We are all created beings.  I think we each have it in us to be creative.  Isn’t that awesome? Creativity can take on many forms.  Most people consider artists to be people who are skilled in an art, that is, painter, musician, singer, and so forth.  You get the point.  But what about those people who don’t have it in them to be any of those? Aren’t they artists too?

I never considered myself to be an artist until today.  I was reading my Bible Study lesson and answering some questions, when this thought came into my mind.  I began thinking about the work that I do.  I am a Virtual Assistant skilled at providing administrative services to those who need some organization in their business.  This is an art. If it weren’t, the individuals making use of Administrative Assistants around the world would be self-sufficient, they would be able to do it all.  They wouldn’t need people like me to make their lives run smoothly.

How does being creative tie into all this?  For me it is when I take on an assignment, whether it is creating a presentation, a flyer, brochure or even an Excel document.  I always try to make it into a piece of work that will be admired, that will draw the eye of those reviewing it.  It is not simply a document or even just a task.  It is like clay waiting to be formed into a beautiful vase or flowerpot.

So, today it is my wish that everyone will look at what they do in life as an art form – something that can be molded and created into a thing of beauty.

Seraphine is a 2008 French-Belgian film which was directed by Martin Provost and written by Marc Abdelnour and Provost. It stars Yolande Moreau who plays the French painter Seraphine Louis and Ulrich Tukur who is Wilhelm Uhde.

The film won the 2009 Cesar Award for Best Film.

The film is about the painter Seraphine who works as a cleaner. She paints in her spare time in the evenings. One day her paintings are seen by Wilhelm Uhde who is a German art collector. The film takes place in Senlis which is near Paris.

Overall i thought that this film was good and had some beautifully shot scenes. The film follows the characters during there lives and is quite interesting to see what happens in the end. Im interested in art and didnt know much about Seraphine Louis so i found it interesting to find out more about her.

I enjoyed this film because i like foreign films.

Film Rating: 7/10

The film won 7 awards in total and a further 2 nominations

The ECF Art Centers Present:

reSolve

A Group Exhibition

Downtown Art Center Gallery
828 S. Main Street, Los Angeles, CA  90014

Opening: Thursday December 10, 2009, 7-9 pm

Show runs 12/10/2009 to 1/15/2010

Featuring art by:

Virginia Arce

Barry Bridgwood

Alan Bruni

Jennifer Espinosa

Nat George

David Haskell

Jennifer Korsen

Monica Martinez

Jason Miracle

Hershey Moreno

Adriane Mota

Eric Myles

Debbie Nguyen

Olga Ponomarenko

Dianne Powell

Peter Reiss

Brenda Stark

Chad Steel

Allen Terrell

Javier Valenzuela

Amelia Vella

Joyce Washington

Jerry Weems

Street parking available and several paid lots in the area.
For information please call (213) 627-7374‎

]]> http://edwardshallow.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/the-magic-painter/ Tue, 01 Dec 2009 19:49:31 +0000 edwardshallow http://edwardshallow.wordpress.com/2009/12/01/the-magic-painter/

