Skip to main content

Facade


I have on occasion attempted to practice meditation. I must admit that I am not sure what I am supposed to be doing and I am not convinced on what I am supposed to feel. That is until I did this painting. I remember how the radio in the background disturbed me and I had to shut it off because all I was tuned to for the duration of this work was the sound of the brush with the creamy oily mixture of paynes grey,yellow ochre and violet. There was no thought only sound and movement the building dictated my stoping and starting-my rythm really.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Post a Comment
Read more

My dearest and son

11 comments
Read more

A Memoir of sorts Part 1.

 I come from a background of divorce and grit. My young mother, with dreams bigger than her reality, married a much older man. He was an airline pilot in Cuba, his third marriage, and I’d be the last of his many kids. He was 64 when I was born, my mother in her early thirties. The man was tired, worn out. They divorced when I was three, in New Jersey. Immigrants, scraping by with hard work and blue-collar jobs. My father took whatever work he could find, mostly driving trucks. The communists in Cuba had torpedoed any real chances for future success in the United States. My two brothers and I ended up on public assistance. Then my mother started dating another man, and that’s when the real chaos began. Drugs and alcohol stormed into our lives, ushering in years of domestic violence, drama, and constant moving. New schools, new roach-infested apartments every six months. One day, a neighbor had a garage sale. We couldn’t afford much, but my eyes lit up when I saw a trunk full of draw...
Post a Comment
Read more