These Thy Gifts

AMEN!

Monday was Beachin'

Santa Clara Point, Mission Beach

In Front of The Green Flash,
Pacific Beach

When Fall 'Leaves'...

...it says "Hello!"
and leaves me no where else to go.

Boulevard Art

Still trying to be Fauve-ish painting my friend Jean and her little pal Frida as they were one day a couple of years ago at an art sale in Mission Hills.

Flight of the Witches

Walpurgisnacht

The Bar on the Corner

Fauve-ish Nudes

acrylic

8"x8"

8"x8"

Sketching in Old Town Again

Me and Matisse

Trying to "paint like the Fauves" is a fun way to get loose.  Not sure I'm finished with this painting yet.  Changed the color of the chair cushion three times already.

My BalconyWindow
(except for the ocean view!)

My Real Balcony

La Fenetre de Matisse

Fauve-ish Landscape

Homage a Vlaminck

...working from my sketch below a la Fauves on the left - voila!  I'm a Nouveau Fauve!

A La Dufy

Inkies

China

Guatemala

La Jolla

My Fancy Turns To Fall

mixed media tile

Who knows where crows go
when crows go away?
The gourd patch is silent,
the scarecrow won't say.

Braque, Dufy and Me

Braque

Dufy

from my Fauverite  class.  How'm I doing?

and ME!

Old Globe Gift Shop

Waiting to see ALLEGIANCE yesterday.  Wonderful musical about a family caught in the Japanese internment during WW2.

A Poem Again

              THE NATURE OF TIME

Time lives in the dream a lonely person takes to bed,

sits on the twisted finger behind my crochet hook,

grows on the stairs and in the doorways of museums after dark.

Time beckons school children, pregnant women,

and certain Christians.

Time walks to weddings, visits wars, dances at funerals,

shuns no one, deceives many, never sleeps.

Time smiles on mushrooms, prays for trees, punishes fire.

Time looks in the mirror and knows where I am.

Time is a colorless rainbow carving the darkness of space.

                        ******

Add a Sprout

Chloe

Comme Les Fauves

Love this class!

Acrylic 14"x18"

Remember Jazz?

Gouache painting

The Elder Rapunzel

(someday I will illustrate this)


The golden ladder of my hair,
once enough for several princes,
is brittle now and curls around my chair
before the fire like tired smoke.

My cottage hugs the ground,
a grateful, shipwrecked sailor.
Windowless, I live alone
and have outlived my jailer.

The tower I graced is rubble now,
The sons I bore took root afar.
Once I kept a talking bird;
I have a spider in a jar.

The sunlit beacon of my hair
has dimmed to winter moon,
brittle now around my chair
before the fire, like tired smoke.