“When I look at you, I still see the kid with stinky feet, who wouldn’t wear socks with his shoes,” I told Ed. “You used to pick your nose and eat boogers, remember?”
“They were mine. I could do what I wanted with ‘em,” Ed replied, trying to be funny.
Eddie wasn’t a kid anymore. He grew twice as big as me in high school, and got fat hanging around our hometown. Eddie moved to California and continued to put on weight.
“If you hoped to get me in the mood, you just blew it,” I said. “I’m not going to have sex with you. I thought we established that when we were thirteen.”
“I thought if I agreed to wear a Chastity ring, you’d put out for me,” said Ed.
“Not then and not now, Eddie. It’s not going to happen. We’re supposed to be friends. If I knew you were going to act this way, I would never come out to California to live you with.”
“Oh, c’mon, Debbie, I’m sorry,” Ed apologized. “It was a joke, I promise.”
“The first time you pulled your crap was supposed to be a joke. You’re being serious. You should just work hard to find a girlfriend,” I advised my old friend.
“That’s what you’re supposed to do for me. Find me a girlfriend. Bring your girlfriends over,” Ed suggested, again.
“You’re pathetic. You do know that, right?” I asked Eddie. I just didn’t know if he did.
The guy seemed to regress, emotionally, to being a five year old, with a set of pubescent, overactive balls. He seemed to think the trust, his deceased parents bequeathed to him upon their death, allowed Eddie to act like a jerk. My friend was an idiot. He needed to realize he didn’t inherit that much money, only a few hundred thousands dollars. That amount is respectable if it as a life savings, but it wouldn’t last an unemployed twenty-four year old kid forever.
“Hey, Gary is coming over later,” Eddie told me. That was nice to know, as I lived here with my childhood friend. I’d have to remind Gary of the fact when he started to give me suspicious looks. The man just didn’t preserve fine details in his memory. Gary only seemed to understand Eddie lived in this rented townhouse.
“You don’t still have some of that stuff you brought from Wisconsin, do you?” Eddie asked me.
“That was a year ago,” I reminded Eddie. “I’ve been living here in California for a year.”
“Damn, what happened to those seeds?”
“You killed the bunch when you tried growing them the first time.”
A stammered knock on the front door interrupted Eddie’s and mine tamed discussion. The topic had instantly become mundane. The nervous knock sounded as if it had come from Gary. I thought about going upstairs to my room, but decided I paid rent here and Gary would just have to get a tattoo or something, if that’s what it took to remind him. Besides, I might as well stop him from confusing Eddie again, or at least try. There was another thing I wanted to talk to Gary about too. I got the feeling he talked about me and made up stories.
“Hi, Gary,” I said after Eddie opened the door and let his caller inside.
“Uh, hi, Darla,” Gary answered as he stepped into the house. The guy was older, but he still looked in pretty good shape. He was taller than Eddie, but my friend outweighed him by fifty pounds or more.
He never remembered my name no matter how confidently he asserted in he knew in arguments, only to be humiliated with my name on a valid driver’s license. I’d correct him again, getting my ID out of my purse.
“Debbie,” I said.
“Denny?” Gary asked in astonishment.
“No!” Eddie assertively interjected. “That’s not her name.”
“Oh, Debbie!” exclaimed Gary. I was surprised. He was actually learning.
“Yeah,” I said. “And stop asking Eddie to ask me for stuff. That’s been long gone, anyway.”
“Yeah, I know,” Gary said. “You helped me remember. That’s not what I’m here for. I came here to see you.”
“Hey, yeah, Gary’s knows about a job doing painting,” Eddie added, just remembering he talked to Gary before the man had come over. I wish he had remembered earlier.
I followed Eddie to California so that I could sell my paintings and get famous. I’ve painted two murals since I’ve been out here and desperately hoped I could get more work doing something I loved. At the moment, I jump at and pursue every lead that could get my work visible in public places. But I’d paint anything somebody wanted if they paid me cash.
“I was at that pizzeria by my apartment building,” Gary said to me. “You know, the one with your mural of Mexican people eating pizza and spaghetti.”
“I know, Gary,” I told him. I got angry when he began to critique my artwork. He did it again and now I’d have to correct him. “They’re supposed to be Italians.”
“Well, what are Italians doing in North Hollywood?” Eddie asked with superficially legitimacy.
“It’s what the owner wanted,” I said to Gary. I curtly asked, “What do you want, Gary?”
“I’m here for you, Darla, uh, Debbie,” Gary said raising his hands in surrender. “There was a screenplay writer in the pizzeria looking at your painting. He took your phone number from the flyer you had taped to the wall.
“They’re supposed to do that,” I said, explaining the concept of a contact number to Gary.
“He might be one of those prank callers or perverts,” conjectured Eddie.
“No, man, I know this guy. He really is a freelance writer. I told him I knew who did the painting,” Gary explained.
“Probably the person whose name is on the flyer,” I pointed out to Gary.
“No, I mean I really knew you,” Gary said.
“Not as well as I expect you’d like,” I told Gary. “Just like Eddie, it’s over between me and either of you before it’s begun. What is it with the both of you today?”
“You just think too much of it yourself,” Gary answered,
“You wish!” I retorted.
“No, seriously,” insisted Gary. “I’m ten years older than either of you. You find out things like that when you get older.”
Gary hesitated before completing his thought, carefully looking me over. His gaze felt a little creepy. He continued talking.
“Well, you’re a girl,” Gary told me.
“Woman,” I corrected.
“Yeah, so it’ll take longer for you,” Gary clarified. “Especially, if you don’t have kids yet. You don’t have any kids, do you? Damn, I’m hanging out with kids!”
“You sound like you suddenly got smarter or sober,” Eddie told Gary.
“Too much for my own good and still not good enough,” Gary cracked, although his expression had lost its novelty and was now kind of pathetic.
“Gary,” I said, focusing him on what he said about the writer. “Did you get his phone number? Maybe I can call him.”
“What, to sell him a painting?” Eddie asked me. “I don’t think you can sell your artwork like that.”
“It’s direct marketing, Eddie,” I explained. I am serious about being assertive about my work.
“More like spam,” Eddie answered.
I admit that people could get the impression. But, they wouldn’t have bought my artwork anyway.
“I didn’t get his phone number,” Gary said. “But Vic, at Double Drabble, has his contact information. He’s a regular.”
Gary referred to the restaurant where I painted the mural of the Mexican immigrants in Italy. I don’t know what the “Double” stood for. I thought it was because Lou Drabble had just been married to his third wife before he opened the pizzeria. Vic was the longtime cook. Vic told me the story of the Drabbles while I painted.
“What’s his name?” I asked Gary about the writer.
“I didn’t get that either,” Gary answered, disappointing me, although not unexpected.
“Debbie, you should just wait to see if the guy calls you,” Eddie said.
“Or just stop by the restaurant,” Gary stated, proposing a better option. “I think Lou wants you to paint another wall. Their customers really like your painting, and Lou does too.”
“That’s cool,” I said, not wanting to make Gary feel especially welcome. I still wanted to talk to him about what his friends were saying to mine. Hey, Gary, remember when I first came out here and Eddie told you he was sleeping with me?”
“Yeah,” Gary replied sheepishly. I instantly knew he had a secret.
“Is that what you’re telling your girlfriends? Are you telling people I’m sleeping with you now?”
“I told you that you need to stop thinking about stuff like that,” Gary evaded.
“Bullshit!” I shouted. “If you’re lying about me, just like Eddie did, then I’m going to treat you the same way.”
Gary squirmed a little, but still answered.
“I brought Stacy and Mia over here a couple times,” Gary admitted.
Gary sometimes touted friends along with him when he came over to visit us, although I was usually at work. The two women sounded like two new acquaintances. I had never heard the names before. Gary’s admission gave me another piece of the puzzle of rumors. The discovery was disappointing and made me angry.
“Edward!” I shouted at my betraying friend. “You’re telling strangers again! What is it with you, reputation? That’s not attractive, you know that right?”
“Not if you’re known for your moves,” Eddie bragged.
Eddie rolled his tongue around the outside of his lips and shook his legs, while laid back in his easy chair. I don’t know what move or position he intended to emulate, but he looked like a wounded seal, dying in spasms. Gary laughed. I knew he thought so too.
“You’re a sick idiot,” I reminded my friend. “That stops, and Gary, tell your friends that Eddie is lying. He’s a liar.”
“I did,” Gary pleaded. “I’m not responsible for what they tell other people.”
“Hey!” Eddie protested the unraveling of his little schemes. He shouted at Gary. “Some friend you are!”
“Like you can talk, you asshole,” I scolded Eddie.
“I brought those girls around,” Gary told Ed. “You just got to act like you’re not a teenager.”
“That’s what girls like,” Eddied claimed.
“Maybe teenage girls,” I clarified, hoping Eddie understood that I implied the newly teen girls with rampant hormones. We were friends and talked about his perverted fetish since he had sex, at fourteen, with a middle school girl. He understood completely that he flirted with illegal fantasies.
“Exactly,” Eddie replied.
“Man, Debbie is right,” Gary said. “You are all fucked up.”
Eddie laughed, boisterously and emphasized. Gary’s response was exactly the kind of reaction Eddie wanted to provoke from people. Eddie always achieved it by throwing himself into an abandon of lies.
“Debbie, Vic is at the restaurant now. I just came from there. You can talk to him about the guy,” Gary proposed, giving me an excuse to leave as Eddie began one of his manic fits.
“I hope so. He’s the only cook!” Eddie shouted.
I walked out the door with Gary. Some time alone was what Eddie recommended for his own mania, but I usually found he behaved worst when I returned. I suspected Eddie subconsciously held a grudge for being left by himself. That was fine. At least I wouldn’t have to sit here listening to Eddie ramp up to his climax of hysterics and watch him break something.
Sometimes is antics were genuinely funny, but then I realized I was just being mean. I shouldn’t think his mood disorder was for everyone’s entertainment. They guy really needed to see a doctor. Eddie clung, like a miser, to the cash he could have used toward his co-pay for the appointment. I wasn’t going to loan him the money. Eddie had that trust, but I would never seen my loan returned. Eddie was generous with everything he had to offer, except cold, hard cash. That behavior was probably a part of his unrecognized diagnosis.
Gary went to his old compact car as I went to my relatively new one. I had bought it brand new before moving from Wisconsin. I’m still juggling the car payments, but it’s almost completely mine, dents, scratches and all. None of the damage was because of my driving. I’d literally wake up and go to work in the morning to find more damage to my vehicle. I knew the problem was because I parked in the open parking lot of the apartment building, but I really didn’t have an alternative. When I parked on the street, I would either get a ticket or someone would break into my car.
Gary drove off. I went the way he had come. I was at the Double Drabble within twenty minutes. The congested, nighttime traffic slowed me down. I probably could have jogged most of the way to the place in the time I spent crawling and waiting behind other motorists. Exercise kept me thin. I tried to tell Eddie that. I also told him stop drinking a pack of twenty-four cans of soda every week. What’s left of his teeth will fall out of his head in ten years.
