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margin: 0 auto; padding-left: 0; padding-right: 0; width: 100% !important; } .encloser td:first-of-type{ padding-left: 0; padding-right: 0; } .encloser td:last-of-type{ padding-left: 0; padding-right: 0; } .contentPageDiv img { max-width:100% !important; height: auto !important; } } </style> <div> <div class="encloser alignLeft" id="encloser"> <!-- Blog Name and subscribe --> <div> <div class="tableCellDisplay"><h1>&quot;Love is short, life is long&quot; blog by Patrick</h1></div> </div> <div id="articles"> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1147" target="_top">The fuel of meaningfulness</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 28, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>Worked on the new paintings yesterday. &nbsp;I had to leave them in a discouraging state. &nbsp;This happens nearly every other night. &nbsp;But that means at the end of today's efforts they will probably be more acceptable. &nbsp;It's a price I'm happy&nbsp;to pay. &nbsp;</p> <p>Painting is endless risk-taking. &nbsp;Something I've never been fond of. &nbsp;What sane person likes risks? &nbsp;I think I've been too sane to be a contemporary painter. &nbsp;Even though&nbsp;people might disagree. &nbsp;</p> <p>But painting is different than rock-climbing,&nbsp;or alligator wrestling. &nbsp;It's not a physical risk. &nbsp;It's not even a spiritual risk. &nbsp;It's a mental risk. &nbsp;You have to be willing to look mentally unstable, even though you're not. &nbsp;</p> <p>"Hey sweetheart."</p> <p>A text message from Gina. &nbsp;She's in LA, but I haven't seen her. &nbsp;I like the uncertainty of our situation. &nbsp;</p> <p>She wrote "sweetheart" because I used that term in my last text to her. &nbsp;Then I explained it on the phone the other day.</p> <p>When she wanted to talk about "aliens" I told her about a man I once knew. &nbsp;He told me all about the "space brothers." &nbsp;Some kind of extra-human beings who he claimed to be in touch with. &nbsp;He said they were "beautiful." &nbsp;They exist a little outside the normal range of human visibility, although they can "incarnate"&nbsp;if they want to, and are given permission.&nbsp;They assist&nbsp;humans in this world. &nbsp;They even cured his wife of a fatal disease, after they responded to his&nbsp;prayer as he was driving across the Mexican desert in search of a doctor. &nbsp;He stopped and turned around and drove home. &nbsp;Three of them showed up at his door. &nbsp;They had a blue glow from their skin. &nbsp;</p> <p>The space brothers are as fascinated by humans as humans are about them. &nbsp;And one of the words they love is "sweetheart." &nbsp;It sounds irresistibly attractive to their ears. &nbsp;</p> <p>I told this to Gina, and I guess it registered. &nbsp;There's more to the story, but that's all I mentioned. &nbsp;</p> <p>I'm pleased that Gina seems to be somewhat attuned to my present style. &nbsp;For example, I prefer about three hour stretches with women these days. &nbsp;Anything longer than that makes me restless. &nbsp;I have other projects that vie for my attention. &nbsp;My time increases in value day by day. &nbsp;</p> <p>I've more or&nbsp;less divided up the 24&nbsp;hours&nbsp;into sections: for online surfing, painting, women, reading, writing, pondering, studying,&nbsp;eating and drinking, sleeping . . .&nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1145" target="_top">A new intersection</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 27, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><figure><img src="/users/PatrickMcCarthy1576/blog/1145/images/hans-scholl" data-image="42732510"></figure> <p>I'm ready to begin a new chapter in my art. &nbsp;Today is like the shoot-around before the game. &nbsp;Just limbering up. &nbsp;Reminding myself of what's important. &nbsp;And what's ignorable. &nbsp;</p> <p>The image&nbsp;is a painting I made about 25 years ago. &nbsp;It's taken from a photo of Hans Scholl, a WW2 German war-resister, one of the leaders of the White Rose movement. &nbsp;A young man who spoke against Hitler and his henchman and paid for it&nbsp;with his life. &nbsp;He was murdered, decapitated. &nbsp;He's&nbsp;one of my heroes. &nbsp;</p> <p>It takes balls to resist tyranny. &nbsp;Big balls. &nbsp;But not everyone can fight oppression in the same way. &nbsp;I make art, and have never been inclined to join in protests, movements, rallies, or anything that involves groups or crowds. &nbsp;I am an individual, above all. &nbsp;And the art I make is designed to exist a little outside of history. &nbsp;It seeks to be timeless. &nbsp;And doesn't let itself be carried along with the flow of today. &nbsp;</p> <p>Here's a way of explaining my vision: the world exists, and some of the world is beautiful. &nbsp;I find that beauty, but realize that it was there before I found it. &nbsp;I didn't create it. &nbsp;God made it. &nbsp;I respond to it, though. &nbsp;And I then try to nourish and sustain that beauty. &nbsp;This is what love means to me. &nbsp;To foster, care for, preserve, and grow the beauty that exists. &nbsp;Art is a way of dedicating oneself to the beautiful, which has its source in God. &nbsp;</p> <p>To love a person is to work at conserving and liberating&nbsp;the beauty that they have, and to find ways of amplifying&nbsp;it. &nbsp;Love is the intensification of another's beauty. &nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1143" target="_top">Always so</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 26, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>I looked at my iPhone when I awoke yesterday. &nbsp;At 2:00 in the morning I apparently had a call from Gina. &nbsp;I must be sleeping harder, or maybe my ringer was turned off. &nbsp;I heard nothing. &nbsp;</p> <p>I'm starting on a new batch of paintings. &nbsp;Already four of them are spread out on the concrete floor, partly done. &nbsp;How far along are they? &nbsp;Impossible to say. &nbsp;If I died right now&nbsp;they'd be finished. &nbsp;But I'm still breathing. &nbsp;Still working.</p> <p>My final commission piece was approved. &nbsp;He loved it. &nbsp;Just two more incidental tweaks. &nbsp;Then....freedom. &nbsp;A degree of freedom, but an important advance&nbsp;for me. &nbsp;Not total freedom, which is impossible as long as you have a physical body. &nbsp;</p> <p>Later in the afternoon I called Gina back.