Skip to main content

La Bodega Sketches








SOLD SAN DIEGO CALIFORNIA 

A restless feeling has been coming over me these last few weeks. Another daunting move to a new studio space that may or may not be long term, my first solo show in four years at Sirona Fine Art in Gulfstream Park Hallendale Florida, the silly grading I will have to do for my students at Broward College, the juggling of private students and packing and deciding for the move, throw in long drives home, a tired wife, two energetic sons and a partridge and a pear tree. I am thinking of one of the managers I had while a short stint as a waiter some years ago, he would like to rub his thumb and index finger together whenever one of the waiters began a list of complaints saying "here is the world's smallest violin playing a sympathy piece for you, now take this fried grouper to table 4" In the midst of this I have found myself having to make sketches and notes for what may be future paintings. Life goes on and I have been insisting that art (for me) is experienced in the "in-between" moments. In between these things that seem to be consuming my time, I am compelled to take "notes" (quick sketches) of what may be future paintings. These drawings are just a few that I recently "jotted down" to remind me of the In between moments. They are not perfect, nor are they supposed to be. I hope you enjoy them and share your thoughts.

Comments

Julie said…
Just as beautiful as the paintings. This shows the same fine feeling not just for light and color but the dynamics of composition as well.

Popular posts from this blog

My dearest and son

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...