I pulled down an alley from a busy street and parked in the rear of the restaurant. Vic told me I could park in the back after dark, but I’d only close the screen door. I wanted to catch a glimpse of whoever hung around outside in the shadows. Vic was inside the Double Drabble. I could see him cooking in the kitchen. He could see me enter the rear of the pizzeria too, if he turned his head.
Vic looked younger than me, and I passed for barely twenty-five. Vic was a tone, handsome guy, but he had a wife in India. Vic was just waiting for her green card; because he wanted to be certain there wouldn’t be a glitch in the process. The new couple didn’t have the money to send the wife back home. As I walked into the long and narrow dining area, I saw my fifteen foot long mural. A chubby, Asian guy looking at it.
My painting of the picnic still looked in pretty good shape. I had to come back just after I finished it to fix holes in the canvas. A kid poked holes into my painting with a fork. I did have a concern about extending the height of the painting to encompass the top of the table, but Lou said it would be fine. The damage justified by recommendation to keep the height only about six feet.
Lou Drabble agreed to pay extra for the paint and the canvas. He didn’t compensate me for the extra time I put into doing the work. Although, Lou and Vic fed me every time I walked into the restaurant. The offer gave me a reason to come back periodically to say hello and check the condition of my mural. Gary might have a similar, generous arrangement at the Drabble.
The Asian man turned to face me as I walked into the dining area. He smiled at me.
“Debbie Menon?” the man asked, slipping off his black overcoat. The man was overdressed. I still wore my seat pants and a T-shirt. “You should have a picture next to your biography, here on the wall.”
“I hate photographs of myself,” I said honestly. “I’m the little girl on the picnic blanket, on the right side. Her hair is a lot darker than mine.”
“Yes,” the man said gazing at my painting. His eyes locked on the figure I directed him to see. “You look Mexican.”
“No,” I said, gritting my teeth. “That’s the way Lou wanted it.”
“You shouldn’t have listened to him,” Vic said from behind me.
“He paid for it,” I reminded Vic.
“Well, change it back now. Between him and me, I’m the only one here looking at it.”
“No, its fine,” the man insisted.
“Excuse me, who are you?” I asked the man as politely as I could. I suspected the man was the screenwriter Gary told me about.
The man looked only as old as Vic and me. The man had a long, partially grown mustache on his upper lip. I was perplexed as to why he wore the uneven, neatly combed hair over his lips. The man’s hair may have also been butchered, but impossible to determine. He had slicked back his hair with oil, shining and full.
“I should have introduced myself,” the man stated. “I’m Nai KriangSak, you can call me Sak.”
“Hi, Sak, you know my name,” I smiled. “Are you the one Vic here, told Gary to tell me about?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Sak said shrugging his shoulders.
“Yep,” Vic said. “Debbie, meet Sak, and Sak please say hello to Debbie.”
“Hello, Debbie,” said Sak. He had nice teeth when he smiled. “I’m looking for an illustrator for my book.”
“Well, I can do illustration, but I want to paint stuff that interests me,” I told Sak. “Otherwise it gets boring and no fun.”
“But what you did for Double Drabble is acceptable,” Sak claimed. “I love it!”
“That’s not really my style though. That was just for Lou,” I confessed to Sak.
The mural in the restaurant was a desperate move to show off my talent. It was the first one I had ever done. I compromised too much of myself. I didn’t start feeling assertive about expressing myself personally until after my second mural, two cities away. The owner let me do whatever I wanted to do with the images of sunflowers.
“Well, what is your style?” Sak asked with genuine curiosity.
“Like Georgia O’Keefe, but on a fractal level,” I said, anxious to talk about my handiwork. “Other artists have done it before, but I got my own special dreamland there.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Sak said immediately. “How about you come over to my house? I have a pattern to be painted, but I can’t do it. I’m not an artist and I have poor eyesight.”
“Sure,” I said. “I usually charge forty dollars an hour, and that doesn’t include paint, canvas or if I need a new brush.”
“That’s fine. I’ll give you two hundred dollars an hour. You will be needed for a minimum of three,” Sak told me.
“I’m not going to argue,” I said. “All right, I’ll take six hundred dollars for a few hours of work. Do you want me to come over to your place? When do you want to meet?”
“Let’s go now,” Sak said.
The late hour made the invitation suspicious. I looked a Vic. He smiled and waved me out the door. I knew Vic well enough to know he thought the same as me. I could handle myself and six hundred dollars was a decent incentive to take some risk. But the rushed work hadn’t allowed time to gather materials.
“The paint store is closed until tomorrow morning. I don’t have any of my own right now,” I told Sak.
“We don’t need your supplies,” Sak said happily, bowing and gesturing me toward the front door. “I have paint at my house. And you’ll be painting on the concrete of my patio.”
“What, is this some kind of decorative pattern for the floor?” I asked, confused.
“No,” Sak said. “It is a portal.”
“A what?” I asked.
“A portal, or door,” Sak ominously explained. “I need the Sumerian symbol on my floor.”
“Oh, symbol?!” I shouted. “You want me to paint a symbol. That’s no problem. I’ll be done in a few minutes.”
“Yes, but you need to copy two symbols on the floor by hand, to make a new one,” Sak said, complicating the work I expected to do.
The man was going to pay me six hundred dollars. I supposed I would be expected to exert my talent and training. I’d call Eddie before leaving the restaurant, just to let him know where I was. I didn’t expect to be home before dawn any longer. But, according to Sak’s offer, the extra hours meant even more pay.
“Well, let me see the symbols,” I said. “Do you have copies?”
“No,” Sak replied in sudden angst. “The images won’t be photocopied. They are in a book; very old and precious.”
The job began to sound perilous. I thought I knew why Sak offered so much money. Still, I don’t know why he asked for me if he was better off hiring people who did things like art restorations. But, he was. Sak gave me his address when I asked for it. He told me to follow him over to his house once I called Eddie.
I knew Eddie was home, because he never went anyway, but the answering machine picked up my call. I left a message to myself, so Eddie wouldn’t delete it, listing Sak’s name and address. I then told Sak I was parked in back of the Drabble and I’d meet him on the street in front of the restaurant. Sak agreed and told me he drove a brand new black sports car.
I pulled up the busy street in front of restaurant and spotted Sak’s car. The blinker on his vehicle flashed, asking to be let into traffic. No passing motorist bothered to change lanes to give a merging driver space to enter the street. I needed to help Sak out of his tight spot. The maneuver was tricky.
The oncoming traffic didn’t relent as I sat, stuck behind a stop sign. I punched my accelerator to make the right turn into traffic and then stepped on the brakes; so that Sak would have room to pull out in front of me. The driver behind me squealed their wheels and laid on his car horn. The squeal and horn was immediately repeated by the driver behind the one who stopped a good fifteen feet behind me. Nobody came close to having an accident, but the driver in the second vehicle still shouted curses. My strong-arm courtesy allowed Sak to escape his mire. I followed him back to his house.
He lived in a residential neighborhood a few blocks from the restaurant. Sak could have walked to the Drabble if he was to brave the street gang and the most dangerous, to pedestrians, intersection in the Valley. That fact was the truth. On average, someone got killed here every week while crossing that street. Granted, thousands of cars and people crossed the intersection every day.
Sak’s house was one of the endless, stuccoed single-story homes in the treeless neighborhood. I’m happy I followed him. I would have gotten lost counting the numbers on the identical buildings as I went looking for the house.
I parked on the street, behind Sak’s sports car. I don’t know how Sak managed not to have the vehicle stolen or if he even worried about someone breaking into his car. I figured his vehicle was a bigger target, so I felt reassured about leaving mine behind his in this neighborhood at night.
Sak led me into his home. I saw lights through the windows as Sak and I walked up the short front walk. The door was unlocked. There were people inside his house, although I only heard their echoing voices. Sak seemed unconcerned and shut the door behind me.
“I’ll get the book,” Sak said as he poked his head into what appeared to be the kitchen.
I could see where the beige carpeting of the room, in which I stood, came to an end. A linoleum floor covering appeared to have been spread across the concealed room. Sak didn’t say anything, but the talking stopped. He turned into a dark hallway, perpendicular to the entrance of the kitchen. A young girl walked out of the kitchen, followed by two skinny boys.
“Hi,” the girl said to me. She didn’t introduce herself. The two boys didn’t say anything.
“Hi,” I answered.
I think the three kids were out of high school. After I graduated from college, distinguishing the age of people younger than me became a problem. Those signs that said ID’s were checked for alcohol sales to anyone under thirty pertained to me. They were instructions specifically for me if I ever got a job at a convenience store. At my age, I only had three categories for how old a person was; young, old or too young. I didn’t count dead as a category, but Eddied insisted it was applicable.
All of the kids were taller than Sak and I. The pair of us was about the same height. I wondered who these Caucasian kids were, maybe groupies. I supposed screenwriters could have groupies, although I’d expect that would be news, and I never heard of Sak.
“I’m a painter. I did that mural at Double Drabble,” I listed. I didn’t drop my name, but I felt compelled to identify myself somehow. The revelation seemed fair as I asked who they were. The awkward silence after I told the kids what I did insisted that we get to know each other.
“We’re his coven,” the girl laughed, pointing down the dark hallway.
“Deema, don’t be rude,” the boy wearing a heavy metal T-shirt and a purple goatee said.
“Yeah,” said the clean-shaven boy with a butch haircut.
“I’m Jonny, he’s Tim, and the girl in the shirt with the cartoon pig is Deema,” Jonny said, pointing at the only other girl in the room. His goatee dipped into the loose collar of his T-Shirt as he spoke.
“I’m Debbie,” I said as Sak returned.
Sak carried a thick book with yellow pages. The book covers were wrapped in plastic. Sak appeared to be wearing pink, satin gloves. The fingers were shaped like those on gloves made for a woman. His thick fingers stretched the seams of the apparel. Sak also had small hands. The long ends of the glove’s fingers looked crooked and lumpy, pushed partially full of air.
“Here,” Sak commanded my attention. “I’ll hold it. When you start to copy the book, I’ll set the pages on the table. But, please, no touching.”
The request didn’t seem odd at all. Sak was giving me a lot of money to copy pictures out of what appeared to be an ancient and fragile book. It must be valuable. I wondered if Sak himself wrapped the tome in plastic. That was fine by me. I certainly didn’t have any idea about preservation other than spreading varnish over something. I doubted that would work for books. Well, the outside will look good, but the pages would stick together.
“Ooh, I love the book,” Tim droned.
“You all go clear off the patio,” Sak ordered his coven, fans or minions. I still didn’t know why the kids were here. Evidently, the two boys and girl were on-hand furniture movers.
