but you can call her Alice. I based Alice on an illustration I created a few years back. It was challenging and quite liberating breaking this alien-mermaid out of her 2D paper-prison.
Diggi Lann, or Alice, as we affectionately call her here in Pine Bush, NY, home to northeast alien abductions and encounters, is a loving soul…❤️
The element of water mesmerizes those in its sight, extraterrestrials strive for knowledge and community, together, these two wield the awesome power of PEACE.☮️
I believe Art’s authentic value is held in the heart of the viewer. This large acrylic (5′ x 5′) work was painted decades ago. Over the years, viewers have given me the gift of their unique interpretations of this image.
I know why I painted this image back then, but today, for me, it has come to bear an entirely different meaning – one that I hold in my heart.
Feel free to share your interpretation if you’d like. (I’ll not comment on your thoughts, good or bad – swing away)
I hope you’re managing during this time of… (so many words I want to put here, but we’re being bombarded enough)
outside my daughter’s window, the woodpecker hammering the aluminum gutter knows nothing other—than what he knows
this incensed bird will wake my teen who already sleeps fitfully beneath the creatures who suffocate her dreams: they claw earth; pollute water; rape land; tear friendships; rend families; decimate futures they alter climates they type in ALL CAPS
the woodpecker continues his assault on the gutter outside my daughter’s window if this red-headed madcap mirrored humanity at all, he might desist but he doesn’t know anything other—than what he knows
the hammering bird hunts for his brand of love; his brand of sustenance; his right to expand his territory; his need to collect like-minded-birds who would adore his amplified walloping
so, I must continue thinking of ways to deter him—or at the very least send him elsewhere but how unkind would that be—he’s only a bird after all the inane walloping is coming from elsewhere
(Prisma pencil pecker created about ten years ago)
I hope you’re all managing okay. I take in every headline without breathing
In 2016, a year before you died, you told me quite emphatically, “I don’t like Hillary Clinton, but Trump will wreck this country.” I don’t know how you voted that year. Did you give your Republican vote anyway? Or did you vote conservative along the party line and leave the top row blank? (That’s the image I hold onto.)
A child of immigrants, a career FBI agent, a lifelong conservative who produced four liberal daughters and two conservative sons, a man who taught by example, ‘nothing is more important than family.’ A man who loathed those who carried no moral compass,…
You’ve been on my mind more than usual. Several people in your family have been the recipients of those taunting White House emails and degrading messages. Russia is supposed to be a cozy partner… What’s going on in America right now would break your patriotic heart. I know it’s breaking mine.
The television tucked behind sliding woody doors – like a Christmas surprise. Counting down the days till Rudolph would soar above our shag-carpeted family room. My sisters, brother and I waited. And when that bulb-nosed deer finally arrived, we watched him save cinematic Christmas. All of us resting our laurels on orange shag. Each of us smiling.
Every Christmas, I retell my children how today’s young lot miss a wonderful life. The escalating thrill, that building joy of patience – of waiting – waiting – and finally – experiencing the ALL of Christmas. There were no multiple viewing times, streaming services, faces staring at ass-pocket phones – we traveled together in one pocket of time. Playing outdoors, watching holiday shows, building snow people…
And yes, though sometimes not by choice, we’d have chosen it anyway. The uncanny warmth, the holiday magic bursting forward when we celebrated together.
Then at New Year’s, how we gathered again. Our home open to all relatives and friends. We watched the ball descend while ringing Uncle Jimmy’s silly noisemakers. We stayed up late. Everyone woke to pancakes and a new year of unknowns shrouded in mystery and love.
My childhood was the last generation of un-instant gratification. ‘Twas a glorious time indeed.
This little cat is my daughter’s beloved Clam. I sculpted him as a special Christmas gift. Clam was adopted months ago. This was his first Christmas with us. I’m happy to report that both Clam the Cat, and Mojo the Dachshund, are peacefully hanging out.
I do so hope you all are doing well. And a happy, happy New Year to all! am:)
Yesterday’s post highlighted an artwork I painted for my son. The painting – Washington’s Last Cantonment – was created after I’d painted a canvas for his sister.