</p> <p>"I went outside&nbsp;and the city looked weirdly empty," she said.&nbsp; "Even the apartment houses seemed deserted. No one was on the street. &nbsp;I was standing there and shouted. &nbsp;Something I never do. &nbsp;Where is everyone? &nbsp;What is happening? &nbsp;Then a man walked up to me and told me it's all going to be okay. &nbsp;I didn't see him approaching. &nbsp;I said I keep sensing the presence of aliens. &nbsp;He smiled and asked me&nbsp;in a calm voice what do I imagine aliens are? &nbsp;They're no different than you and me.&nbsp; Then he walked away. &nbsp;Don't you think that's strange?"</p> <p>"Sure. &nbsp;There are times when everything seems strange. &nbsp;Hyper-strange.&nbsp; During a crisis."&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;Gina was beginning to frighten me a little. &nbsp;But was I frightened on her behalf, or was I thinking of myself? &nbsp;We talked for awhile. &nbsp;She keeps coming back to this business with "aliens." &nbsp;I told her there was a time in my life like hers.&nbsp; Around the same age as she is today, when we talked a lot about such things. &nbsp;I told her about a man I knew&nbsp;who was&nbsp;obsessed with&nbsp;beings&nbsp;he called "the space brothers." &nbsp;</p> <p>"But he wasn't lying," she said emphatically. &nbsp;"He experienced them. &nbsp;They're real."</p> <p>"No, he wasn't lying. &nbsp;I was completely convinced of his experience. &nbsp;Even though no one has ever walked up to me and introduced himself as a space brother."</p> <p>"How do you know that? &nbsp;They may have different ways of introducing themselves."&nbsp;</p> <p>"Where are you right now?"</p> <p>"I'm in Burbank."</p> <p>"Burbank? &nbsp;You're back in&nbsp;LA?"</p> <p>"Yes."</p> <p>"Well . . . come on by. &nbsp;Is the wolf with you?"</p> <p>"Of course." &nbsp;</p> <p>She said she'd drive to the studio. &nbsp;I hustled around and tidied up. &nbsp;Then waited. &nbsp;And finally went to sleep around midnight. &nbsp;It's morning. &nbsp;She still hasn't arrived. &nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1140" target="_top">Plodding forward</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 25, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><figure><img src="/users/PatrickMcCarthy1576/blog/1140/images/final commission piece.jpg" data-image="2112694"></figure> <p>A few days ago I announced my irreversible decision to only paint what I judge to be worth painting. &nbsp;That is, only what comes directly from my own consciousness, or, to give it a more religious tone, only what comes from my own evolving soul. &nbsp;</p> <p>Period. &nbsp;</p> <p>So, I'll be taking no more requests. &nbsp;No more dog portraits. &nbsp;No more copies of my earlier, surpassed work. &nbsp;No more paintings to match someone's new curtains, sofa, or dishtowel. &nbsp;No more painting to fit into special spots on blank walls. &nbsp;Etc. &nbsp;Enough! &nbsp;</p> <p>What a coward&nbsp;I've been. &nbsp;I should have had more faith in my own vision. &nbsp;What a trembling&nbsp;dweeb&nbsp;I've been. &nbsp;No longer. &nbsp;</p> <p>Listen....I know what I must do. &nbsp;Step aside. &nbsp;I'm cutting myself&nbsp;loose. &nbsp;</p> <p>Well, before I made this decision I had one more piece to finish for a guy. &nbsp;We made an agreement a month ago and I'm nearly done with his. &nbsp;It's pictured here in my studio. &nbsp;An abstract piece, based on an earlier one of mine, somewhat minimalist, in black, white, and blue-gray,&nbsp;but "without stencils or text." &nbsp;I would prefer screens and writing, but he doesn't . &nbsp;Okay, so about to hit the finish line. &nbsp;</p> <p>I've done my best to accommodate his taste. &nbsp;</p> <p>I really have only myself to blame for this thorny&nbsp;path I've chosen up until now. &nbsp;I feared going permanently&nbsp;broke, homeless, shattered. &nbsp;Forced to spend my last nickel on a piece of rope which, before being evicted,&nbsp;I'd tie to my rafters and hang myself. &nbsp;</p> <p>It was an unfounded fear, like nearly all fears. &nbsp;My vision is strong, able, effective. &nbsp;I work for that vision. &nbsp;And the vision never lets me&nbsp;down. &nbsp;I've delivered myself over to the vision, hook, line, and sinker. &nbsp;Finally.</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1139" target="_top">escaping out of or into oneself</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 24, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>Drugs. &nbsp;Just a fact of contemporary life. &nbsp;Or what? &nbsp;</p> <p>"Man, is everyone on drugs except us?" I said to my daughter yesterday.</p> <p>"It seems like it."</p> <p>"Or is it&nbsp;just our friends? &nbsp;Are we drawn to druggies? &nbsp;Or are they drawn to us? &nbsp;I used to have a neutral attitude towards drugs, but lately I'm am becoming more negative toward them."</p> <p>"Oh. &nbsp;By the way, here are your blood pressure drugs," she said, handing me a sack from CVS pharmacy in the Fairfax area. &nbsp;She picks up my monthly prescription for me, since it's close to her apartment. &nbsp;</p> <p>"Well, it's obviously a complex issue. &nbsp;But I once believed that drugs were going to save the world. &nbsp;I can't say I feel that way today. &nbsp;For every Steve Jobs or John Lennon who&nbsp;dropped acid there must be a hundred&nbsp;thousand nameless&nbsp;junkies who&nbsp;died with a needle in their arm."</p> <p>"No news from Gina? &nbsp;Speaking of drugs."</p> <p>"Actually she called last night. &nbsp;I could feel it building. &nbsp;She sounded good. &nbsp;Alert.&nbsp;&nbsp;Clear. &nbsp;And in love with her new wolf&nbsp;puppy."</p> <p>Gina told me that the occasional street drug seems better for her than the legal ones. &nbsp;I once believed the same. &nbsp;But only briefly. &nbsp;Two or three years at the most. &nbsp;But Gina's been on a daily diet of dope since she was twelve. &nbsp;</p> <p>I wonder what it'll be like 200 years from now. &nbsp;Maybe you'll take one drug on the day you're born and it'll last a lifetime. &nbsp;</p> <p>Maybe this is what we're actually experiencing today on earth. &nbsp;The result of a drug given to the original humans, to Adam and Eve, a million years ago and still in everyone's system. &nbsp;A drug so unbelievably&nbsp;powerful that it's modified the&nbsp;genetic structure of the entire human race forever. &nbsp;</p> <p>Questions leading to more questions leading to more questions. &nbsp;Still no answer. &nbsp;Just hazy speculations. &nbsp;Like fireflies on a summer night.