Sak opened the book directly to the first page he wanted to show me; it was close to the middle of the tome. I didn’t see a book mark, and I know his finger hadn’t held the page. Sak turned right to the page he desired. The dry, yellow pages seemed to hold themselves together quite well. They were extremely resilient to being pinched and bent.
The pattern was a circle, with curls flowing in opposite directions in and out of the circle. The pattern seemed simple enough to reproduce. I just needed to be sure to capture the correct number of swirls. There were seven spirals on the outside of the circle, six on the inside. They didn’t completely curl in upon themselves, leaving wide, negative space around the ornate, geometric pattern.
The second pattern Sak showed me was a pentagram. Only the outside of the figure was drawn. The pentagon at the center of the star was missing. The lines between the vertexes of the five points were broken. The pentagram appeared well ventilated. The drawing of this shape was significantly larger than the circle.
“I need this pentagram to fit inside the circle,” Sak said, as I expected he would.
“I suppose it will make a decent floor decoration,” I conjectured aloud. “It’s little creepy, with the star and all.”
“So you can do it?” asked Sak.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said. “I want to get the final pattern on paper and show you before I paint it.”
Sak paused. He looked hesitant; maybe because the book was so valuable he didn’t want to have to pull it out again. Sak might be overanxious about the mysterious volume. He also might just want to have his painting completed. Coming to his place so late tonight supported that hypothesis. Maybe he had a party tomorrow. After I allowed Sak a moment to resolve his indecision, he agreed.
“I’ll need a paper and pencil,” I told Sak. “And do you have chalk for the patio?”
“Yes, I’ve got all those things,” Sak said. “What else do you want, because I have it.”
I wanted to be an established artist with clients knocking on my door, but I don’t think that’s what Sak meant. All I needed for this particular job was something to make markings. A number two pencil was always the fastest tool, but I’d have to switch to something less lasting when my canvas became concrete.
“How about a place I can sit down and draw?” I asked. “Someplace with a lot of light.”
“Have a seat in the kitchen,” Sak said pointing toward the room with the linoleum floor. The precious book lay open, balanced on its spine, in the palm of one of Sak’s hands. I gasped.
The book stayed glued flat in Sak’s hand. My patron seemed unconcerned, or unaware of his own reckless treatment of his book. Sak followed me into the kitchen and put the book down at the far end of the table, out of my reach from where I had sat.
“You can look but don’t touch,” Sak said smiling. He dropped his expression into a grimace. “Seriously, don’t touch the pages with your bare hands. Here, put on my gloves.”
Sak took off his feminine gloves and handed them to me. After having been stretched out, the gloves fitted loosely around my knuckles. Sak waited for me to put them both on before leaving to retrieve paper and a pencil. When Sak came back I asked him a logistics question.
“When I’m done drawing a copy of the pentagram, will you turn the page back to the circle?”
“You’ve got the gloves now. You can turn the page,” Sak said.
“Which page is it,” I sheepishly asked. “I wasn’t paying attention when you flipped through the book.”
“Just turn the page, you’ll see it.”
The answer Sak gave implied I could thumb through the pages until I found the image I looked for. That suited me. I grew curious as to what the volume was. The book appeared to be professionally bound. The plastic, Sak had wrapped the book covers in, made it difficult to ascertain the material. The black, visible silver of binding looked like leather.
There weren’t a lot of words on the page with the pentagram. The text was handwritten, not typeset. The language might be Latin; it looked foreign with dotted bars at the end of a lot of words. I hoped other pages in the book had translations or even a recognizable drawing. The book itself became a distraction and remained oblique.
I reminded myself of the late hour and my goal to be done in less than three hours. Now that I knew exactly what I needed to paint, I now anticipated being finished in less than two. But if I became fascinated with the book, I’d be stuck here all night. I resolved myself to copy the pictures and give the book back to Sak.
Copying the pentagram was easy. Most of the image was white space. I couldn’t use a ruler to draw the visible pieces of the pentagram. The original artist bent the lines. Unintentional or not, I wanted to make certain I captured the image exactly. I copied exactly what I saw. Sak periodically returned to the kitchen during the tne minutes I spent drawing the pentagram. He heaped on praise for my artistic abilities.
I told Sak that instead of copying the pentagram inside the circle, I’d copy the circle around the pentagram. Sak thought the idea was ingenious, rather than realizing I had started drawing the broken pentagram first. I let him think I had inspirations of genius. The idea probably made him feel better about paying me so much money for the artwork.
When I turned back the page in the book, I instantly arrived at the image of the circle. I could have sworn when Sak showed me the two images, he had turned a lump of pages at once. I turned around and asked him if I had the right image. Sak looked at the page to which I had turned. He nodded his head.
“There is only one Circle of Wind in the book,” Sake said.
“Circle of Wind?” I asked. “That sounds like a Kung-Fu move in an old movie.”
“It’s a glyph,” Sak corrected me. “You just have to paint it.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said.
Once I started copying the circle I suddenly needed to start concentrating. For some reason, I couldn’t draw the dimension of the circle on the same paper as the pentagram. The circle wouldn’t stay round. I erased my light, preparatory scribbles. Drawing the circle on another piece of paper seemed to work smoothly. I even managed to approximate the size of the circle I’d need.
I put my two drawings together. Looking at the images side by side made me dizzy. I instantly suspected I was growing tired.
“Hey, Sak, do you have any cola? I want to wake myself up,” I asked Sak.
“Oh, sure,” Sak said. He opened the glass sliding door from the kitchen to the patio.
I couldn’t see or hear anything outside, but remembered Sak had sent the kids to clear off his patio. Sak flipped on the exterior light causing the two boys and girl to stare blindly into the glowing bulb. Deema was standing before Jonny and Tim, who stood side by side. They looked like they had been talking to each other. The trio blinked their eyes and stepped forward wordlessly.
Sak waved a can of soda in front of the open patio door and then gave it to me. The three kids walked into the kitchen and each grabbed their own can from the fridge. Deema looked over my shoulder as Sak stepped out of the room.
“How’s it going?” Deema asked about my progress. I showed her my copies.
“That was fast!” Tim exclaimed.
“I did this already,” Deema claimed. She began to shout into the hall leading from the living room. I presume that was where Sak continued to disappear. “I drew these already, Sak!”
“But this was fast,” Jonny agreed with Tim.
Sak raced back into the kitchen.
“Yes,” Sak said to Deema. “But now Debbie is going to draw them together.”
“Good luck with that,” Deema said grudgingly. “I’m still working on it.”
“See?” Sak said. “Debbie went to school.”
“Then send me school, Sak,” Deema demanded. She sounded threatening.
“That will take too long,” Sak protested. “Debbie is a proven professional.”
“Well, I don’t know about proven,” I said. “You saw my first mural.”
“Yes,” Sak validated. “It’s good, and you’re fast.”
“I work better without people looking over my shoulder,” I hinted to Sak. I didn’t appreciate Deema being a critic, even though she told the truth. She sounded jealous.
“All right, everyone,” Sak said, gathering his servants. “Go watch TV or read my stories.”
“Let’s watch TV,” Jonny voted.
The kids took their soda with them. Sak followed the three into the living room. I didn’t recognize the movie they found on the television. Although, even if I did remember the movie, I wouldn’t know its name. I wouldn’t be able to elaborate on the story beyond what the actors said in dialog. I drew in my sketchbook whenever I sat in front of the television.
People always tell me to go to a park or the beach to draw, but that’s not where people live nowadays. If you’re not talking to the public through the hieroglyphics of advertising, people won’t be able to understand you. My dilemma with my career just taking off was how to adopt my fantasy, fractal expressionism into the advertising lexicon. My discovery will make me a master.
Until then, I’m stuck scratching together a living doing simple crap like this for a lot of money and working as an activity aide in a locked mental health facility. So, I’d best get to work making my tons of money. I tapped my drawings together, intending to trace the image showing from beneath the paper. I didn’t see anything.
I put the stacked sheets of paper against the light and still didn’t see an image bleeding through. I even switched which sheet I put on top and saw only see the image on the top sheet. Light bled through the paper. The top sheet glowed white when held against the light. I should have seen a shadow. I heavily marked the empty corner of a single sheet of paper before testing the transparency of the paper against the light again. My scratches were plainly visible through the top sheet of paper.
I thought about going into the living room and telling Sak I’ll probably need more time to figure out how to trace the image, but then I didn’t want to provoke Deema. She’d instantly proclaim my higher education didn’t preserve me from failure. I’d have to manually scribe one image over the other. I took a deep breath and resolved myself to the task. I shut the book before I started working again..
I placed my drawn images side by side again. My dizziness instantly returned until I partially concealed one image with the paper of another. I don’t know what was happening. The cola didn’t seem to help, but when I wasn’t looking at my drawings side by side, I felt fine.
I started copying the pentagram inside the circle in earnest. As long as I kept a little piece of the pentagram concealed, I worked strong and steady. The combined images must create some sort of optical illusion. Making everyone sick wouldn’t be a good idea at a backyard grill party. Sak might be crafting a special trap for people infringing on his copyrights. My fantastic thought only proved a reminder as to how late the hour must have gotten. The time must have suddenly flown.
My stomach suddenly dropped when I realized my stupid mistake. I didn’t ask how Sak wanted the swirls on the inside of the circle to intersect with the pentagram. A key question was whether it mattered if the swirls joined the severed ends of the pentagram. If that detail didn’t matter, I’d finish in ten minutes. I had to ask Sak. I was getting tired and wanted to go home. If I needed to start over, I’d probably need to see the pentagram again. The work would also have to wait until I finished the week at my full-time job.
I brought the book with me into the living room. My nearly finished drawing was pinned to my side, beneath my left elbow. Sak watched me coming into the room from his overstuffed chair. Jonny looked up from the television.
“Here’s the book back, Sak,” I said.
“Put it down and give me the gloves,” Sak said anxiously.
“I didn’t know how you wanted the images to overlap,” I confessed in front of Deema as I put the book on the coffee table and lay the pink loves on top. “But I’m almost done.”
“You’re almost done?” Sak asked excitedly. He bounced from his chair.
I took the drawing out from beneath my arm to show Sak. Jonny still watched me whereas Tim and Deema were enthralled by some late-night talent competition. I held my drawing out in front of me. When I showed Sak, Jonny vomited unto the carpet; in front of the couch he sat upon with his friends.
