Green Demon Foliage & return

Here is the garden with studio (foreground) and house (with little tiny kitchen window). The garden reaches out between the two, a demon green tongue grown furry and cocky in the days and days of rain. Everywhere the foliage makes its patterns, overlaying, overlapping, interweaving green on green, lace on leaf, frond on frond, and petals floating, gliding on the foamy tide.




in the midst, a spot of human comfort:




...and then plunging back into green's self:




on the way back into NYC you see the helter skelter of NJ and the promise of Manhattan:




and then the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel:

Hanging with the boys

Sunlight Yang
This is a much older painting done from memories of the Philippines. The tomb is a medieval reference. It seems to fall into the war painting category, although the fighters are cocks and the general demeanor is laid back. A friend, who is a native New Yorker, told me that it reminded him of any afternoon in a city park.

The Jade Buddha/Friday morning

On emerging from the dream world this morning I found that the trek between there and here was a bit more of a no man's land than usual. The dreams had been particularly tense (as in Hollywood thriller with death and sneaking between enemy camps in deep water) and psychedelically dire (as in having someone turn from a bad guy into a cat whom I had to dispatch with a needle into the eye). After surviving the transition between that and the real morning of NYC I celebrated with coffee. I then searched my old painting files for an image to reflect some of the night time events. I found The Jade Buddha, which was inspired by an actual jade Buddha that I saw in China and an old newspaper photo from some forgotten war. And then there are the lilly pads which is my way of being post modern.

Morning in NYC

This morning I heard the sound of heavy engines outside the loft. I went to the window to see fire engines lining the street outside, the lights flashing, but no sound. A few minutes later they were all gone, as though a thought or a bit of wind up from the harbor ghosted them elsewhere. NYC is always mutating that way, the flow of energy throwing up vignettes of people and lights, machinery dancing alongside. Sometimes these are real disasters, but more often they are small knots of humans and illuminations that melt away in the next curve of time.
Meanwhile the western opera is finished. Here it is. Lost & Found: