I was pleased today to hear that a great-nephew has, and I guess admires, an old painting I made in 1952 (or maybe earlier?). It looks like it might have shed some paint (no one... of all the art teachers I had, and I had many... taught me to glaze or any way in which to guarantee the painting would last)... but I am on one side of the continent in San Francisco, while he lives on the other, so I hope it lasts a bit.
Amazing that I, the family 'artist,' have become just one of the family writers. I do not own any of my artworks anymore... they are spread out among the relatives... the majority are with my daughter, and I only own one tiny embroidery I made and framed when living in Eastern PA, entitled "Poppy on a Red Rug." It is a drawing of a dog we had who dearly loved to annoy us if we went out and left him, by peeing on one of our rugs. I don't even have the large book of drawings I made of family and friends. I think my sister took it with many of the things my mother had that were really mine.
Now I plan to do both... write and paint. I am reading my poetry in Yerba Buena Gardens tomorrow, and will break open the box of paints and canvas I ordered later in the week. Too bad we have no great musicians in the family, as I would dearly love to have some music playing as I read my poetry... so many of the poems are like songs and need music. I must start painting before all the flowers in our gardens disappear... Hell, this is California, we never run out of flowers... besides, I want to get back to painting people once more -- or maybe a few birds... who knows!
Ah, Phroggy... if you were only here, I should paint you. I miss you!
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