Tag: Painting

Branded

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art-woman-kriste-alisauskaite

I’ve been thinking about purely private obsession, the grip of the wholly inexplicable. The claiming desire, some fascination –sometimes kink, sometimes compulsion– that puts down roots in your young skull and stakes a permanent camp. Some ceaselessly hectoring curiosity that won’t leave you alone, and ultimately defines you and how you’ll spend (or waste) your time and what you’ll want from your life. […]

“But in the end you become a hostage to who you are, to what you want, what fascinates you, what breaks you down, what holds you under; the sense you feel compelled to build, the truth you try so helplessly to construct, the who you ultimately and helplessly are. […]

– Brad Zellar, Branded

Notes:

 

head up in the bright morning air

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swan

But earlier this week on a wooded path,
I thought the swans afloat on the reservoir
were the true geniuses,
the ones who had figured out how to fly,
how to be both beautiful and brutal,
and how to mate for life.

Twenty-four geniuses in all,
for I numbered them as Yeats had done,
deployed upon the calm, crystalline surface—

forty-eight if we count their white reflections,
or an even fifty if you want to throw in me
and the dog running up ahead,

who were at least smart enough to be out
that morning—she sniffing the ground,
me with my head up in the bright morning air.

– Billy Collins, Genius from Aimless Love: New and Selected Poems

Notes:

 

He blows on the painting as if imbuing it with life

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russell-chatham-painting-hayfieldsapril-the-seasons-russell-chatham

In his studio, I get to watch him scrape down and then sand lightly a painting he’s been waiting to finish: sitting with it for days, the way a good writer will sit with an ending, even when he or she is certain. Waiting to be sure—waiting for the delightful vapors, the adrenaline fumes, of completion to wear off—and then waiting a little longer.

The painting—maybe 6 inches by 9 inches— has taken him a month.

“No one spends a month on a small painting like this anymore,” he says. Later he’ll take it to an auction in Great Falls, like a rancher with a prize bull, but carrying it onto the plane like a magazine under his arm.

The blade is rasping, the paint is falling to the bottom of the easel, rasp, rasp, rasp. He blows on the painting as if imbuing it with life, shakes it, puffs on it again, then sands it lightly, holds it out at arm’s length, and is satisfied. And it is beautiful.

~ Rick Bass, on Russell Chatham, 74, who he describes as the greatest living landscape painter in America.

Notes:

  • Thank you Rob Firchau at The Hammock Papers for pointing me to his work and the article.
  • Paintings shown above by Russell Chatham: The Seasons, April and Chatham Hayfields, 1995

Running. Running Hot.

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running-road-alone

Mile 0: Lori.

Lori slings out the bait: “It’s time for a run! Lace up those PF Flyers and get out there, man! The world (OK *I*) needs another running post!”  This challenge comes from a writer, no, a professional Writer. I do wonder, did she send the text from the Stop & Shop counter while flipping through The Enquirer?

She’s a blogger acquaintance.  We’ve never met. A lover of Dogs. A writer. A reader. A traveler. An Ivy Leaguer, stealthily unadvertised – someone who you would underestimate  – the kindness overpowering.  Would I recognize her if she walked by me in Grand Central Station? Is she tall or short?  Why does she follow along? Rubbernecking syndrome?

She baits me, I jump.
Could I be that simple?
Am I that shallow? Or is it “Callow?”

I can feel the weight of her eyes, her mind on these words – this sentence separator, whatever you call it – a Big Dash, a Double Wide Dash, A Long Dash.  But she’ll know. She’ll whisper, “It’s an x Dave.”

Pavlov’s hand is stretched, reaching. I stand in her shadow.

It’s ‘Callow.’ (Should it be a double quotation mark?  A single? Should it be inside or outside the period?  The fullness of her weight, too much.)

I walk out the door.
I run. Continue reading “Running. Running Hot.” →

Saturday Morning: Standing in front of another new year

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aborginal-bush-medicine-Gloria-Petyarre

[…]
Ocean, alive.
Earth, alive.
Sky, alive.
Air, alive.
Love, alive.
and here I was standing in front of another new year,
very much, alive.
And for the first time ever,
I could actually sense it,
in each one of my bones there was a whispering,
‘it’s going to be a good one,
dear.’

~ Sarah Norrad, A Poem to the New Year

Credits:

  • “Sarah Norrad was born a Wild Woman in the rural and rugged forests of the Nimpkish Valley, on Vancouver Island, BC, a place where the mountains, forests and rivers speak louder than the People. She uses her body to teach Yoga, her mind to study Social Work, her soul to offer Community Counseling and her heart to write as a columnist for elephant journal.” Find her bio here: Elephant Journal
  • Poem Source: Thank you Make Believe Boutique.
  • Art: Gloria Petyarre “Bush Medicine” via Aboriginal Art World.  Petyarre is one of Australia’s foremost indigenous painters.
  • Don’t miss this painting in Blue.