Thursday, October 24, 2013

you're the cream to my coffee

I guess I must have subliminally painted this one because I miss afternoon coffee with J. When he wasn't so busy with work, we would make coffee in the early afternoon, and sit out on the back deck and talk about life. It makes me happy to have a vignette of those times together.

Thursday, October 03, 2013

i'm starting to love poetry

I'm starting to love poetry. It's something I somehow missed the boat on. I never really understood it, never really understood how to read it. Poems always seem to take a long time to get to the point. And then you still have to decode them. Clearly, I have a problem with needing to do things fast. Anyway, what I am starting to appreciate about poetry is that you have to read a poem slowly. Poems force me to slow down. 

Here is a poem by Pablo Neruda. Although I am not an avid reader of poetry, I have always enjoyed Pablo Neruda:

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees
that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of the years doesn't unweave: there is no net.
They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn't divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones. 

Pablo Neruda - Still Another Day, XVIII

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

illustrator: isabelle arsenault

Love this French illustrator: Isabelle Arsenault.

I love her simple objects and creatures, as well as her creative scenes. Her application looks so effortless, yet every line and brushstroke is in exactly the right place.




illustrator: penelope dullaghan

Love her work: Penelope Dullaghan. These are a few selected pieces from her portfolio. Playful, earthy, fresh... love the line quality and color placement.





Saturday, March 23, 2013

a pinhole of opportunity

"What if DG never sees me draw?" I thought the other day, with a pang. I got out the crayons. We colored a bit, drew some doggies, some kitties and a ball ("ba!"). I couldn't help noting that we needed better crayons, with richer colors. 

Old me would notice something like that. 

I hate that it is hitting me now, with a family and a day job, no stability or money and no clue of how this is going to pan out, but I think I'm ready to pursue illustration. 

Part of me thinks this is the way it has to be. I have less free time and more responsibilities than ever before. But I've also taken a bigger bite of that thing called human experience. Suffering, longing, sacrificing, giving, taking, losing. I think I have a better idea of what I want to say. 

I don't mean that I know what I'm doing. I fully admit that my plans are vague, hatched from inspiration, sleep deprivation, and a yearning for more than the status quo. I know I have a lot to do and I know the odds are stacked against me and that I'm not the greatest artist out there and I might not get anywhere. 

But I also know that I'm not using my gift. I've been waiting for my window of opportunity for too long. What if life is always way too hard, and there's never a window of opportunity? 

I guess I'm creating that window. Well, call it a pinhole for now.

mysterious wisdom


God in his mysterious wisdom decided that the mundane things would have a proportionately bigger presence in my life than the deeper, more profound things I yearn for. Why?

I think to myself, maybe He knows. Maybe God knows that I need that heavy lifting, life experience, and deep, deep tiredness to force something small but lovely and utterly true out of the heap of clutter I call my life.

Monday, March 04, 2013

a poem for today


J sent this to me today and I thought it was wonderful. Coincidentally, one of the few optimistic poems of Philip Larkin's:

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
Laurel-surrounded
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon --
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.

Philip Larkin, Coming

Friday, January 18, 2013

letting the year go

I have always preferred posting about what I'm thinking, rather than what I'm doing. Unfortunately, inside my head hasn't been a great place to explore lately. So we're kind of at an impasse, my mind and I.

I ponder and wait for the clouds to break. Hopefully I'll have more uplifting things to report, soon.


Violent Hope Is Real, collage, a surprisingly telling piece from college days

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

oh for the love of dogs


The truth I do not stretch or shove
When I state that the dog is full of love.
I've also found, by actual test,
A wet dog is the lovingest. 

Ogden Nash, The Dog