“It is finished!” Sak shouted, overjoyed.
“Dammit, Jonny!” Deema shouted. The three kids engaged in maneuvering away from Jonny’s splattering expulsion.
“I didn’t think it was finished,” I honestly said to Sak and looked at my drawing again. The image did appear to be done. That was funny. I swore when I had stopped drawing that the image was obviously incomplete. I would easily pick up the drawing where I had left off. “No, Sak. Let me check the pentagram drawing again. I’m sure I left out a couple lines.”
Even though the drawing of the pentagram didn’t include many lines at all, something felt missing. A true replication would be betrayed by the amateur mistake.
“You got it done?” Deema suddenly interjected herself. “Let me see.”
Deema jumped over the creamy yellow puddle seeping into the carpet. I showed my newfound nemesis my drawing. Deema also vomited, just like Jonny. I whipped the drawing out of the path of the sick and retreated to the kitchen. Sak was right behind me.
“Can you paint it tonight?” Sak asked turning the patio lights back on.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m tired and I have to go to work tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’ll give you two thousand dollars on top of what your total hours will give you. I’ll pay all of it tonight, when you finish, in cash.”
“You owe me sixteen thousand dollars already,” I reminded Sak. I felt guilty about asking for so much money without having laid a single brush stroke. But, Sak did say two hundred dollars an hour.
“Yes, that’s fine,” Sak said. “You’ll have it all in cash when you finish.”
Thirty-six hundred dollars was more money than I made in a month at my full-time. I felt like Sak was paying me like a real artist should be paid, despite how little I accomplished. My tired giddiness at earning such a wild wage chased away any guilt. All caution and hesitation was set aside. I agreed to paint my composite image immediately.
Sak and I went onto the patio. The kids didn’t follow us. Nobody appeared in the kitchen as Sak showed the quart of black paint to me. It sat on the patio, against the wall. The can was missing its lid and label. A fat rubber band held a plastic wrap over the open end of the container. I don’t know why the paint was in the unlabeled can, maybe poured from a larger can, but the color was definitely black. Brand new, small and medium sized brushes lay on the concrete behind the can. Sak really had been prepared.
“The top of the pentagram has to point to the north,” Sak said pointing at the block wall just beyond his patio.
“Now is that the Satanic pentagram where the goat’s ears and nuzzle make up the star? Because the points representing the horns, they’re on the top. In your book, it looked like it was the other way around. I don’t know what that is called.”
Sak thought for a moment. After gazing at my drawing again, right-side up, he asked me to confirm his observation. “This is how it is in the book?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I hummed.
“Then paint it like it is in the book,” Sak decided.
“All right, I’ll get started,” I said, finding the chalk that rolled against the house. “This may take a little while. I don’t know why I’m taking so long.”
“No,” Sak objected. “You’re fast! Deema has been trying since last year.”
“Maybe you’re right about the education,” I agreed with Sak.
I finished tracing the drawing on the concrete with chalk. The task took no time at all. I expected the painting to go just as easily. All I needed to do was paint between the temporary lines. As I began to paint I felt a little nauseous.
“Hey, Sak,” I called up from my kneeling position on the floor. By the time I finished, I’m sure I’ll be lying down. “Do you have ginger ale or something to calm a stomach?”
“Yes, sure. I’ve got antacids, too,” Sak volunteered.
“That will be great,” I answered thankfully. “I’ll take both.”
I faced the patio door as I painted and could see into Sak’s home. He went back into the house, but stayed in the kitchen. Sak knew exactly which cupboard he kept his antacids. He brought the half-full plastic container to me with the ginger ale. I was grateful.
I started to feel like Deema and Jonny, but just hadn’t lost the contents of my stomach yet. I must have been victimized by a fast-acting flu bug. The speed of the virus and the number of sick people made me wonder if we weren’t suffering from food poisoning. The only thing I shared with Deema and Jonny was the cola, in our own, individual cans. The soda may have been a bad batch.
While working, and feeling better, that nagging thought that the glyph wasn’t complete returned. I wanted to look at the book again and asked Sak.
“No,” Sak said. “Your drawing is fine. It’s almost dawn.”
“Dawn, really?” I asked surprised. Time had really flown, and I was almost done. I knew exactly where I had stopped on this painting. Despite the chalk lines, I made a point of laying a pebble down in the spot where the paint still needed to go.
“I didn’t anticipate the time, but it’s actually perfect,” Sak insisted. I guess he had stood, looking over my shoulder, for hours. His vigilance made me self-conscious.
“But it might not be perfect with the images in the book,” I stated, not wanting to give up my artistic integrity.
“Okay,” Sak instantly agreed. “I’ll get the book, but you, continue painting. You can add in what you’ve missed, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose,” I answered, not completely satisfied to wait to see if my mistake was really just a missing piece. Two things convinced me to follow Sak’s direction; I was tired and began to feel sick again.
After painting a few more seconds upon answering Sak, I talked to him again. “Hey, Sak, can I have another ginger ale and some more antacids?”
“Sure,” Sak said going into his house. “The antacids are still there on the floor, next to you.”
I reached for the bottle. It was only a quarter full. There wasn’t any wonder I felt bloated and queasy. The bloated feeling was ironically the lesser of the two evils. I ate another couple of tablets. Sak returned with the drowsy looking kids and my ginger ale.”
A hot wind suddenly blew up. I turned away from the blast, feeling the rising temperature on my back. I wondered if the wind was the Santa Ana’s I had experienced last year. I couldn’t remember the season. The weather could have been like this this past summer. The wind wouldn’t dissuade me from completing my work before dawn. But, I needed to work fast. I saw the eastern horizon glowing neon blue over the Verdugo Hills.
“You’re almost finished,” Sak said as I slowly stood up, aching.
“I said that,” I snapped at Sak. I should be happy at being so close to earning so much money. Instead, exhaustion made me bitchy. “Are you going to get the book?”
I drank the ginger ale Sak handed to me before he went back inside. The kids stayed outside with me. Nobody looked at my painting.
“I couldn’t do that,” Deema told me.
“It kinda makes you sick looking at it, doesn’t it?” Tim asked Jonny.
“Yeah, but, that’s how you know its got real power,” Jonny answered.
“What are you two talking about?” I asked the boys.
“Your circle,” Jonny told me. “Deema has been at it for a long time. Man, you’re fast!”
“Christ, Jonny!” Deema shouted.
“That’s the point, Deema,” Jonny stated. “There isn’t one, so we gotta summon our own.”
“What are you guys talking about?” I asked draining the last of my ginger ale. I started to feel better again. That was maybe because I stopped painting the image. I crawled down on the concrete and started again because I wanted to be finished by the break of day.
The wind seemed to come in gusts. The heat and the blowing sand wasn’t so bad while I was close to the ground. I listened to the kids answer my question as I worked.
“You’ve got to read Sak’s writing,” Deema said, speaking over whatever Jonny babbled. “The man is like a prophet.”
The impression something was missing in my drawing still nagged me. I desperately wanted to look at the book again, but Sak hadn’t returned yet. I don’t know what took him so long. I set the book down on a chair in the dining room. I was tempted just to go look myself. Except, Sak returned wearing the pink gloves and carrying the book.
“Which one did you want to see, the circle or the pentagram?” Sak asked.
“The pentagram,” I answered. The image was so simple, especially with its abundance of empty spaces. I saw the image as perfectly whole when I looked at my drawing, but I knew that is where my mistake lay. Its funny that I knew where the unfinished corner was before Sak proclaimed my drawing to be finished; but, I lost the spot when the announcement had been made.
“I’ll find it, you keep painting,” Sak said as he turned the pages.
The first rays of light cut into the fog of morning. The bands of golden clouds between the black earth and starless sky looked like they perhaps formed a bridge to heaven. The foot of the bridge never touched the earth. I wonder how any soul left this world.
As I’m on my last brush strokes, the wind got hotter. The air felt like the sun baked my back. A knock on the front was followed by Eddie’s voice. My friend came stomping through the kitchen. Sak followed behind him.
“Debbie,” Eddie said breathing heavy. Where Eddie stood, his width blocked my light from the spotlight. “Gary called and told me this guy was asking about you. Don’t put your name on anything with him. He takes down everybody with his flops, permanently.”
“Did you listen to the message I left for myself?” I asked my friend.
“After Gary called me this morning,” answered Eddie.
Sak appeared shocked that a hostile critic had invaded his home at dawn. He didn’t know what to say, or how to manhandle someone Eddie’s size. Sak couldn’t even get squeeze himself past his obstacle while Eddie stood in front of the door.
“Get out of my light, Eddie,” I scolded my friend. “This is just a straight painting job. He’s paying me a lot of money.”
“Oh,” Eddie said, relaxing his shoulders. “Damn, it’s hot out here and the sun isn’t even all the way up. It’s not like this in Burbank.”
I brushed the last thick line of black paint on the concrete. Dust and sand, blowing in the wind, had already become embedded in the drying paint. Eddie was right. I was laying on my right side, and my back and left thigh felt hot, as if I was laying under a summertime sun at noon.
The band of golden clouds widened and tilted toward the ground. The freshly blue skies could be seen through the fog. Sak’s backyard remained entrenched in shadows.
“Thank you,” Sak said from behind Eddie. I didn’t know if he managed to even catch a glimpse of the painting around my big friend.
“Let’s get out of here, Debbie,” Eddie said walking back into the kitchen. He was soaked in sweat.
“Not until I get my money,” I called after Eddie. He continued walking. I didn’t care. I drove my own car anyway. I jumped up and caught Sak in the living room. “What time is it?”
“It’s six AM,” Sak answered. Thank you again, Debbie.”
I thought about how much Sak owned me. The amount of money was insane, but the tired and rotten way I felt right now made the sum seem justified.
“You owe me forty-four hundred dollars,” I told Sak, delivering my invoice for cash upon completion.
“Of course, and thank you again,” Sak said handing me the money in wrapped stacks of one hundred dollar bills.
“So what is the design for anyway?” I had to ask.
A lot of hassle went into getting the job done. It seemed as if something supernatural complicated my otherwise straight forward path. Whatever stalled me didn’t stand against my perseverance. I think I deserved to know the future of the product of my sacrifice.
“A gateway,” Sak said. “I thought the nearest I would ever get to the afterlife was Hell. But you beat the start of the equinox.”
I honestly didn’t know how to reply to Sak. I understood he had been up all night and was probably as loopy as I was. Sak was probably trying to screw around with my head and got himself confused trying to tell his tall tale. I knew a lot of people in Wisconsin like that. I decided to entertain him.
“If its supposed to be the bridge to heaven, why is it so hot?”
“I don’t know,” Sak said looking disappointed.

