Picasso said....

"Are we to paint what's on the face, what's inside the face, or what's behind it?"
                                                    ---Pablo Picasso

Playing with ink

Today was a fun day for art! I experimented with the new artists' acrylic ink I recently purchased at Riley Street Art Supply (as pictured above). I am clumsy with them; they are more different from watercolor than I had previously thought. The sketches above are the view I had from Red Hill Trail, above Shell Beach, where I walked last Friday with my wife.
Today, I also worked on a larger acrylic painting of Goat Rock Beach which I started some time ago. It's still not done, so not ready to post.
 So wonderful to have a day filled with art!

Thumbnail sketches

I have had the pleasure of two weeks of vacation from school. I worked on two acrylic paintings (12" x 16"), but they aren't quite finished, so I won't post them yet.  I also went to the coast every chance I got and painted small sketches in my sketchbook. One particularly beautiful day, I was on Blind Beach with my wife. There was a very low tide that afternoon, so we were able to walk the entire length of the beach. We found a large number of beautiful shells, and I decided to start sketching them in my sketchbook. 

On human perception...

We call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine without a name, 
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.


Our glance, our touch mean nothing to it.
It doesn't feel itself seen and touched.
And that it fell on the windowsill is only our experience, not its.
For it, it is no different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still.


The window was a wonderful view of a lake,
but the view doesn't view itself.
It exists in this world
colourless, shapeless,
soundless, odourless, and painless.


The lake's floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly.
Its water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.
They splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.


And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows.


A second passes.
A second second.
A third.
But they're three seconds only for us.


Time has passed like a courier with urgent news.
But that's just our simile.
The character is inverted, his haste is make-believe,
his news inhuman.


-by Wislawa Szymborska