</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1133" target="_top">we only seem different</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 23, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><figure><img src="/users/PatrickMcCarthy1576/blog/1133/images/%22we only seem different%22.jpg" data-image="23830092"></figure><p><br></p><p>I posted this work on IG and FB yesterday. &nbsp;I took the photo with my iPhone in the direct morning light outside the studio. &nbsp;You can see nearly every gesture. &nbsp;</p><p>I thought of a few names for this style: industrial abstraction. &nbsp;Sounds about right. &nbsp;Or industrial expressionism. &nbsp;Maybe better. &nbsp;</p><p>The name of the style is unimportant. &nbsp;Even for the style to have a name could be&nbsp;a way of further&nbsp;obscuring the meaning. &nbsp; </p><p>A hundred years ago Picasso and Braque invented what was soon&nbsp;called cubism. &nbsp;They didn't think of it like that. &nbsp;An art critic of the&nbsp;time said the two artists&nbsp;were making paintings of "little cubes" and the term stuck. &nbsp;</p><p>So what were Picasso and Braque doing, in their own minds? &nbsp;That's not so easy to say. &nbsp;If you could really, fully, and lucidly say it, then it, the canvases made up of little cubes,&nbsp;would never have been painted. &nbsp;</p><p>That is, painting is a way of expressing something that can't exist otherwise. &nbsp;In any another form.</p><p>Painting is subjectivity made objective. &nbsp;Or, more accurately, it's outwardness&nbsp;absorbed inwardly&nbsp;and reassembled again externally. &nbsp;After always undergoing necessary changes.</p><p>Or as it has been suggested, the world seen through a temperament. &nbsp;</p><p>Painting is the combination of my existence and the world's existence. &nbsp;Each has its irreplaceable value. &nbsp;Each will contribute something to the overall new reality called art. &nbsp;</p><p>It's me and not-me embracing. &nbsp;Or wrestling. &nbsp;</p><p><br></p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1132" target="_top">Sharing</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 22, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>Social media has become an important development in my life. &nbsp;I've taken to it naturally. &nbsp;It's part of my daily routine.</p> <p>But other people I know don't feel the same. &nbsp;They have little or no interest in online activities. &nbsp;You couldn't have predicted&nbsp;who likes it, and who ignores&nbsp;it. &nbsp;What determines this predilection, or its lack?</p> <p>Hard to say. &nbsp;But in my case I have an urge to share myself. &nbsp;Sharing who and what I am, always hoping&nbsp;to entertain, and above all, not to bore. &nbsp;</p> <p>Nearly impossible. &nbsp;What one person likes, another finds dull. &nbsp;But this fact&nbsp;doesn't stop me from expressing myself. &nbsp;</p> <p>Once at the gallery a girl came in and said she liked to read my blog. &nbsp;I had never met her, and wasn't aware of her existence. &nbsp;She even enjoyed my descriptions of the weather. &nbsp;I was flattered, but puzzled. &nbsp;</p> <p>When I write about the weather I'm merely copying what great writers have done. &nbsp;They reveal&nbsp;an atmosphere. &nbsp;I think I understand how the best ones pull it off. &nbsp;They simply use their senses and report what they literally see, hear, and smell. &nbsp;You'd think this&nbsp;style&nbsp;would be easy to adopt, but it's harder than it looks. &nbsp;</p> <p>For example: outside my open&nbsp;back door I see the&nbsp;green leaves of&nbsp;bushes and a corner of a white, crumbling stuccoed wall. &nbsp;</p> <p>It sounds acceptable&nbsp;because it's real and accurate and&nbsp;shouldn't&nbsp;rub anyone the wrong way. &nbsp;I'm not trying to pass it off as either beautiful or ugly. &nbsp;It's simply what it is.&nbsp;</p> <p>If I wrote every sentence&nbsp;objectively and clearly I'd probably please a sufficient number of readers. &nbsp;It'd mean I wasn't showing off or attempting to sell&nbsp;them something. &nbsp;I was only&nbsp;transmitting my actual&nbsp;perceptions, and&nbsp;presenting myself as neither enviable nor pitiful. &nbsp;</p> <p>Anyway. &nbsp;I painted yesterday and will finish a new one in a few hours. &nbsp;So far, so good. &nbsp;It points to an&nbsp;area that demands&nbsp;improvement. &nbsp;I can't take my eyes off&nbsp;it:&nbsp;"fix me!"</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1126" target="_top">To paint or not</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 21, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>Lately I went through a day where I thought it was a different day, such as Wednesday which really was Tuesday. &nbsp;It was caused by&nbsp;having the freedom of no commitments. &nbsp;Combined with my age, where things become a little foggier. &nbsp;</p> <p>But I always&nbsp;realize that Sunday is Sunday.&nbsp; The rhythm of the seven day week cuts deep. &nbsp;When the French revolutionaries tried to establish a ten day week they failed. &nbsp;No surprise there.</p> <p>Sunday puts me in a somber, meditative mood. &nbsp;</p> <p>For example, I had this idea: either stop painting, or stop everything else. &nbsp;</p> <p>Don't paint, or only paint. &nbsp;</p> <p>Painting is such a difficult thing&nbsp;that it requires every drop of your being. &nbsp;If you aren't prepared to grant it every waking minute, then do something else. &nbsp;Leave painting alone. &nbsp;Everything will go better if you realize this. &nbsp;</p> <p>I'm prepared to paint, and only paint.&nbsp;</p> <p>I understand the contradiction of writing as well as painting, but I could easily stop scribbling and concentrate exclusively on painting. &nbsp;No problem. &nbsp;</p> <p>Women. &nbsp;They've been the subject of my&nbsp;painting,&nbsp;as the other half of my fixations. &nbsp;Painting and women. &nbsp;This has been the story of my life. &nbsp;Up till now. &nbsp;Of the two which would be the most practical to renounce? &nbsp;The answer is obvious. &nbsp;</p> <p>I have this dream. &nbsp;I will live until 100. &nbsp;That means 25 years to go. &nbsp; I'm three quarters of the way there. &nbsp;How will I spend this final quarter? &nbsp;Simple: I will paint. &nbsp;</p> <p>Reaching 100 is an&nbsp;uncertain goal. &nbsp;The odds are against it. &nbsp;But I've lived against the odds. &nbsp;I've always been a long shot. &nbsp;How so?