Co-la-la-lage evening

mixed media painting

“Soft Light” at the top of the stairs at ‘The Loft At Liz’s’

 

 

Last Saturday I sped from the art fair in Sierra Madre over to the Co-La-La-Lage reception – a juried show of the Collage Artists of America at The Loft At Liz’s in West LA.  (Well, it started with driving at the speed limit but of course it was stop and slow through downtown and we slowed to a crawl on the I10 – there was a wreck just before my exit.  Ah, yes, I love LA.)  The upstairs gallery was crowded.  I think most of the 30 artists in the show attended the reception and brought others too.  There was an awards ceremony (no, I didn’t win anything), but having two of three paintings accepted into the show was an honor.

 

mixed media painting

Gentle Storm at ‘The Loft at Liz’s’

 

 

One of the disappointments of the show is that the paintings did not have labels on the wall next to them.  I would liked to have added the cards that have the poems that each painting has alongside the card, but it just wasn’t an option.

 

 

 

 

 

 

mixed media painting

 

I was interested in some of the mixed media pieces as I have a collector/friend who is looking for a mixed media piece for a certain place in his home, so I took a few shots of these when I got a chance and the crowd cleared.

mixed media wall sculpture

mixed media sculpture

mixed media sculpture

“Potus’ Bedroom”

 

 

This one was one of the prize winners.  The artist said that it contained everything that was apparently important to him.   Sadly the way that CAA sends emails I can’t open the content of all of them, so I’m not able to tell you the names of any of the other pieces shown (other than mine), or the artists’ names.  Ah, technology.

Inspiration in an odd place.

While I was setting up my booth in Menlo Park, outside Walgreens, I briefly glanced a young lady with dyed hair driving away her beat-to-hell Civic – or something similar.  This inspired the following poem.

Sisters

You
are eighteen trying to look twenty-one.

She
is twenty-two wishing she were three.

Before that rear-end crump
you don’t even know about,
wishing she were younger than twelve or fifteen
when replacement panels started being transplanted
regardless of color
and the angry tire-kickings, followed by
days at the mechanic began
and her paint peeled in the sun.

You
are eighteen with multi-colored dyed hair
she
thinks you had done to match her.

She
is your first car,
a gift that nevertheless came
with the responsibility of complete care
for another individual.

She
takes you to work, knowing
this is how the two of you
buy gas, insurance, pay
mounting mechanic bills.

You
exhaust her getting to Coachella

She
is thrilled to give you so much fun,
feels terrible about the shredded tire
in the median on the I5 on the way home
when you’d yet to learn how to change a wheel,
hadn’t known how to tell you
she needed new shoes more than you did.

You
take on extra shifts
to catch up with the bills,
date the mechanic’s assistant
learn to change brakes and spark plugs,
inflate tires, check oil,
save for the down on something newer.

She
quits dreading feeling unwell
learns to love the name you gave her
different than the one her first owner did,
is delighted when you move to a smaller apartment
with an overhang garage
so she doesn’t have to sleep in the rain.

You
hit a truckload of spilled melons
on the freeway
wreck her into the sound wall.

She
saves you with her airbag,
dies
feeling
so
loved.

 

New Poem

Thought I would put a poem up instead of artwork today.  This one didn’t make the cut for my latest book but will likely be in the next one.  This is entirely from my imagination, I last built a snowman in January 2001 and it was not so big, I only had an inch of snow to work with.

Snowman

Off with the frozen gloves, so stiff with ice,
Off with the cozy beanie from my head,
unravel the scarf that’s wrapped around me twice
and the earmuffs so ugly they’re only fit for bed.
Off with the coat that’s the warmest thing I own,
off with the sodden Uggs that are starting to sweat,
wiggle the toes that are still in the frozen zone,
peel off the socks so the toes can start to melt.
On with the kettle, get the cocoa out,
splash in some vodka for an extra treat,
sip it while I admire, without a doubt
the fact that I’ve built the best one in the street.
Under the porch light my five-foot snowman glows
with coal black eyes and a big fat carrot nose.

Primroses

Oh wow, just noticed it’s been so long since I’ve had time to blog.  It’s been a really** busy nine days.  But, in this I was able to write a poem when I was the art fair in Litchfield Park, AZ this weekend – about the primroses in bloom in the desert currently.  (Yes, I’ve been taking walks instead of blogging….)  And another sonnet towards beating Mr Shakespeare in his number of sonnets.

Brown eyed desert primroses

The one that got extra yellow…..

Desert Primroses

I never knew that primroses would grow
so close together through the desert dirt.
Amazing that from down there they will know
when one rain will be many, and they’ll spurt
up to the sun. Each little yellow face
so like their cousins from cool, wetter lands.
You would not think they’d grow in such a place
but there they are, amassing through the sands
wheat thick! I cannot walk around but tread
on primroses, most pale, but in between
one got some extra yellow for its head
to stand out from a crowd like none I’ve seen.
A wetter year has grown a primrose lawn,
but they’ll be battered down in the next storm.

A cold poem

So, just before we’re thinking about the thaw, here’s a recent poem.  It’s been quite a while since I built a snowman – 16 years, in fact.  I was just hunting around for things on which to write sonnets and somehow dug up this subject from a dusty back shelf in my brain.

Snowman

Off with the frozen gloves, so stiff with ice,
Off with the cosy beanie from my head,
unravel the scarf that’s wrapped around me twice
and the earmuffs so ugly they’re only fit for bed.
Off with the coat that’s the warmest thing I own,
off with the sodden uggs that are starting to sweat,
wiggle the toes that are still in the frozen zone,
peel off the socks so the toes can start to melt.
On with the kettle, get the cocoa out,
splash in some vodka for an extra treat,
sip it while I admire, without a doubt
the fact that I’ve built the best one in the street.
Under the porch light my five-foot snowman glows
with coal black eyes and a big fat carrot nose.

A little bit of kudos.

Mixed media Painting

#1127 Vermillion Delight. 30×40″ each panel, mixed media (refractured watercolor, poetry and acrylic). $3,500

I recently applied to an online show with Manhattan Arts – New Beginnings.  I’ve applied to shows with them a couple times before without success – but this time I was accepted as an ‘Award of Merit’ entrant with ‘Vermillion Delight’.  The show will be up for a couple months.

 

Kudos as inspiration.

Recently I read on someone’s blog (sorry, can’t remember which one of you it was, or whether it was even on WordPress….) about the power of poetry relative to other verbal communication.  This sprung up.

Poetry.

In the war of words,
Tolstoy of communication,
Poetry’s the nuke.