I LOVE this weather: wet, cold --like winter should be--with a misty overcast reflecting green gray light from the bare limbed oaks, lush ferns, yaupon, palmettos and camellias into the house. The soft, low light perfectly compliments the brilliant flame of inspiration blazing thru my hours ( Read more... )

The Art Muse is becoming agitated, flitting like a firefly behind my breast. How much longer can she reasonably be expected to contain the inspirations of the past 6 months, the Alex Grey workshop, the weekend of Chicago music and graffitti, the art saturated days in Paris? Disgruntled, but obedient, she’s waited for me to manage the more mundane ( Read more... )

In the dim light of the nocturnal houshold, everything looks like paint ( Read more... )