In the studio, the aftermath (25 paintings)

“>

(click to view larger image)

Frida Kahlo (1907-1954)

She is one of  my all time favorite artists. I find her work and her life story very inspiring. If you haven’t seen the film about her life, you really should, it’s called “Frida”

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and are now fully recovered from all the binging and merry making :O)

As for me, I seem to be coming down with something, I feel icky and achy and want to stay in bed and just read and sleep. It might be a bit quiet around here this week. As soon as I’m feeling better you’ll be the first to know :O)

]]> http://inkingthepaper.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/writers-poem-2/ Sun, 29 Nov 2009 01:19:05 +0000 Peggy Jo http://inkingthepaper.wordpress.com/2009/11/28/writers-poem-2/

Writer’s Poem

The words of a writer,

are as brush-strokes of a painter;

each deliberate,

with  a certain quality.

PJFarr

Spring 1988

fine arts – pixelism: ca. 30.000 painted pixel – 04.2009, acrylic on canvas, 30 * 40 cm (11.81″ * 15.75″). video and cut by patrick egarter

(CHICAGO, IL)—The Global Bar-Café—located within the Orrington Hotel in Evanston, Illinois—recently announced they will be hosting a holiday art exhibition featuring impressionist painter Greg Allen Page.  The event is set to be held on Friday, December 11, at 7 pm.

Greg Page—who only began his full time painting career in 2004—has since completed over 60 original oil paintings and has been featured in international galleries across the world, including Los Angeles, Scottsdale, Maui, Como, Italy and Chicago—where his work is currently on display at Interior Effects.

“I originally began painting as an outlet in which I could project different feelings and emotions on a blank canvas,” says Page.  “My paintings are derived from spirituality, love and beautiful life experiences, combined with a raw and personal perspective of pop culture and aspects of life which are encountered daily.” 

The Art Exhibition will take place in the intimate setting of the Globe Bar and will feature about ten of Page’s impressionistic style paintings.  The selected paintings which will be displayed accentuate Page’s use of visible brushstrokes, an open composition with emphasis on light and its changing qualities, ordinary subject matter and unusual visual angles—all key components of impressionistic art.

“For me, becoming an artist has never been about worldwide recognition, fame and fortune,” says Page.  “It is about tapping into my artistic presence and taking things I love, bringing them to life on a blank canvas, and sharing them with the world.”

To truly sum up how he views his work, Page states, “Oil painting is not photography.  The soul of the painter is in the freedom of his hand and the brush.”

Along with Greg Page, two or three guest artists from the School of Art Institute of Chicago have also been invited to feature their work.

The public is invited to enjoy this open house reception.  Refreshments will be offered and all are welcome to attend an event embracing art, holiday cheer, and the support of local and emerging artists.

For more information regarding upcoming exhibitions and to view Page’s paintings, please visit www.chicagoimpressionism.com and www.fineartamerica.com/profiles/gregory-allen-page.html.

Paris 11 until 24/12/2009 78 rue Amelot, Galerie Magda Danysz The Magda Danysz gallery presents for the first time Vuk Vidor’s recent works, the second stage of his americain Quartet. A work focused on the modern world, current events and precisely the ultra power of the United States. We find in his works the American comics’ drawing style but here the super-heroes are mostly pathetic or discouraged.  Famous art critic Jean-Luc Chalumeau describes the work of this French-Serbian artist this way “we do not describe the painting of Vuk Vidor: too varied, too surprising, too mysterious in certain cases. But it is painting”. Vuk Vidor is not only a painter, he also works on metal, steel, photography, he creates monumental installations and realizes collages. This multidisciplinary artist exposes in Belgrade, New York or Copenhagen.  This painting contrasts with the importance of the ideas. He uses every time a pop colored language in which every detail is an element of the story but the works of Vuk Vidor are deep and serious. The religion is omnipresent and his American super-hero is soon transformed into a crucified Christ having for cross its own country or carried by the Statue of Liberty like a modern Pieta and covered by Stars ans Stripes flag by way of shroud. In this exhibition, Vuk Vidor express himself with large format painting, laser cut sculpture of these American heroes and you will discover a special installation in the project room about the ego of the artist. Vuk Vidor himself represented in a statue made of gold.  Vuk Vidor is like that, he combines the spiritual depth and the symbols of comics to demonstrate us – in a particularly colored style – that today “even the super-heroes can’t save us any more”. Even before the recession, Vuk Vidor’s heroes had become unable to carry the American dream. (vuk)

We Build Solutions Inc.

