Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Once upon a moment, I took a "friend" with me to help me mat and frame a favorite photograph. She perused it as we stood at the counter in the artsy frame shop, and finally said "Well, there is all this little crap in the flowers." Gee, you think? It was lovely pink blossoms glistening with dew in the freaking GARDEN, what did she expect? And I decided two things then; she was not good friend material, and my art was always going to be about imperfection. Later, in school, I was introduced to wabisabi, a whole school of imperfection that the Japanese have cherished for centuries. And whenever I get tired of laboring pickily at a piece, which I am wont to do on occasion, forgetting my emblematic work, the all-over-the-place colors and worshiping the delight of showing my process to the world, I do something like this piece, very fast and with a lot of elan. And sometimes it just comes up like a little miracle here in the tiny studio in the little yellow house, and proclaims itself wondrous. At least, I think so. More coming.