Water Cut

Indian Summer NYC

In the north-eastern quadrant of Central Park is the Conservatory. It is a formally gardened expanse with tunnels of wisteria and exactingly laid-out arrangements of wild grasses and autumn-blooming flowers with the occasional southern exotic flinging huge jungle leaves up against the box, aster and wild roses. The late afternoon sun drenches the green and causes it to rise and drift in the air, an atmosphere of dense otherness. Further north is a loopy, curving pond with ducks streaking across the dark reflected surface and cutting it up into molten calligraphy as they alight. Seagulls fly over, people walk, scooter and talk. A bunch of guys try to rescue their football that is drifting out into the water by slashing at it with a willow frond.
Everywhere you look is a perfect painting......
Its Indian Summer in NYC.

Pink Tree

new watercolor

this is on heavy watercolor paper off a roll---its 41 by 55 inches

Fairytale

Gato Loco in the rain

Green & Green & Ganesh

Milkshake Ganesh

...out in the studio upstate, in progress, reaching for your hand...

Portait of Debbie, NYC, 2011

Jailbait Wolff

Scrap

The Culvert

Gato Loco Trio at St Celia's Chapel

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new recipe

Rembrandt, with sides of Titian, Bellini and Vermeer (free night at the Frick)
cupcakes
bottle of Medoc
Hudson River esplanade, full-leafed & blooming
dollop of moonlight in the late light of luminant dusk

mix as you wish throughout day & evening

Imaginary Friend

Herzog and the cave artists

Yesterday I went to see Herzog's 3D movie: Cave of Forgotten Dreams. Its about the paintings in France's Chauvet cave; 30,000 year old art preserved by a rockfall that sealed the cave's opening for thousands of years. Its a labyrinth of glittering drip formations, skulls coated in smooth diamondesque, ancient footprints, and beautiful paintings. The art is sleek and exact yet loose and fluid. The animals drawn across the undulating walls move with the confidence of an artist's hand that loves and knows its business. There is nothing primitive about them. They have the same glamor as a perfect modern scribble or an Egyptian sculpture. They are wonderfully noisy and active, the movement of wild animal and the human hand coalesced into lines on secret walls.
So cool to see and then walk out onto 6th Avenue in a perfect Spring afternoon.

Boy in the Ferns

Paragraph of Grass

from dementia to rain

Here in NYC the rain envelopes in a cold, frazzled sheet. Somewhere outside a bird insists on insisting. Consider the mind in the midst of dementia: wherein the simplest violent move on TV, even in the context of slapstick, convinces one that murder is eminent, probably one's own. And then think of being on the outside of that construct, but attempting to empathize within it. Probably why I'm so flat lined this week.
Of course there is a solution. Make another painting. Have a Francis Bacon kind of optimism based on nothing but the sheer nowness of things. Alive now=cheerful. From the man of mouths comes that bit of buoyant wisdom.
New Olympic sport: run, leap, image
ha

Portrait of Long Ji