts.  Those living the high-life, others down on their luck or caught somewhere in-between reality and illusion. They were good people, but some were very bad, even evil, some were truly sick and others just pure con artists.  But one thing was the same for them all: each in their own way, were true to themselves.  Something’s they did not broadcast, but did not hide .

I would not dare make an assumption as to what is right or wrong for another, I only know that I had an experience, which left me empty, betrayed, feeling like I should take a few baths to remove a clinging bit of slime. Another new lesson learned.

More barriers than personal ones have tumbled down in this brave new world.  There has been a loss of ethics, a loss of respect, a loss of the sacred, and a loss of personal integrity.  Then again, perhaps those things were lost when we left Eden and are meant to be re-learned if we are to survive.

Even with rose-colored glasses, I never did like snakes, never will.

The journey continues…. so tread safely out there my friends……they do walk among us unseen.

“I am only a sparrow amongst a great flock of sparrows.” Evita Peron

 

charcoal & oil on paper25x36 cm (10x14)

charcoal & oil on paper
25×36 cm (10×14)

Flocks of dusty blue colored birds with darker blue heads, come to the feeder every day. In groups of 25 –50 plus, they eat all the seed, all the suet, drink all the water and move on.  The ring neck doves and smaller birds just wait patiently, then peck at the remains.  I go out and re-fill the tray, re pack the suet cage, re-fill the water bowl, knowing tomorrow another group will come.  It’s beginning to get expensive, aside from looking like something out of a Hitchcock movie!  It is the first time ever I have seen so many birds at the feeder. Perhaps it is because the weather is still basically fall with warm days and freezing nights; there are even robins still dancing around.  This will soon change we are being told, as a front moves in next week and winter may finally come, bringing perhaps, maybe, ok we’re not sure, some much-needed moisture in the form of rain or show.

Am enjoying my seasonal job, but what few hours I have are being cut for lack of business.  It’s happening everywhere a true trickle down effect of fear of what will happen come January.  Stupid games congress plays are hurting everyone. But I am thankful for the hours that I have, not much I can do about it anyway!

Art wise I am playing around with movement and color, doing some random sketches working in charcoal and oil on paper (sketch 1 above).  Keeps me out of trouble, kills time, and helps me to loosen up my structured self.  Put together another book of drawings. This one is Women and Fish, it’s for sale on-line at Blurb (http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/3809483 ) and I will sell copies at the exhibit of the those drawings in February at The Watermelon Gallery here on the mountain.

Been having strange deep dreams, terribly symbolic. One in particular stands above the rest:  I was getting a painting ready for an exhibit when I noticed the right side was torn and the stretcher broken.  I did my best to fix it and holding it in front of me I asked an unknown entity how did it look.  “Something is wrong”, they said. When I looked down at the painting, it and I had melded together. I turned my head and saw in a rear mirror my human back and legs.  I awoke distressed. Took me a few days to see beyond the symbolism, and I realized that not only were my paintings and I one, but they defined who I was.  Notice the past tense here, because this is why I feel so lost at times.  When something that defines you is taken away, it takes a bit of magic to redefine who and what you are! I am still working on that aspect.

Well, enough of that! Besides the end of the world is coming, or at least a change in world conscience, I can only hope for the latter.  So if we all survive that….and we actually get some snow, well the rest is pudding for a Christmas dinner.

 

“A day without sunshine is like, you know, night.” – Steve Martin

 

Beach Chair, oil on canvas, 77×102 cm (30×40)

 

This past Friday a storm was moving in as I headed back home from checking the mail. The heavy, dark and ominous clouds were moving off to the northeast as small ice pellets hit the windshield. The sun was still shining to the south so I knew the storm had side-skirted my house in the valley.

As I rounded a curve in the dirt road heading toward the first cattle guard, the inside of the truck suddenly lit up with an intensely bright diffused light making me come to a full stop. I looked to my right and the sun was shinning, I turned to my left ……. my heart skipped a beat and I think I stopped breathing.  There before my eyes almost close enough to touch was the most magnificent double rainbow I had ever seen. I was bathed in this reflected celestial light and I just broke into unexplainable joyous giggles.

Never before had I experienced anything so magnificent. It felt like my whole being was flying, beyond exhilaration, awash in something truly magical. I reluctantly continued my journey home, a smile permanently fixed to my face, keeping my eye on the rainbow in the rear view mirror until I descended the last ridge and it disappeared from view.

That exhilaration stayed with me until the next day and then I crashed, falling off an emotional cliff, tumbling down to the bottom of a deep lake where I found a cracked mirror. In that mirror I saw a reflection of myself and my deepest fears. For a brief time anxiety reigned, until once again I found balance.

Whew! What a ride!

This awareness thing is quite an experience.  It has been an interesting week.

I finally have a job….….WhooHoo! …..at Williams Sonoma. Abet it is only until February but I am truly grateful.  Was suppose to start last week but corporate has delayed schedule making and I was feeling a bit apprehensive as I turned down two other offers of seasonal work. Then on rainbow Friday,  as it will forever be known, I received an e-mail saying my work (see painting above) will be one of three that will be used to promote the exhibit at the Coral Springs Museum of Art in Coral Springs, Florida, happening December 4th, that was special indeed.

Yesterday, being back in balance, I finished another painting I had been working on to add to my “Houses” series. I also ordered swiss clips so I could start framing the Women and Fish drawings for the show in February. Too expensive to have them  really framed so mounting them in Plexiglass is the best alternative. Today I crated and shipped my painting off to Florida; now the deck is clear,  I stand ready to go to work, if I can get a schedule!!!!

Had a dream once, a very long time ago, where I was in the forest and there was a shaft of liquid light. There were shadow people everywhere and disembodied voices told me to go stand in the light and make a wish. In the dream, I walked into the light and felt drenched in the most glorious feeling of joy and peace.  Then I awoke, holding onto the knowledge that something truly magic had transpired and I was changed.

Sitting in my truck bathed in the light of the rainbow was just like that dream……..just a little bit of magic to let you know, nothing is what it seems.

Isn’t life grand?

 

 

Fishing

Posted: August 11, 2012 in painting adventures
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“No human being, however great, or powerful, was ever so free as a fish.” John Ruskin

Woman and Fish 8, Charcoal and Conté crayon on gessoed paper, 36×51 cm (14×20)

 

Swim, swim, swim. The Women and Fish continue, up to number 8 now as I explore melding the concept of a woman’s emotion and concept of the fluid energy of goldfish.  It seems to be right. Not being a realist, the word “concept” defines the ongoing exploration without locking it into a genre. Thought I was finished with my women but perhaps I just needed to escape from them for a while and find another path to enable a return. Works in Blue opened that door.

It’s a few years now, and the faces have change, the emotions are stronger, the feelings more solidified.  Being a water sign it is rather appropriate for me to swim around in this genetic memory pond of how we once were, living in a liquid realm. I am working with soft charcoal and Conté crayon, hard and chalk-like, it feels good on my fingers as I blend the colors.  I have painted the paper first with a thin wash of burnt sienna and then applied a thin coat of gesso.  Once dry a light second coat of gesso is applied with a sheet rock knife to give a bit of texture and allow some of the underlying soft color to come though.

Swimming back to water again, looking at a rather simplistic comparison. The dangers here on dry land are probably worse than when we were aquatic. Then we swam in large groups for protection, death, when it came, was quick and I am sure quite painless.  Now we walk pretty much alone or with small groups who may or may not protect us depending on their state of mind; and real or imagined death can linger in our body, mind and souls for years.

When I was a child you could not keep me out of the water. In the sprinklers, in a pool, on the beach, on a boat, in the ocean, in a pond, swinging off trees into a stream with deep pools, sailing around the world, living on an island, always being, breathing, near water, absorbing the great kinetic energy.

Then I got married and to this day, with a few exceptions, I live in the high desert. A very passive energy; everything moving forward slowly with measured pace, definition, reflection and determination. It was only then, when I came to this land, that I really began to paint.

Perhaps becoming a serious painter required me to be more introspective, to delve down deep into the earth of my being and draw forth the remembered energy of water onto a dry land.  Hummmm…food for later thought. Perhaps working on these drawings is allowing me to feel the moist wind of the ocean once more and swim in the memory of that fluid energy.

Its fluid enough that my gallery (www.thewatermelongallery.com) having seen the first 5 drawings, has offered to put them in another 2-person show in February. I, of course, said Whoo Hoo! and Yes!  So I will continue until the pond is drained, then we will choose the best of the lot and ready them for a show.

Do not misunderstand; I do love it here, great depth of beauty everywhere, the big sky, the quiet, the magnificent light.  If there were a running steam outside my door, actual “live water” as they say, it would be perfect!

In the meantime I will just keep swimming in my mind and on paper.

 

 

“I’ve decided that the stuff falling through the cracks is confetti and I’m having a party!”~Betsy Cañas Garmon

Woman and Fish 3, charcoal and conte crayon on gessoed paper, 31×41 cm (12×16)

Today I went to the grocery and bought birdseed.  I have a group of 5 or 6 rosy finches that come every morning and evening and yesterday I ran out of seed. They sat there looking at the hulls of leftovers on the tray and pecked disappointingly around the peanuts.  I felt guilty. Today they are much happier.

Today I stacked ½ cord of piñon wood before I ran out of energy.  Heavy and dense but it burns so well!  I already stacked two cords of cedar by the shed; there is still a large pile of mixed wood waiting to be worked. We will burn most of it this winter. Gradually I will get it all finished.

Today I competed Woman and Fish #3 (above). I wanted to do a painting of women and fish, but after that first one, I was not happy. Besides I am running low on canvas, but I do have tons of paper.  So out came the gesso to seal and texture the paper, out came the charcoal and conté crayons and oh, I am very happy with what is happening!  One, two and now three! There are more in my head!  These were meant to be drawings not paintings.   I will dance this tune till there is no more!

Today I sent a ton of kisses to a dear friend on Facebook who lives in Switzerland, he has been sharing a good deal of my work lately….what a sweetheart and quite handsome to boot!  Alas, I am quite married!

Today I re-submitted my resume to 6 different companies. Sigh.

Today I baked a quiche . A wonderful fresh spinach and ham with Fontinella and Swiss cheese.  Oh me, oh my.

As the sun begins to set, today I watered my flowers and garden as I do every day. Hoping against hope for more rain. The green beans are prolific and I will pick a bunch tomorrow, some to put up, some to eat now.  My carrots are growing strong, although I do believe the seeds were alien.  I pulled one up to see how it was doing and it has arms and legs, but it tastes wonderful!  The zucchini appears to have slowed down a bit, or maybe its just resting. It is a spooky plant, but I do love zucchini bread.

The cats are now telling me that according to their agenda its time to be fed and I must obey.

Today was a good day. Tomorrow will be even better.