</p> <p>First of all, at 27,&nbsp;I chose to&nbsp;never again&nbsp;take a job. &nbsp;To refuse to be employed. &nbsp;Secondly, at 41,&nbsp;I chose to never put my art&nbsp;on consignment. &nbsp;Either buy, or good-bye. &nbsp;And, most recently, I now&nbsp;refuse to&nbsp;paint anything except what I desire to paint: no commission work. &nbsp;This final decision is leading to my most original, personal painting. &nbsp;</p> <p>Life, for me, has been a series of a few tough, irreversible, forward-looking&nbsp;choices. &nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1125" target="_top">Ingathering </a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 20, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>I opened&nbsp;an email last night:</p> <p>&nbsp; "I'm going to be traveling for the next two or three weeks to Japan. &nbsp;Could you hold off delivery of the paintings until I return? &nbsp;I hope you'll have received the check sometime next week. &nbsp;Let me know when you get&nbsp;it."</p> <p>It was from the man who recently bought 21 of my most up-to-date paintings. &nbsp;They still hang in my studio, and when they're gone they'll leave a big hole in the room. &nbsp;Especially the large ones. &nbsp;</p> <p>I might have to hang them at the new location, a business in El Segundo. &nbsp;Dante has already visited the site and&nbsp;says they have two new office buildings with very high -- 30 foot or more -- ceilings.&nbsp;&nbsp;It'll take three of us to install them properly. &nbsp;Jackie, Dante, and myself. &nbsp;</p> <p>So much of life is concerned with the perimeter of reality. &nbsp;I love painting, but as for selling, shipping, negotiating, installing......not so much. &nbsp;</p> <p>The same is true of, say, sex. &nbsp;The act is always fun, but not all the incidental stuff that envelops and nearly crushes the life out of the orgasmic nucleus. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</p> <p>Everything connected with the&nbsp;goodness of beauty&nbsp;needs to be robust enough to distribute this flavor throughout the situation. &nbsp;</p> <p>The meaning of the event will&nbsp;send its enthralling sweetness as far as it can into the less significant&nbsp;portions. &nbsp;The is the importance of rituals, which delay, but&nbsp;ultimately enhance,&nbsp;gratification. &nbsp;</p> <p>Step-by-step procedures&nbsp;exist for a reason. &nbsp;The little things that appear at a distance mean a lot. &nbsp;Their overriding purpose: to make everything become everything. &nbsp;To see that all is all. &nbsp;So that nothingness is denied&nbsp;a foothold. &nbsp;</p> <p>Still reflecting on Gina's visit. &nbsp;We're not on the same page. &nbsp;This is clear. &nbsp;But must a man and a woman always be on the same page? &nbsp;Isn't it enough to be in the same book? &nbsp;</p> <p>If nothing else, we're in the same library. &nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1123" target="_top">Freedom and Love</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 19, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>When I wake up in the morning and feel refreshed, unhurried, and glad to be alive, I realize that it's due to&nbsp;my freedom. &nbsp;Nothing disturbs me. &nbsp;I can lay there until nightfall if I want to.</p> <p>Freedom rises&nbsp;in value whenever it's threatened or, worse, wrenched away. &nbsp;Freedom, like health, is more or less an unconscious state. &nbsp;Something taken for granted, a given. &nbsp;Like breathing. &nbsp;</p> <p>When another person is in the room as&nbsp;I awake, I immediately feel less free. &nbsp;This is especially true when I'm used to waking up alone. &nbsp;</p> <p>When Gina was here, along&nbsp;with&nbsp;her wolf-dog, I observed freedom draining&nbsp;out of my world. &nbsp;</p> <p>But a woman in my room, even&nbsp;in my bed, means companionship, desire, and even love. &nbsp;</p> <p>So there are two great&nbsp;values in my life: freedom and love. &nbsp;But they have trouble harmonizing.</p> <p>"That's a difficult one,"&nbsp;Dante said. &nbsp;"Love can mean&nbsp;entanglement, and entanglement works against freedom."</p> <p>"But is love necessarily entanglement? &nbsp;I see love as an interweaving, a coming together with orderly threads of trust&nbsp;being placed beautifully around each other. &nbsp;Not a mad snarl."</p> <p>Gina and I were talking, and she described how she feels since her last boyfriend died. &nbsp;"I'll always be alone." &nbsp;She held back her tears.</p> <p>"I've never felt that way," I replied, quietly, trying to be as understanding and helpful as possible. &nbsp;</p> <p>It's true that I've never considered aloneness as a deprivation. &nbsp;I've never feared it in the slightest. &nbsp;If anything, I'm&nbsp;uneasy with the idea of being&nbsp;imposed upon by&nbsp;other humans. &nbsp;That has often&nbsp;caused me distress. &nbsp;But as for solitude? &nbsp;I cherish it. &nbsp;It's the condition, the necessary ground, where artistic&nbsp;creation flourishes. &nbsp;</p> <p>I didn't&nbsp;bother telling Gina that nothing is more comforting and joyful than being alone with God. &nbsp;It sounds too religious. &nbsp;Too spiritual, and can be&nbsp;exasperating to a person devoid of certain epiphanies.</p> <p>But neither did I mouth a tiresome cliche such as "I'll always be with you." &nbsp;I'm no liar. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1122" target="_top">Another goodbye</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 18, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>I took a pic of Gina's wolf-dog and sent it to my friend who owns a very similar breed. &nbsp;He wrote back: "It's hard to tell without a close examination, both physical and behavioral. &nbsp;It does look like my Wolfie looked as a puppy, except for the ears. &nbsp;Do I hear you crying Wolf?"