Tuesday, November 30, 2010

chelsea morning part one: on the street

tomorrow: in the galleries

Monday, November 29, 2010


no collage class
last week so i made this
and a mess
at home.

hmm, now that i look at it here
i think it's still a work in progress...

Sunday, November 28, 2010

three layers

1 new photo app +
5000+ images in photo library =
just the beginning

Friday, November 26, 2010


today marks two years
of putting one word,
one photo, one thought
after another.
i began the blog to keep track
for myself of where the time goes
and to remember the small things.

it's become a place to share those
photos, words and thoughts
with you who stop by.
the friendships born here,
both virtual and
real-world, are an unexpected joy,
for which: thank you.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

happy thanksgiving

enjoy, everyone.

details from 'harvesters'
pieter bruegel
metropolitan museum

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

observed today

the quality of
autumn light,
a cracked window and
the reflection of a letter
through a dirty bus window.
each mundane,
defining the morning.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


last monday was
all about

Monday, November 22, 2010

the ny times goes hipsta

front page of this morning's new york times

i'm not sure this is a first but
it's the first i can remember seeing
hipstamatic shots on the front page.

photos by damon winter/the new york times

there's a story on the times' photo blog here
about damon winter's use of the iphone.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Friday, November 19, 2010


i did this ink blot/drawing...

which i looked at for a couple of weeks
until last night when i started scribbling
on it with
1. white crayon
2. white acrylic ink
3. black ink

along the way
there was a series of
hipstamatic shots...

the square shots reminded me
of the process of the
ellsworth kelly
at the MoMA show
(see previous post)
which lead me to
slice and dice the piece and
at today's collage class i
put it together this way:

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

on line

the upcoming exhibition 'on line'
at the museum of modern art
(november 21, 2010 - february 7, 2011)
is a terrific show
examining and redefining the idea of
"drawing" as it moves beyond the page
to occupy both space and time.

they had me at
double o by zilninas kempinas
the first thing you see when you
enter the galleries on the main floor...

the show is on the sixth floor
and includes
artists i adore, notably
agnes martin - though only a single painting!
cy twombly (also but one)
and a handful
of exquisite collages by
kurt schwitters.

icons are well represented...

joan miro (detail)

alexander calder

pablo picasso

ellsworth kelly

as are artists i had never encountered:

ranjani shattar: just a bit more (detail)
an installation at the opening of the exhibition
of multiple layers and infinite delight

jacques de la villegle

in combination with the blockbuster
abstract expressionism show
MoMA is a banquet this season.

Monday, November 15, 2010

things i love

in the process of de-accessioning things
that don't matter i find myself rediscovering
the things that do. things with stories.

fes, morocco
spring 2006

I was almost home free. The others in the group had succumbed, one by one, to the enticements of the carpet store in the medina in Fes while I sat and sipped my mint tea admiring but not seduced by the offerings now piled high on the floor.

One of our hosts, Ahmed - or perhaps Said - had given us a brief overview of Berber and Arabian carpets rattling off details about kilims, flat weave, embroidery and knotting, short pile, long pile, camel wool and cactus silk as quickly as his minions could unfurl an example of each with dramatic flair. He explained natural dyes - peppermint, indigo, saffron, poppy. One after another in all the exotic patterns and vivid colors of the moroccan rainbow, no two alike, they piled up faster than we could take them in.

One by one each of my companions has been swept away by a carpet or two or three, swept up by a salesman to begin the bargaining process central to the experience of buying a carpet - or anything else - in Morocco.

Soon each disappears upstairs into a small office where a disinterested woman writes up the transaction and processes the credit card payment while a young minion makes a show of folding and rolling the carpet into an impossibly compact and waterproof package which he proceeds to sew together.

Only two or three of the us remain in the enormous show room, not unmoved by the beauty but firm in our resolve that we neither need nor want nor can afford a carpet. Not to mention the dilemma of whether to schlep or whether to pay the exorbitant cost of shipping. I am happy sipping my tea watching the men in their djellabas remove, one by one, the carpets that have been rejected.

In truth, while I could appreciate the beauty of some, most of the carpets have not appealed to me. They have not whispered “Morocco” in my ear, seeming more imitative of Persian or Turkish or even Navajo motifs. None have spoken to me of the red sands of the desert or the blue sea at Essaouira, none have recalled for me anything of the High Atlas mountains where Berbers washed clothes in streams and carpets dried on rocks.

The floor is almost clear of rugs when I spot it across the floor. Bands of rust-red alternate with elaborate geometrically patterned bands in off white and dark blue or brown. It’s edges are stained and its fringe faded. At perhaps 5’ by 7’ It is larger than anything I would want. Or need. Or be able to afford.

But I am probably lost even before I whisper quietly to myself, “Now that I could be seduced by.”

Ahmed or Said has caught my drift and my eye. “You like?” he asks, already gesturing for the boys to bring it over. “Too big” I shake my head vigorously, already realizing, that I am entangling myself in a web - a web of wool and cotton - from which there will be no extricating myself. I suggest that maybe he has something like this but smaller. It is all he needs to hear.

His crew disappears and almost instantly returns with several smaller red-banded carpets. Neither has the pull of the first. Inexorably I am drawn to the floor to sit upon it and Said or Ahmed begins to work in earnest. Or, more likely, relaxes into his task, knowing that his work is already done.

Perhaps he had me at the poppies...the red dye in this carpet is from poppies he tells me. Is this true? Is this carpet really “old” as he says? Maybe yes, maybe no. In any case I am reminded of fields brushed with red, of wading into the high wheat to try and capture the impossible redness of the delicate, fragile blooms.

I’m telling him it’s too large, I don’t want to ask what it costs and insult him with an offer of what I’m willing to pay even as my hands caress the rough texture. No matter. He has read my eyes and my heart. He knows it is just a matter of time. He leans towards me and in a concerned and conspiratorial whisper says to me “Be careful madam.” I turn to him questioningly.

Do they go to school to learn this or are they born with it, this balancing act of charm, psychology and poetry.

I have been easier than I intended. What was in the sweet sweet tea? I believe because I want to believe and in a way he is not lying when he moves closer to whisper “This is a magic carpet.”
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