With the new tax credit available for Canadians I thought I might have to jump on the band wagon. So far, 2 of my girlfriends have taken advantage of this credit and then I thought, well why shouldn’t I? They gave me a business card for We Build Solutions Inc. I spoke to one of the employees and he explained to me how they could help me. Basically, they would do everything for me as far as contacting contractors, finding resources and making sure that my vision comes to reality. I guess you could call them the middlemen or like a wedding planner’s role in helping to plan a wedding. However, this has to do with house renovations.

Well, I’m happy to say that they did a wonderful job with my bathroom reno. AMAZING!!! And I managed to stay on budget which is even more amazing.

Their office is based out of Vancouver. And I just wanted to rave about this company as they saved me time from googling random contractors from the internet.
Check out my before and after pics:

Before & After Washroom

I hated parties, but this one was for a producer friend of mine and one of the guys at the paper had cajoled me into showing up.

“Come on, baby,” he said in his really sweet, seductive way that made me want to crawl into his arms, “There’s going to be a Stones cover band and everything.”

After making an ass of myself, dancing to “Sympathy for the Devil” with my sloshed buddy, Roppo, I made a b-line for the bar.

“Let me buy you a drink, Norah,” my city editor, Brian, said.

“Oh. Okay.  Can you get me a Diet Coke with lemon?”

“You on the wagon?”

“Yeah.” It was too much to explain I get high off of water.

My phone started to vibrate. “Gotta take this, Bri.”

“Sure.”

“Sean?” I went outside to the sidewalk so I could hear. “Where are you?”

“Well, I just finished visiting her brother and sister.” He sounded a little nervous.

“How was it?”

“God, Norah, difficult.  They hated Meehan from the start.  She wouldn’t listen. I think her brother feels guilty for not protecting her after he knew the guy was violent. It’s just hard. He gave me a great interview – talked about how as a kid, she got a job at a local restaurant.  She was 14 or something and she just walked into the kitchen and asked if they needed someone to bust some suds.”

I laughed. “Shut the fuck up.  Now that’s funny.”

“Yeh, some of it was fun. Listen, Norah, I’m supposed to jailhouse him in the morning.  Are you near a computer? Can you tell me what the hours are or if it’s like Manhattan Correctional where you go by first initial of last name?”

“I’m at a birthday party for Chuck Vincent at Bar 9.  Can I call you when I get home?”

“Yeah, sure, sure. I’m sorry to interrupt, hun.”

“No prob. I needed an excuse to duck out of there before they started asking me to sing my favorite Stones song with Roppo.”

“Alright,” Sean laughed. “I don’t feel so bad then.”

“Trust me. You are doing me a favor.”

“Norah? Do you think they’ll let me talk to this guy?”

“Elegua.”

“What?”

“Elegua, Santerian god who unlocks all doors, clears a pathway.  Or, if you feel more comfortable with Saint Anthony, he also removes obstacles. Then there’s always Ganesha.”

“Okay, okay,” he teased. “Enough already. How about you pray for me, babe?”

“Your choice, hun.”

***

It was a little dicey when I worked days. People were starting to notice my disappearances, but I felt compelled.

My phone was vibrating. “Can I call you back, sweetie?” I was now officially calling Sean sweetie more than Tom. Goddess help me.

“Yeah, Norah, but quickly.”

“Okay, give me a few minutes.”

I walked by the photo desk. “Coffee run. Tony? Aaron?” No takers. How much coffee could I buy, before the guys got fed up with this routine?  They probably thought I was having relationship problems.

I waited until I was otuside the building this time.  I felt like I was cheating on my job.  The sneak was kind of fun, but stressful.

“Hey, Sean, what’s up?”

“It didn’t work.” He sounded defeated.

“I’m sorry. The spell?”

“Yeh, I was kind of hoping.”

“Hey, no one’s perfect. Wrong day?”

“Nah, just that they aren’t letting press in,” he said.

“Okay, so no biggie. Neeexxxt.”

He laughed. “I’m gonna visit her dad today, Norah. I’m really not looknig forward.”

“Okay. It’s cold out here. I can”t get in touch with her when I’m freezing my ass off. Let me get into the hallway upstairs.”

“Would you? Thanks, sweetie. I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” I teased.

The longest hallway outside the city room was where the photo editors and archivists worked - all in private suites.  It was the best place to be if you didn’t want to disturb people. I went to the tall, narrow window at the end of the hall. It was a bright kind of cloudy outside.

“Okay, Sean. I need you to stay open and to relax. What’s the dad’s name?”

“John.”

I took a deep breath.  “So I’m seeing him at a drafting table. Does he paint or draw?”

“He’s a photographer, Norah. Not a painter as far as I know.”

“Well, I’m seeing him looking at a big drawing of some kind – or maybe a painting he’s working on – a night sky above an ocean. I feel he’s going to show you this and, if not, ask.”

“Okay.”

“Laila wants her dad to know she loves him so much and she is with him, especially when he paints. I see her standing behind him in this sparse, well lit studio. There are photographs all around and his drafting table is to the left when you face the windows.  Quite a nice space.”

“Norah, you are the best. Did I ever tell you, you are my favorite channeler? “

“Sean, just get over there. I gotta get back to work.”

“Talk to you later. I’m coming back to the city tonight.”

Like TV news on repeat
Life is the cycle, every man is pedalling
On a journey to great feats
Creative roads we be bevelling using our feet creating tracks,
Testing mettle because a struggle’s just a puddle that we meddle in
Gold medalling because we’re in tune when we’re fettling
Revelling in melodies that we make love and listen to
Perforating the edge of reason, painting it a kind of blue
See we all bring a kind of hue,
A friend is artist that paints life, love and pain with you
But we download on the down low so check your motives and thoughts
Before engaging strangers in verbal intercourse
Before riding luck and lust like a thoroughbred horse
Pause
Which Willy Wonka do you really want in your sugar walls
Who will you let have a ball in your mall
All in All, some say chocolate is better than sex
Yet for symbolic histrionics, special effects, bedroom pyrotechs
Money, power, respect, never confuse sexcess with success
My seed fertilises heads through conversations of mutual depths
In lighting fires the tongue is matchless
Even though rumours abound that mounds of blackness gun for success with fusion missions
Beyond atom splitting and trying to fit in, everyman goes human fishing
At some point you’re going to be hooked

to request another list item - please leave it in a comment

Despite my parents’ troubled relationship, exacerbated by my father’s undiagnosed bipolar condition, the financial instability and poverty we continually experienced, and the limited family and other support resources available, our family grew to include 5 children within only a few years. We lived in numerous apartments and rental homes, moving every year or so, even cross-country several times. Like many people around us, we struggled to live normal lives, making friends wherever we lived, finding joy in each other. These times of happiness and relative stability were interrupted by sudden bursts of trauma- as our dad would experience his roller coaster of mania or depression and take us along with him, as we’d suffer the emotional or physical abuse that came with our parents’ dysfunction, or as we’d get ripped from our community and move cross-country to start over in a new home and school.

I remember one day in particular as we were on the road in our beater station wagon, my parents’ argument in the car created a distraction that ended with us plowing into a ditch on the side of the road. My dad stepped out of the car and began walking in the opposition direction until he disappeared while our mom turned around with blood streaking down her face from the accident, and proceeded to screech at us for what had happened. When we moved from Virginia to Utah we travelled in a big blue school bus that Dad bought for a couple of hundred dollars, I remember throwing up over and over again as we crossed the Appalachian Mountains. I would often take the place of the peacekeeper in the family, helping to stabilize my mother when she got upset. I remember one incident when my mom checked us kids into a hotel and ran downstairs to the car, where I found her getting ready to abandon us “to someone who can take better care of you”. Thankfully, I was able to gradually talk her down from that decision.