</p> <p>Aside from the failed attempt at humor the reply was interesting. &nbsp;Gina then asked if she could give her creature a bath. &nbsp;I agreed, and the two of them hopped in my tub, splashing and enjoying themselves.</p> <p>"I'm thinking of naming him Jack," she said.</p> <p>"Well, a little common. &nbsp;I don't like human first names for animals. &nbsp;Not original enough. &nbsp;Plus he looks so aristocratic."</p> <p>"Yes, he does. &nbsp;What about Royal?"</p> <p>"Royal. &nbsp;I like it."</p> <p>I then went online and read about the laws regarding ownership of wolves. &nbsp;It was disturbing. &nbsp;The USA regards them as a dangerous menace. &nbsp;The laws vary from state to state, even if the wolf is a hybrid. &nbsp;I read paragraphs where the police have a right to seize any wolf-like animal off the street, take it for a blood-test, and if it turns out to be a wolf, immediately euthanize it, and possibly lay a heavy fine,&nbsp;even imprisonment on the owner!</p> <p>What!&nbsp;&nbsp;Really?&nbsp; I actually felt I was&nbsp;reading one of my Holocaust testimonies. &nbsp;The Gestapo hunting down, locating,&nbsp;and murdering&nbsp;Jewish children. &nbsp;But this time it was wolves. &nbsp;Strange. &nbsp;(Although the comparison is absurd, between children and wolves. &nbsp;Still it crossed my mind. &nbsp;It points to another&nbsp;irrational, power-based,&nbsp;hierarchical system&nbsp;that decides who gets to live, and who is slaughtered.)&nbsp;&nbsp;</p> <p>What about&nbsp;rights?</p> <p>Gina was already preparing to put up a battle against anyone who might try to lay a finger on Royal. &nbsp;She'd move to another country. &nbsp;But where, and how?</p> <p>We said goodbye, once again. &nbsp;But this time it&nbsp;was lingering, sweeter, more emotional. &nbsp;With none&nbsp;of my&nbsp;inappropriate smiles. &nbsp;I'm not the Dalai Lama. &nbsp;It's more acceptable&nbsp;to feel a little unhappy when parting, and to&nbsp;show it.</p> <p>A better goodbye.</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1121" target="_top">Sticking around</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 17, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>"Are you sure you would't mind?"</p> <p>"I'd love to see you. &nbsp;You're an exciting woman."</p> <p>It was Gina on the phone. &nbsp;She hadn't left LA yet. &nbsp;And was in town&nbsp;for another night. &nbsp;Would it be possible to stay at the studio? &nbsp;She could always drive to&nbsp;her aunt's house down in Orange County.&nbsp; I wasn't doing anything except laying in bed with a book. &nbsp;So, come on by.</p> <p>She said she was in Pacific Palisades, and traffic to the east part of town was still&nbsp;heavy. &nbsp;She'd leave around 8:30.</p> <p>Each time I see her I assume&nbsp;it'd be the last. &nbsp;I hadn't expected to hear from her for a month. &nbsp;Maybe two. &nbsp;So it&nbsp;was unusual. &nbsp;</p> <p>This particular woman is&nbsp;overturning&nbsp;my preconceptions about women. &nbsp;Ideas that were the fruit of long experience and deep concentration. &nbsp;She made the foundations of my world tremble . . . for a few moments. &nbsp;Like one of those LA earthquakes that always throw us.</p> <p>But earthquakes end and everything soon returns to normal and is forgotten. &nbsp;</p> <p>I set my book aside. &nbsp;"The Gift of Death" by Jacques Derrida. &nbsp;A difficult philosopher, but with something important to say. &nbsp;What did the French thinker's theories have to do with a woman driving back to my studio for the night? &nbsp;More than a little. &nbsp;He was writing a long section on a new kind of&nbsp;responsibility, and how modern civilization has been&nbsp;losing its grip on this essential form of behavior. &nbsp;</p> <p>I decided to intensify my responsibility toward Gina when she arrived. &nbsp;I wasn't going to give way to&nbsp;the slightest&nbsp;irresponsible action.&nbsp;</p> <p>An hour later I saw her standing in my&nbsp;darkened doorway. &nbsp;She was holding something large silhouetted&nbsp;in her arms. &nbsp;I walked nearer to the iron gate. &nbsp;It was a&nbsp;dog. &nbsp;A white, handsome puppy that looked exactly like a wolf.</p> <p>"Isn't he incredible?&nbsp;&nbsp;He&nbsp;was given to me."</p> <p>The shy, silent&nbsp;wolf-dog made it easier to act responsibly.</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1120" target="_top">Post-mortem</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 16, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><figure><img src="/users/PatrickMcCarthy1576/blog/1120/images/MM with dots.JPG" data-image="11691103"></figure> <p><br></p> <p>I made this Marilyn painting a few weeks ago. &nbsp;I've posted&nbsp;another version online a while back. &nbsp;She's a little over-exposed, but still symbolizes the perfect woman, at this stage of historical&nbsp;evolution. &nbsp;A kind of Eve figure. &nbsp;A mother-goddess lover. &nbsp;</p> <p>Anyway. &nbsp;I was discussing with Dante my&nbsp;interpretations of&nbsp;last week, where I entertained a guest.</p> <p>"Gina is somewhat indifferent to physical beauty, at least when she's living outside of LA. &nbsp;But then yesterday&nbsp;she drove to a beauty supply store in the Valley to buy some hair dye."</p> <p>"This is what happens when you go to Malibu and look around. &nbsp;You realize how many good-looking people there are."</p> <p>"It's hard to feel secure in your own skin at that point."</p> <p>"I felt that when we left New York. &nbsp;We lived there for a few years and then came back to LA and were&nbsp;shocked. &nbsp;You forget what LA means when you leave it, but you can't return without feeling it. &nbsp;Even Stephanie, after living in Orange County for a few months, is surprised. &nbsp;She said she hadn't realized how people look much better here."</p> <p>That sensation of being&nbsp;a famished&nbsp;outsider pressing your&nbsp;nose against a candy store window is a little distressing. &nbsp;No one likes to feel excluded from a very appetizing&nbsp;world.&nbsp;</p><p>&nbsp;If you don't let yourself be tempted it's one thing. &nbsp;If you look straight ahead and refuse to stop at the window. &nbsp;But you can't always do that.</p> <p>No one is beyond temptation. &nbsp;(Oscar Wilde said he could resist anything except temptation.)