New Drawings

V & Feather asleep--above & below



V asleep:

Feather:



Dennis:


Chip:

Portrait of Dennis

Portrait of Chip (SRD)

Chinglish joke for Virgil: paper painting

Portrait of 3

Sun & Wind: glittering

Pouring through my pores, drenching the retinal skin with the nameless essences we try to name as colors....

Portrait of D

Up Over

Portrait of W

Drawings

My friend's Great Dane puppy...



My Dad reading...

Wolff in Brooklyn

Spring Upstate

The Rail Trail's path saunters out over the river and then abruptly halts and morphs back into its old trestle self and tip-toes across empty space, merging with rocks and green.

In the garden the daffodils dance and the hyacinths curl their curls, dense with perfume. Everywhere the new green aches to become sky.

Delany & Wolff

Me and Chip Delany at the Kitchen

Portrait of M

good weather

The daze of spring: the blue bells blue and the lemony dance of the daffodils. Down the streets of NYC the trees bloom in a silent applause of kisses.
The body walks this way and then that trying to find the path that mimics the eyes delight. The sunlight pours everywhere in a generous deluge.
We wake up, ready or not, our reserve unreserved, our heart windows open, and the mind running away from us down the stairs and out the door...

Portrait of V

Portrait of A

Portrait of my Dad & Spring

So this one wasn't so easy. I've only done a few sketches and a watercolor of him before. Of my Mom I only did a drawing of her while she was very sick with lung cancer in the hospital. I'm off into the land of faces again.
I get on the subway and paint strangers. I walk through Central Park and imbibe bodies.
Spring is pressed into the buds on trees; squeezing, willing, wishing its way into space. There was a man running around the reservoir. He was a big, muscular guy bounding along the graveled trail, his essence swirling behind him and gathering bits of verbal accolades in response. He made me think of the mythical hart leaping away from his hunters.

To Walk

Walking on the High Line, peering at the masses of curved-over wild grasses, I see poking up between the strands: violet crocuses. I look out at the Hudson and see the broken teeth of old pier legs surrounded by the fillibration of water, its blue and mercurial talk ever centric and ever extended. Staying and leaving constantly. The sky is a step down from the madness of its sudden appearance last week. I draw a quick sketch of a bridge going from one building to another. I drink sunlight with my face and notice much less than I could.

Pisces Quick

Still push-pinned to the wall...
Quick as in 'cut to the quick'. Pisces as in the mute fish that swims in all directions and still talks.
torn maps, torn old physics book, ink, oil & pencil on paper
more actually: cut quick & deep, delivered by water thought & water hand