i am this week the beneficiary of some beautiful art books, passed along to b from a colleague whose mother just passed away. she was an artist and b’s colleague brought in one book first and asked if i might be interested in more. it seems like a strange coincidence that it is a Georgia O’Keeffe book [above]; i am 3/4 thru my second reading of the letters of georgia and anita pollitzer and this gift brings the count to 6 of books about miss O’Keeffe that i own.

mostly, they are biographies, short on images and large on opinion, speculation, and not necessarily fact or truth. when i get interested in a subject, i like to get a lot of different versions.  i’ve read quite a bit on both Amelia Earhart and Johnny Cash in the past couple of years & you certainly get a wider view of the subject from different authors- strangers, wives, children, the subject themselves. the most recent book on O’Keeffe i purchased this summer at the library book fair for a meager dollar or two, i have yet to read. but i am still not sure what has intrigued me about her over the years. i am moderately interested in her art.

this book is special though, because (despite availability of inexpensive full-color books at the forefront tables of large book chains) i only own one other picture book of a singular artist’s work.

the exhibition book, from the National Gallery of Art is from 1988 and contains 120 full color plates- what a gift. i’m holding off on looking at some of the images. i’ve seen an exhibit of many of O’Keeffe’s brighter watercolors, some years ago with my sister, in DC i think. i am drawn to these more vibrant images and their opposites, the charcoal images, particularly the bracelet with the eagle claw… and though the obvious connection, do not want to look at her bones right now.

selected letters at the back add dimension to the myth… one of the last letters thanks again a friend for being there when she had to put her beloved dog to sleep.

“We drove out into the White Hills- dug a hole under a small sized cedar bush and put my beautiful dog into it and covered him with earth and many rocks. I like to think that probably he goes running and leaping through the White Hills alone in the night.”

little dip pen drawings. items i have collected. ideas for paintings.

working in progress.
what do bones mean to you/me?

the new ben folds/nick hornby collaboration brings me down, man. music/lyrics- former/latter. the music is peppy enough (for BF) but the sentiment is a total downer, “Sure we all have soulmates but we walk past them every day.”

incidentally, i just totally got into Thomas Mapfumo last week. i have that sort of “where has he been all my life!?” feeling about TM and his music. the track that stopped me in my tracks is Marudzi Nemarudzi, off his Rise Up album. i mentioned my new “discovery” to a friend, who replied matter-of-factly that TM used to play often when we worked at the old HOB in Cambridge. and it never registered with me. despite the copious ways that i couldn’t have missed it. that i was quite possibly in attendance for a show that went in one ear and never registered.  that also is a total bummer. but what can you do? something right in front of you and you are completely oblivious- only to catch on later.

i know it’s this same concept that ben folds and nick hornby are exploring, except that in their scenario, the characters never catch on. the song concludes that maybe this undefined longing is what brings us music and writing- “Maybe that’s how books get written/Maybe that’s why songs get sung”- that these near misses, the closest sensations grasped, but never fully experienced, generate creativity…

from the utterly gorgeous August arrived the stormy ocean, winding in leaves and branches, blankets, sweaters and tea. so goes the painting, from one moment of clarity to muddy mixtures plagued by cliche. quicky quick on the sea&sky to get the landscape done with– some areas improved via secondary method of loosening up , others certainly suffered for it. in hindsight & in future, it would probably behoove me, once getting stuck and branching out on my own from the actual landscape to return to it.  certainly some of the authenticity was lost for generic inaccuracies.

nonetheless, A.M.= up and at ‘em again. (as pointed out by b) indeed, i had more success with my bones; a reply to my supposition that there is something to be said for working in subject matter that naturally inspires you, that comes naturally to you and that this is what viewers respond to.

reinvigorated, retrieved old bone canvas from basement. unsuccessful parts cliche& generic= stencil-like, bones. (not to mention seeing old bad painting underneath) now! i have bones , why not go in and rework those parts from life?

like absurd weather of March in the 8th month, a struggle to start painting after success of re-stretching entire canvas and removing bubble. drum-tight now!

whistle while we work: Bone Machine- duh. particularly, A Little Rain never hurts & lines from Black Wingsssseem appropriate for this piece, just re-started:

When the moon is a cold chiseled dagger
Sharp enough to draw blood from a stone
He rides through your dreams on a coach
And horses and the fence posts
In the midnight look like bones