</p> <p>No one is proof against absolute beauty. &nbsp;It will always knock you back a few steps. &nbsp;</p> <p>If it didn't floor you it wouldn't be absolute beauty. &nbsp;</p> <p><br></p> <p><br></p> <p><br></p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1118" target="_top">the benefits of opposition</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 15, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>My&nbsp;guest left this morning. &nbsp;It was an eventful stay.&nbsp;</p> <p>It impelled me to consider&nbsp;another person, a woman, someone basically very different, coming&nbsp;from a different generation. &nbsp;</p> <p>Gina&nbsp;challenged&nbsp;me on issues and I expressed&nbsp;opinions that I usually keep to myself.</p> <p>The truth&nbsp;often&nbsp;emerges from frank discourse. &nbsp;It's what's left standing, after other views are battered down in argumentation. &nbsp;</p> <p>My&nbsp;private conclusions are put to the test and invariably modified in the heat of verbal battle. &nbsp;But they can remain upright and enduring, though changed. &nbsp;Bloodied and&nbsp;scarred nearly&nbsp;beyond recognition.</p> <p>Looking over my library, which Gina asked me about, I said, as she was packing up to leave:</p> <p>&nbsp; "You can't become wise by being a bookworm.&nbsp; Books are full of intelligent observations. &nbsp;The best ones. &nbsp;But the intelligence found in books is not your own intelligence. &nbsp;It's the intelligence of others. &nbsp;It's their wisdom. &nbsp;Not yours. &nbsp;You can gain facts and&nbsp;knowledge from books. &nbsp;But that isn't wisdom . . ."</p> <p>&nbsp;"Because wisdom comes from experience," she said, pausing.</p> <p>"This is true. &nbsp;Experience plus genuine knowledge can lead eventually to wisdom. &nbsp;The only wisdom in a book, in any book, no matter how important it is, would be in a book you personally write. &nbsp;If you haven't written that book don't expect it to make you wise. &nbsp;It can make you somewhat&nbsp;knowledgeable, but never wise. &nbsp;For that to happen you need to form your own insights."</p> <p>I was relieved to give Gina a hug and say goodbye. &nbsp;My goodbyes are never sad.&nbsp; No matter what the occasion, or who I was with. &nbsp;</p> <p>The time together was good, but times apart are just as good. &nbsp;Or better.</p> <p>I compared my mood yesterday when she was here to my mood today when she left. &nbsp;I detected a slight, but unmistakable, feeling of being happier today. &nbsp;This shadow&nbsp;of difference isn't something to crow about.&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;I would prefer to be evenly happy on both days. &nbsp;It's something I strive for, although I can't claim&nbsp;that it's a realistic&nbsp;idea. &nbsp;Or an attainable one. &nbsp;Maybe&nbsp;one more illusion. &nbsp;Another imperfect attempt at living the best life.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1117" target="_top">Waiting for what?</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 14, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>"I had an odd discussion with Gina last night. &nbsp;It was about romantic love."</p> <p>"You must have enjoyed that," Dante said. &nbsp;We were sitting at the studio. &nbsp;My guest had left for the day. &nbsp;She went to Malibu to meet some friends. &nbsp;Gina used to live in LA.</p> <p>"She doesn't quite understand my view of romantic love. &nbsp;She said it's bullshit."</p> <p>"Romantic love is not knowing if you're loved."</p> <p>"That's an interesting definition. &nbsp;I said it was <em>impeded</em> love. &nbsp;Love that's checked by obstacles. &nbsp;Not knowing if the beloved actually loves you would certainly be an obstacle. &nbsp;Married love, for instance, doesn't suffer in this way."</p> <p>"It can suffer, though. &nbsp;Romantic love is invalidated love."</p> <p>"I like that. &nbsp;Gina thinks my version of romantic love is just promiscuity, or mere philandering. &nbsp;I can tell that she doesn't get&nbsp;it. &nbsp;She says I claim to become bored after seven years and move on to a new woman. &nbsp;But that has nothing to do with the philosophical concept of romantic love. &nbsp;I was only describing the events in my own life. &nbsp;Rather than&nbsp;some ideal kind of love."</p> <p>"People don't like our ideas. &nbsp;But&nbsp;Proust would&nbsp;have liked them. &nbsp;I finally finished the last book."</p> <p>"A long read but worth it, right?"</p> <p>"Absolutely."</p> <p>I had a peculiar&nbsp;sensation yesterday. &nbsp;Gina was in Malibu, but was coming back to the studio. &nbsp;</p> <p>I sensed that I was waiting for her. &nbsp;</p> <p>Previously I've always believed that waiting was an annoying, occasionally painful&nbsp;state. &nbsp;But I actually found ways of enjoying my waiting for Gina. &nbsp;</p> <p>This was new to me. &nbsp;I've become much more patient, and circumspect. &nbsp;I can see how waiting can be a source of pleasure. &nbsp;I felt a special kind of tingling as I waited. &nbsp;My feelings changed from wanting someone to leave,&nbsp;to wanting them to return. &nbsp;I observed this fluid activity in my blood, how it shifted from one pole to another. &nbsp;Curious.</p><p>Waiting must be conditioned by whatever it's waiting for. &nbsp;Waiting for Godot, waiting for the check in the mail, waiting in line at an overpriced, crowded restaurant, waiting for a plane to take off, waiting for the game to start,&nbsp;waiting for summer.....all less than delightful forms of waiting.</p><p>Waiting for someone intriguing, someone who's on their way, who&nbsp;fills you with complicated enigmatic feelings.....this type of waiting can be subtly entertaining. &nbsp;</p> <p><br></p> <p><br></p> <p><br></p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1116" target="_top">The deepening groove</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 13, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>&nbsp;Many of today's&nbsp;roads, even super-highways, were once narrow dirt trails. &nbsp;They were paths for&nbsp;years, maybe thousands of years. &nbsp;</p> <p>And they will be paths for just as long, if not longer. &nbsp;</p> <p>But someone had to start the path. &nbsp;Lost in the increasingly dim fog of time was an original&nbsp;footprint. &nbsp;A person, or maybe animal, chose that way. &nbsp;And made it easier next time, for whoever followed.