Much of my childhood, along with my older brother, was spent helping Dad with his house painting job. David and I spent a lot of time with him, learning to work hard, benefitting from his influence, and hearing the many stories he had to share about his own life. While David continued to serve as my protector with my parents and anyone outside our family, he was my greatest tormentor as well. His years of abuse and stress led to my becoming the brunt of his physical dominance as we grew up. He was always much bigger and stronger, our constant fighting almost always led to my humiliating defeat. As we grew older, we would nearly kill each other several times- and although I was at the losing end of most of our fights, my battles with David provided its own unintended benefits.

After a year in California during the stock market crash of 1987, when we got stranded there due to our car breaking down and ending up living in a junkyard in Victorville for 8 months, we moved back to Utah when I was about 10. Again we bounced around several different homes in the next year and ended up in Lake Shore, Utah. The benefit of all of my fights with David showed up when I was continually pestered by bullies and cliques I found at the different schools- my brother was also new but he was much bigger, naturally athletic, and especially good looking. I was an easy target, but I had also learned to fight from big brother, and anybody was relatively easy compared to him. I became pretty good at it over the next few years, as I moved through a couple of middle schools and my schoolyard fights became a regular occurrence and an activity that I came to enjoy.

This is the 21st post in our Author of the Week series.

Alfred Sisley was born in 1839 in France, but his family was English. He was sent back to England when he turned 18 in order to study business but he left after four years and returned to France. In 1862 he began studying with a Swiss artist Marc-Charles-Gabriel Gleyre. The two were known for painting outdoors instead of in the studio and this led to much more colorful and broad pictures than people were used to.

The painter survived through an allowance from his father but the Franco-Prussian War caused his father’s business to fail, so it 1870 his sole means of income were through the sale of his paintings. This led to him living in poverty for the rest of his life. Though eventually he did gain support from some of his patrons. This is what led to him being able to travel to London and paint scenes there.

He continued to travel but he traveled to Wales in 1897 where he married his partner. When he tried to return to France his citizenship was denied. When he tried to reapply illness prevented him from traveling. He died in 1899 just a few months after the death of his wife.

To learn more about Alfred Sisley visit AlfredSisley.org or WebMuseum.

Sai Hoi Ho Painting Owned by Mary Mimouna, in Marrakesh, Morocco (not for sale)

I purchased the painting above in Stanley Park, in Vancouver, British Colombia, Canada, in the summer of 1980.  The artist was selling some of his oil paintings in the park.  He was probably in his 50’s at that point, and seemed like a nice gentleman.  I think I paid about $50 in the park at that time.

“Mr. Ho was born in Canton, China in 1926. He moved to Hong Kong in 1949. He became interested in painting in his early twenties when a few friends would journey to the countrysides in Hong Kong for painting excursions. He remained a self-taught amateur artist for twenty years while working as an editor for an art magazine. During these years he also travelled to southern Africa, South East Asia, Australia, and the Polynesian Islands.”

“In the late 1960’s, Mr. Ho decided to become a professional artist. He opened his own art gallery in Hong Kong that carried his paintings exclusively. He had also held exhibitions in the United States, Australia, and New Zealand.
In 1974, Mr. Ho immigrated to Canada with his wife and two sons and has lived in Vancouver ever since. He chose to stay in British Columbia because of its natural beauty. He makes frequent trips to various B.C. locations for personal enjoyment as well as to create new works of art.”

“In addition to painting, Mr.Ho is a classical music lover and a devoted tennis player.”

Mr. Ho’s latest known address (also found on the back of Carol’s painting) was:  Sai Hoi Ho, 1564 Coquitlam Ave, Port Coquitlam, B.C. Canada V3B 5N1. However, a friend in Vancouver was unable to locate him for me in the current phone book (2009).  If anyone out there has more current information, please do post it in the comments section below.

The above information about the artist was found by Carol Myers on the back of a painting her sister purchased in Stanley Park, in May of 1999.  Carol (currently in Chicago, Illinois) sent me a photo of the painting (currently in Arkansas):

Sai Hoi Ho Painting Owned by Carol Meyers: cagmyers@ameritech.net

Carol  explains, “My sister bought a Sai Hoi Ho painting of a Lily Pond in Stanley Park, in May of 1999. Since she is recently deceased, there is a very slight possibility the family will sell the painting (currently in Arkansas).  We are attempting to determine what she paid and its value at this time.”  Carol can be contacted at:  cagmyers@ameritech.net.

Mr. John Tymich, of Mission, British Colombia,  also has three paintings of Mr. Ho’s(shown below)  he is thinking of selling.  John can be contacted at:  shotgun.rider@hotmail.com.

Sai Hoi Ho Painting 1 Owned by John Tymich: shotgun.rider@hotmail.com

John says, “I bought these paintings in the early 80’s.  I can’t find any info about this mystery man.  These paintings are amazing.  All I know is that he did some work in the Gastown area of Vancouver, British Colombia, in the late 70’s and early 80’s.  I’d love to find out the value, and where he is on the web.”

Sai Hoi Ho Painting 3 Owned by John Tymich: shotgun.rider@hotmail.com

Sai Hoi Ho Painting 2 Owned by John Tymich: shotgun.rider@hotmail.com

A man named Geordie Gregg is interested in finding out more about the artist, and possibly in purchasing some of his work.

“Hello, years ago my parents purchased a Sai Hoi Ho painting also from Stanley Park, Vancouver, B.C. I’m trying to find out more information about this artist. Do you know if there is a place or website where one can view more of his work?  I look forward to your thoughts. Thank you very much.  Cheers – Geordie Gregg 416-994-3434″

A woman named Marie T. in Québec, Canada is also interested in finding out more about this artist, and possibly in purchasing more of his paintings.  She has linked herself to:  Auberge du Sault-à-la-Puce, 8365 Ave. Royale, Chateau Richer, Qc GOA INO (418) 824-5659 (or toll-free number 1-866-424-5659).  Marie T. can be contacted at:  alapuce@total.net.

“I bought four paintings in Stanley Park probably in 1988.  I would be interested in buying some others.  I would like to see pictures, and your prices. –Marie-T.”

Someone named Sar is interested selling one of Mr. Ho’s paintings, and in purchasing others of his.  Sar can be contacted at: sarosea@gmail.com.

“I have a painting by Sai Hoi Ho. It’s in browns- a sampan on water with a touch of orange/red. It’s beautiful but I would like to sell it if anyone’s interested. it’s beautifully framed. I am having to downsize or I would never let it go. Also bought it in Stanley Park. would like to find a display of more of his paintings.  –Sar.”

A man named John C. is an art dealer with Oregon City Auction, in Oregon City (outside of Portland).  It is located at 1702 Washington Street, Oregon City, OR 97045.  The telephone number is (503) 657-4470.  This email contact is listed on the site:  jcody@oregoncityauction.com.  John says:

“Hello, I was also searching for Sai Ho artwork and it brought me to this site. They are really great pieces of work. I live outside of Portland, Oregon. I am interested in finding out more about his art also. Thank you–John.”

–If anyone else out there cares to send me more photos of Sai Hoi Ho’s paintings, and their contact details, I will be more than happy to add them into this post for others to find.  If anyone has any more current information on the artist, I would appreciate that information to be able to add it in here, as well.  I can be reached at:  wpm1955 at gmail dot com.  –Mary Mimouna

Jean Michel Basquiat

Mona Lisa 1983

Jean-Michel Basquiat (December 22, 1960 – August 12, 1988) was an American artist and the first African-American painter to become an international art star. He gained popularity first as a graffiti artist in New York City, and then as a successful 1980s-era Neo-expressionist artist. Basquiat’s paintings continue to influence modern-day artists and sell for high prices.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Michel_Basquiat

22″ x 22″
Acrylic on 140 lb. Archival Paper
Contact me for availability and price
 
 
This piece is inspired from a picture I took while on vacation in Maine. The scene is of a harbor in Stonington which is located on Deer Isle. If you’ve never been there, I highly recommend it.
 
I’m keeping this post brief. Thanks for stopping by and have a great day.