This painting is about 35 years old. Perhaps a first self portrait. Probably painted over another painting, as I sometimes did, painted on anything. My first paintings on the cape were on old kitchen floor linoleum tiles, gray things with black streaks in them. Better than card board. Maybe it was an experiment at making a dark painting, everything else was impressionistic or fauvist.
I'm not much a writer. I like letter forms and to design books, print, read other folks writing. Jotting down memories and playing with words, my limited vocabulary, or an occasional creative idea is what I can hardly stand to post, and I keep changing posts, so if anyone actually looks, it could change by the next time, though I don't expect anyone would return. I tried a blog several months ago and thought it was awful and so took it down. Blogs for the most part seem self indulgent, but I like to browse them to see what's there, and that's fun, there are some interesting ones out there or in here, the universal soul, depending. Not really much time to do either, so it's late at night playing with images or reflections and impressions that come to me while cooking or listening to music, and often both.
I'm getting older, and so time goes by more quickly, according to the radio today, while driving back from Dodge's Agway in NH with the truck full of timothy cubes, on PBS after 3:30 was a bit about the brain test, how long do you think it is before a minute is up. If you're twenty or so, you are right on, 60 or older, you tend to add about 30 seconds. So that's why it takes me so long to make a really good post, almost sixty, and probably the sixties, and my key board doesn't help either. I wish I had a keyboard like the one on the old iBook. It had a responsive keypad of flat, almost flush keys. Not these imitation typewriter keys that sometimes don't register the letter when I hit them. But I guess at least I can safely say I'm not over writing, one of the alleged dangers of writing on the computer.
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