&nbsp;&nbsp;</p> <p>Probably originally&nbsp;a creature, who was then tracked by a human, in search of food. &nbsp;</p> <p>I realize that I've carved out grooves in my nature, in my brain, and they've established a pattern. &nbsp;Patrick's manner, his style,&nbsp;inner landscape, his way.&nbsp; And it becomes harder to stray from this groove. &nbsp;It's now&nbsp;second-nature to find myself trudging along in the same well-worn, smoothed down, life-path.</p> <p>This is why any change, however small, is a big change. &nbsp;To wander, or be called&nbsp;from my familiar pattern is eye-opening. &nbsp;It can't be otherwise.</p> <p>The last few days with a woman living at the studio is one of those periodic eruptions. Those bumpy detours.</p> <p>Like when the Good Samaritan hears a cry for help and he leaves his journey&nbsp;and walks over to the side of the road and offers assistance. &nbsp;</p> <p>But all this is done on a more invisible, half-conscious level today. &nbsp;Plus, who is the helper and who the helped? &nbsp;</p> <p>A woman can correct some of my accumulating errors. &nbsp;The foibles, and&nbsp;eccentricities, of a loner&nbsp;as he goes about his quiet business. &nbsp;</p><p>The gaze of a new woman reveals&nbsp;how different I've become. &nbsp;How I've managed to neglect certain parts of myself. &nbsp;Not essential parts, but perhaps&nbsp;socially appropriate parts. &nbsp;</p> <p>Gina calls my world my&nbsp;"freedom cell." &nbsp;It's not quite solitary confinement, but rather "solitary refinement." &nbsp;She's clever.&nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1114" target="_top">Pas de deux</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 12, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>It's like two irregular stones rubbing against each other, knocking off the edges, the misshapen lumps, and heading towards a similar roundness. &nbsp;That is, the ongoing visit by a woman. &nbsp;</p><p>So unused to company. &nbsp;Struggling to stop myself from making a list of petty grievances. &nbsp;"Why doesn't she pick up after herself?"</p><p>But everything else turning out well. &nbsp;This must figure into the overall situation. &nbsp;How to judge the success of two people getting to know each other. &nbsp;</p><p>Had a ferocious disagreement over politics. &nbsp;I couldn't be further to the left. &nbsp;</p><p>Also an equally intense argument about the stunning magnitude of misinformation found online. &nbsp;I am not a fan of conspiracy theories. &nbsp;Appalling.</p><p>"There is such a thing as objective truth," I said evenly.</p><p>"Objective truth? &nbsp;What's that?" &nbsp;She wasn't joking. &nbsp;Then she looked it up on the web. &nbsp;"Oh, here it is. &nbsp;You were right!" She read it over, amazed. &nbsp;</p><p>Anyway, I sold pieces. &nbsp;A lot of them.</p><p>We're going out to celebrate. &nbsp;A Vietnamese restaurant.</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1113" target="_top">Interpretations galore</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 11, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>I'm on an unusual break from painting. &nbsp;It won't last long.&nbsp;</p> <p>I might gather up a few pieces&nbsp;that I have sitting around the studio and drop them off at my friend's store in Beverly Hills. &nbsp;She wanted some replacements for the ones she's already sold. &nbsp;I finished them but will have to inform&nbsp;her that this is&nbsp;the end of a phase. &nbsp;</p> <p>No more commissioned paintings. &nbsp;</p> <p>I recall a story where a group of wealthy&nbsp;businessmen wanted a painting made for a building project and asked Picasso to submit a sketch. &nbsp;They never heard back from him. &nbsp;Imagine asking Picasso to enter into a competition. &nbsp;They were even offering an insulting price if he won. &nbsp;What idiots. &nbsp;I like to imagine the great painter's thoughts about this naive crew with its infantile plans.</p> <p>All of these practices work against real creativity. &nbsp;Even if a&nbsp;third party&nbsp;wants me to use a certain predominant color it gets in the way of the act of creation. &nbsp;I could go further:&nbsp;if the collector wants a special size, that, too, can harm the process. &nbsp;</p> <p>Everything external to the creative action between the painter and the painting will mean an intrusion that will&nbsp;be&nbsp;necessarily weakening and corrupting.&nbsp;</p> <p>All of this understanding has come over time, and a result of firsthand&nbsp;experience. &nbsp;I've put everything to the test and now I'm as&nbsp;sure as I can be&nbsp;of the findings. &nbsp;It's one thing to accept something&nbsp;as an article of faith, but another when it's based on living activity in the sensible world. &nbsp;&nbsp;</p> <p>The essence of creativity is the transmission of energy between the eternal and the temporal, between spirit and mind. &nbsp;This is an exclusively personal communion. &nbsp;The second part of this elevated communion is the interaction between inspired&nbsp;mind and brute&nbsp;matter.</p> <p>The fewer things that enter this unfolding&nbsp;drama the better. &nbsp;It only has a small number of&nbsp;parts. &nbsp;It calls for privacy. &nbsp;A successful creative process&nbsp;needs to be religiously observed from start to finish. &nbsp;The sacred element in art must be obeyed.&nbsp;&nbsp;</p> <p>All masterpieces follow this pattern. &nbsp;</p> <p>All kitsch ignores this pattern. &nbsp;</p> <p>To even grasp what I'm saying requires some hard-won, lengthy,&nbsp;intelligent application.&nbsp;</p> <p><br></p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1112" target="_top">Dialogic understanding</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 10, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><figure class="text-center"><img src="/users/PatrickMcCarthy1576/blog/1112/images/shaped painting black and white.jpg" data-image="17671055"></figure> <p>Yesterday was &nbsp;thickly filled with incidents. &nbsp;More like previous times in my life. &nbsp;</p> <p>First of all someone came by early and bought three paintings. &nbsp;If anything is on my agenda early it means I wake up two or three hours before my usual time. &nbsp;Just as an unconscious precaution. &nbsp;I can never sleep soundly before, say, a plane flight. &nbsp;Or someone showing up at the studio before eleven. &nbsp;</p> <p>It makes for a long day. &nbsp;I sold the paintings to a man who now owns a collection of mine. &nbsp;"I think you're very talented, and your paintings are going to be very valuable some day," he said. &nbsp;It's always nice to hear something good that could come to pass. But this points to a distant future. &nbsp;</p> <p>For the whole day Gina was on my mind. &nbsp;I hadn't heard from her since the last phone call as she was on the road. &nbsp;But I saw that she posted a video on IG: a car driving down a two lane highway in California. &nbsp;It was speeded up. &nbsp;Taken from the dashboard. &nbsp;I watched it several times and it soothed me. &nbsp;My fears were unjustified. &nbsp;But the swiftness of the images rounding the curves&nbsp;still made me a little concerned.