Before I hung this new push pin friendly area in my studio, all the random imagery I regularly look at was either on crammed here and there or in a stack. Now that there is space to spread it all out, I can see more clearly what's actually on my mind.
Joyce Carol Oates (her face, her bookshelf, her husband)
thin vertical lines .
neutrals with intense color (ongoing fascination) .
a big hunk of black with bright colors below it .
day glo .
thin horizontal lines .
perspective (in conjunction with the storage containers) .
Light splashed this morning on the shell-pink anemones swaying on their tall stems; down blue-spiked veronica light flowed in rivulets over the humps of the honeybees; this morning I saw light kiss the silk of the roses in their second flowering, my late bloomers flushed with their brandy. A curious gladness shook me.
So I have shut the doors of my house,
so I have trudged downstairs to my cell,
so I am sitting in semi-dark
hunched over my desk
with nothing for a view
to tempt me
but a bloated compost heap,
steamy old stinkpile,
under my window;
and I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still-wet words I scribbled
I wonder when people in Memphis, my neighborhood specifically, started putting iron on every window and door? If I had to guess I'd say the 70s. Luckily for me the people that lived in my home for fifty years had good taste. They picked a beautifully ornate pattern that cast elegant shadows throughout the day.
These three paintings are in the armature building phase. I have in mind where I want each one to go, but seeing them grouped together with these patterns suggest whole new possibilities. .