For the acrylic (above), I used several old reference images – some of the fish – like the large koi – were directly inspired from those images (apologies to the brilliant artists – I’ve been unable to locate their names to properly credit) – a few of the other fish swim in my head – and now – on my daughter’s apartment wall. She’d requested the specific water color…for interior decor ‘matchi-ness’:)
Both paintings are 4′ x 2′ – each a labor of love. As much as I don’t enjoy painting landscapes, water scenes run a close second. I find the most joy in creating cryptids and creatures. I don’t know why or what to think of that. Perhaps, I shouldn’t ponder fangs and claws too deeply. These thoughts might reveal lurking images in the sub-basement brain;)
Looks to be another cold beautiful day here in the Hudson Valley.
Herbie The Lovebug is a Volkswagen with blue and red pinstripes and the number 53 on his chassis. In his movies, Herbie never fails to rescue his owners whenever they need saving. They need saving a lot. Herbie once traveled to Monte Carlo for a race. He goes many other places too. Racing is his passion and he is creative at winning.
A few months ago, Dad brought home a Volkswagen. The little bug sits next to our Grand Squire wagon. But it never appears diminished. Our little red car has no pinstripes or racing number, still I know it is kind and clever. Whenever Dad drives it, he always smiles.
(Each week en route to the gym, I pass by this poor little Volkswagen. I finally remembered to take a picture before driving by. Always, when I see this little car, I travel back to the little car in my childhood driveway — the red bug who had the power of getting my ornery dad to smile.)
Mrs. DeDeo rarely steps away from the classroom. Today she is needed across the hall for a moment. A moment is all Dwayne needs. He leaps to the front of the room body-blocking the chalked letters we’re supposed to copy into our marble notebooks.
With a spoon from his pocket, Dwayne excavates boogers while singing how he likes mowing down squirrels. We don’t believe him. Mrs. DeDeo returns. Dwayne begins mercy yowling. The fear in his voice chains John the Baptist between my ears. Imprisoned in one of Herod’s palace cells, John prays to receive Jesus’ blessing.
The following morning John will lose his head to dawn’s early light.
(I find joy in sharing bits and pieces of my childhood truths here with you. These memories make me smile – even the sad and odd ones. My inner-child lives as a constant reminder of humility and perseverance. Of kindness and compassion.
Each of our childhoods lingers near, our memories like shadows to embrace, to reshape, to share, to delete, to run from, to run toward…)
My flying squirrel was created with Tombow markers and Prisma pencils. I think he’s a few years old now.
Thirteen birthday-attendees ride the little train through the painted tunnel and scream when the tunnel turns oil-black. Afterward, the animated girls leap onto the spring-loaded playground.
I fix eyes on the ponies dusting-up the ring from the perch of a bouncing rooster. After a few minutes, the birthday girl’s mom, Mrs. Bee, leads us over to the ring. I take Parochial-school position for biggest girl — end of the line.
Each time a young handler instructs the next rider how to safely mount, my heart leaps. I bound up the wooden stairs when my turn arrives. Butterbean’s handler wears a cowboy hat. His broad teeth shine like the sun. His slim eyes are eclipsed by his hat brim.
Those darkened eyes look me over. Out the sunlit mouth, a question trots out, “What do you weigh?”
I haven’t yet perfected the art of the lie. The truth sinks me 20 pounds above my classmates.
The cowboy’s teeth vanish behind a cloud of smirking lips, “You’re too big to ride this pony.”
I swallow the screaming. I reverse-off the podium.
My cheeks brighter than the eyes of giggling classmates and the red balloons bubbling beside Sally’s birthday cake, I clod, head down, praying for my early death.
Today, I no longer believe in God.
(Misty of Chincoteague – painted when I was 13 – I remember being quite proud of this acrylic work thinking at the time)
I hope for those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving that you had a beautiful holiday. I had 24 family members in my home, and we had a wonderful day. Today, the little girl who was turned away from a pony ride, is heading to the gym. Later, she will run her three miles when the sun warms the land a tad more. She is always running, trying to stay just ahead of the little sad girl.
anntogether 