</p> <p>She finally arrived. &nbsp;</p> <p>Naturally I was stuck by her new haircut. &nbsp;The sides of her head were shaved, leaving a&nbsp;hunk of falling locks on top. &nbsp;Fashionable, in a way. &nbsp;It's the second twenty something&nbsp;I've known who've&nbsp;adopted this look. &nbsp;Both have been going through some disturbing shit. &nbsp;</p> <p>"You probably don't like it," she said smiling. &nbsp;</p> <p>"It's still you and you look great."</p> <p>We talked late into the night. &nbsp;I experienced intermittent rushes of new understanding over the next few hours.</p> <p>"Something's been happening to me, and I want to know exactly what it is. &nbsp;So I've gone off all my medication. &nbsp;No street drugs, no drinking. &nbsp;I want to get this thing rationally, logically, solved."</p> <p>"If that's your intention, you're bound to&nbsp;clear up the mystery. &nbsp;It's your own mystery. &nbsp;It has nothing to do with the mysteries&nbsp;of others. &nbsp;I see myself drawn into your mystery, but only as a vaguely external&nbsp;figure. &nbsp;After all, I have my own mystery, too."</p> <p>Gina was pretty much accepting of this remark. &nbsp;I wasn't trying to talk her out of her overwhelming, obsessive,&nbsp;plight. &nbsp;Telling her it was nonsense, crazy, a delusion, etc. &nbsp;It was all too real to her. &nbsp;That's what mattered most.</p> <p>I suddenly began to see that each of us really does inhabit his or her own universe, complete with its structure, its rules, its problems and solutions, the&nbsp;meaningful rhythms, topography, myths,&nbsp;heroes and demons, strictly&nbsp;personal heaven and hell. &nbsp;</p> <p>Life was far bigger, and far more complicated than I had previously acknowledged.</p> <p>It's morning and Gina is still asleep. &nbsp;I'm typing this in the studio shadows. &nbsp;I'd switched on the overhead lights earlier like I always do, but it seemed to affect her&nbsp;&nbsp;and she called out some unintelligible&nbsp;words in her&nbsp;restless dreaming.&nbsp; &nbsp;After turning the lights off again it's very peaceful.&nbsp;</p> <p>I finished work for the day. &nbsp;Gina is napping. &nbsp;It's a good time for an involuntary break in my world. &nbsp;I never take vacations or holidays. &nbsp;And even paint through weekends.&nbsp;I have enough money&nbsp;in the bank. &nbsp;Am caught up on the art. &nbsp;Why push it?</p> <p>She's sleeping so soundly, and hardly moving. &nbsp;I had to bend down over her and see if she was still breathing. &nbsp;She is. &nbsp;Wouldn't want a beautiful corpse in my bed.</p> <p>I am beginning to wonder what she expects of our situation. &nbsp;I don't think she sees it as "our" situation. &nbsp;</p> <p>Maybe now and then&nbsp;you're called upon to give someone rest. &nbsp;To let them feel secure and sufficient as time nearly&nbsp;stops its mad racing. &nbsp;&nbsp;</p></div> </article> <article> <div class="padtop30" style="border-top:1px solid rgba(255, 255, 255, .25);"><a href="/blog/post.html?postid=1109" target="_top">Braided together</a></div> <div class="postDate opacity60">May 09, 2017 </div> <div class="alignLeft"><p>I notice daily a new kind of interweaving taking place in my life. &nbsp;A braiding, if you will. &nbsp;This braiding of relatively separate strands of interest is very engaging. &nbsp;It takes up my full attention, like nothing else in my past. &nbsp;</p> <p>Braiding is a spiraling together of different strands that increase&nbsp;the strength as well as the beauty of the single elements.</p> <p>I read about an escape from prison that happened not long ago. &nbsp;Over a period of months a&nbsp;convict bought a large number of&nbsp;packages of dental floss at the in-house store. &nbsp;Then he wove these together and made a rope strong enough to support his weight. &nbsp;He tied&nbsp;this improvised rope to&nbsp;a window bar,&nbsp;lowered himself to the ground, and took off from there. &nbsp;</p> <p>Very cunning. &nbsp;Adding weaknesses together until they produce a strength. &nbsp;And then -- freedom. &nbsp;</p> <p>A cotton thread isn't much by itself, but many together can make a canvas. &nbsp;And the canvas can lead to a painting. &nbsp;The painting can reveal a previously unknown world. &nbsp;An answer to a question that wasn't even raised, but turns out to be very significant. &nbsp;</p> <p>Gina hasn't made it to LA yet. &nbsp;Or at least not to my studio. &nbsp;I received a call last night that she was en route. &nbsp;But I had a call earlier that she was leaving home at that point. &nbsp;The time between calls was seven hours. &nbsp;She was only a&nbsp;hundred miles down the road.</p> <p>"If it's too late I may just go to my father's," she said. &nbsp;Her father lives in LA. &nbsp;She doesn't have the closest relationship with him, it seems. &nbsp;The stories are kind of odd. &nbsp;</p> <p>I hope she's all right. &nbsp;Why wouldn't she be? &nbsp;It's an adventure for her. &nbsp;She's spending too much time alone in her small, cramped apartment. &nbsp;Get out and let the sun shine in. &nbsp;</p> <p>It's much different today for young people, but they can establish a meaningful style, a way of going about things. &nbsp;It's always there. &nbsp;It's up to them to take it by the horns. &nbsp;</p> <p><br></p></div> </article> <a id="next" href="/ajax/blogposts.html?lastpost=1" style="display:none">more</a> </div> </div> </div> <script> $(function() { $('.encloser img').imagesLoaded( function() { $('.encloser img').each(function(i) { var t = new Image(); 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