mixed media on paper

morning

why do we bother with the rest of the day,

the swale of the afternoon

the sudden dip into evening,

then night with his notorious perfumes, 

his many-pointed stars?

this is the best~

throwing off the light covers,

feet on the cold floor,

and buzzing around the house on espresso~

maybe a splash of water on the face,

a palmful of vitamins~

but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows~

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way

and the lawn steaming like a horse

in the early morning.

billy collins

sailing alone around the room

a lovely day to all

X O X O

posting with paint party friday

day 24, 30 paintings in 30 days challenge

untitled. acrylic and ink

my life

Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world

or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive

but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder

if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.

Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,

or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from eaves.

Like yours, it could be anything,
a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms ---
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes 

or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.

But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,

I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene

stirring everything it touches ---
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.

by Billy Collins

day 23, 30 paintings in 30 days challenge

how many geese does it take?

wild geese

you do not have to be good.

you do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

you only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

tell me about despair, your, and i will tell you mine.

meanwhile the sun and the deer pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the parries and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

whoever your are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls sot you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting~

over and over announcing you place

in the family of things.

~mary oliver

journal spread

'and your very flesh

shall be a great

poem'

sabrina ward harrison

acrylic,  gesso

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees, 

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

   but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

Mary Oliver

day 11

29 faces

after spending the last several days 

painting in journals

my fingers itched to rip and paste

to create this face 

and

a poem by one of my favorite poets

“Despite the enormous evening sky 
spreading over most of the canvas, 
its moon no more 
than a tarnished coin, dull and flat, 
in a devalued currency; 

despite the trees, so dark themselves, 
stretching upward like supplicants, 
utterly leafless; despite what could be 
a face, rinsed of feeling, aimed 
in their direction, 

the two small figures 
at the bottom of this picture glow 
bravely in their carnival clothes, 
as if the whole darkening world 
were dimming its lights for a party.” 
― Linda Pastan, Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems, 1968-1998

day 7

29 faces



i love the sound of a  flute and even more, i love to hear a shakuhachi

bamboo flute.   you would recognize the haunting tune in japanese music

as that  from a  shakuhachi.   from the 6th century the instrument was used

predominantly by komuso zen monks who wore a woven basket

over their head to represent the absences of ego.

komuso monk in a contemporary parade



today i painted a version of a flute player after a picasso

over the echo of music and drums from a
distant village

the single clear tone of a shakuhachi brings a
flood of tears

startling me from a deep, melancholy dream.

ikkyu, 13th century zen buddhist monk

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

this weekend i am looking forward to attending a two day workshop

with two icons of the art journaling world,

seth apter and orly avineri.  here is how the workshop was described.


We can all be found somewhere on that same dirt road, kicking up dust, gradually revealing, feverishly working toward finding new ways to form and mature. We build substrates from which we obtain our creative nourishment and the courage to inscribe our visual stories...constantly seeking where everything outside of us ends and where we begin.  


how could i resist this?  plus i will be meeting up with

old and new art pals.


wishing you a lovely weekend




linking with paint party friday

day 5

29 faces

this morning i started with an unfinished early collage 

sitting in on a closet shelf.    i find knowing i will paint a painting a day 

is a soothing thought.  i know that i will spend

whatever time it takes to discover what painting 

will emerge.  there is no conflict, only a focus and 

willingness to be with the process.

after more paper and glue

and then completed.

according to the authors of creative collage techniques, 

collage was first used about 200 bc after paper was invented

in China.  but it wasn't until the 10th century in japan that it became 

widely used by calligraphers to accompany their poems.

i like thinking that perhaps some of my ancestors where early

collage artists and poets. 

a poem by hermann hesse

translated by robert bly

sometimes

sometimes, when a bird cries out,

or the wind sweeps through a tree,

or a dog howls in a far off farm, 

i hold still and listen a long time.

my soul turns and goes back to the place

where, a thousand forgotten years ago,

the bird and the blowing wing

were like me, and were my brothers.

my soul turns into a tree,

and an animal, and a cloud bank.

then changed and odd, it comes home

and asks me questions.  

what should i reply?

sunset from redondo beach looking at palos verdes where i live