I love how she turned out. The next podcast will break it all down. Thank you for being kiddos / galaers.
I try to practice my craft everyday.
I always find my words in these podcasts. I’m so quiet in a lot of life. I love to paint in my head rather than slow down and be a part of everything. I must look crazy to most people but it makes me happy. I figure the idea is to find what makes you so happy.
I hope this finds you well and the photos are from this week in my studio. I loved this week’s end.
My coffee cup feels empty. Like nothing, I take in fills and warms. This splif is a doorway to the empty. I am a foul on its songs. I dance slowly and then vibrates my eyes to sleep when it makes my mind dance to fast. The days are on rollerskates. The moon runs from me and the sun hides in the wind chill. The painter is a game of death. I make with the ashes of things that once had formed to make things that get to be formed. A recycler of existence. Ash to Ash and ink to paint.
Liquid fire in a coffee cup to burn questioning butterflies out of my belly. Standing as music booms into my ears into my bones and so the fear is danced out all over the canvas for another night. That cold creamy moon wars with me.
“The Universe giving birth” painting.
In this podcast: my fun painter madness comes to a lovely and polite podcast (I hope), our art adventures, strange but helpful books, trying to be a better person to my self, feeling proud and hopeful. Plus: all the stuff I’ve been doing lately…like painting and self-help work.
Things I’m dig
∆ Yoga in the morning or tea
∆ Frannerd videos
∆ Started to listen to again Celia Cruz
∆ Thinking about all the great advice I have been given this week
On my reading/watch list:
Side Hustle (from idea to income in 27 days)
Little Boxes on Netflix
Something so magical about drinking wine and laughing over ideas of paint and beauty. I adore the lines of words that jump across the ceiling from mouths to the sparks in my iris.
I’m walking in the paint tonight. The pigments are hard in the air and a fan blows the wet over the dee edges of the threaded watercolor paper. So thick and wild like a woven coffee bag from Salvidor. Coffee beans are the only thing I can think of the reminds me such a perfect pongentness.
As my blood feels hot I open my bay window to let the cold 40-degree air in so my painter madness doesn’t get the best of my waiting in the drying game. Paint has its own timetable and we dry out waiting for it to make up its mind.