“Digital_paintingThe specific visual characteristics of a digital painting can be traced back to the software. They include transparency, symmetry, distortion, repetition, texture, embossing (creating 3D illusions), mathematically perfect circles, ellipses, squares and other forms, and a flat surface due to the (up to now) technical impossibility to make the brush stroke visible. The option to undo without a trace up to twenty or more brush strokes or other actions, permits a more spontaneous, intuitive way of working than is possible in traditional painting.”
“The choice of program (or specific feature within a program) determines the output to have the characteristics of a watercolor, lino cut, screen print, oil painting etc. Thus, digital painting is not so much a new medium as a new appearance of the whole range of existing mediums, supplemented with some new features.”
Thanking my unconscious mind for these permissive ideas.
Eating lunch with a friend at 3:30 p.m. in Capers Courtyard on Fourth Avenue yesterday. Two pigeons strutted around the table and between our feet. I noticed they had black toenails at the end of their red toes and legs. This is very dramatic and beautiful. I feel I need coral red fingernails with jet black tips: very Zen!! Now here I think the next Fashion Movement will be a ‘Zen’ look. I could do one: Paper, water blue, soft jade green, moonlight, horizontal planes, 7″ x 7″ proportions, whispers. Nothingness, lightness, being (3 stages of birth)… I like my new concept.
What else comes from my Zen? Bowls, trees, discs, flow, chromium yellow and wine-stain red, high altitudes/attitudes, thinness, sticks, stones, smoothness, waving, layers, reduction, balance, harmony zones: The Zen Zone; how would that look? How would I combine the colors?
One stroke on a brass gong: a single strike against a brass gong!
Tastes like pepperment: Peppermint Zen.
Smells like cinnamon-sea air.
Feels like mountain (Whistler) wind.
The energy of a horse’s mane in the air as it gallops, the flames of a fire (fire flame), a bird wing fanned out (against) or into the wind.
I like these images.
My “imagineered” design style is a place where Zen and Clutter Meet.
The swell of the waves makes my thighs quiver and my lower body feels sensations taking in the movement of the sea. The Shangri-La thrusts above the headland.
A deep pink geranium sits pretty in the black cast iron urn near my feet silently dropping her petals as she too admires the whitecaps. A dainty sophisticate, the geranium has an oriental lily pad leaf anchoring an English flower and bud with small petals, fanning out a saturated hue against clouds swollen with shadows leaning along the sky in layers.
The icy wind is bending tree branches and whirring the stalks of shrubs into a frenzy. The Seawalkers keep their collars up and kleenex under their noses as they brace their steps for the next burst of cold air breaking over them. Long scarves twirl and leap outward in a scatter-brained dance.
The train tracks creak, dogs yip and howl.
My feet are cold, as is my tea, and yet it is mesmerizing to sit in the midst of it all. A lone gull is being blown blocks out of his way by the next forceful blow of the wind. He’s drawn across roof and tree tops and sent soaring away from the water toward the hard blue mountains.
A steady grumble makes its way through the leaky windows and the canvas awnings flap furiously against the current.
Without warning leaves are blown inside out revealing their naked light side. The logs sitting atop the giant granite boulders lining the walk thunk, thunk, in repetition. All is divine as blue sky and tips of sunlight foreshadow a heavenly day.
Now the sun comes out to spoil me warming my bare feet resting on the tile floor. The rays are blinding as they reflect off the water and the surface of the sea glitters in madcap fashion. Sunlight is pulled back and in ten breaths I see only a glare as the seagulls wail mournfully. The sun is back, in the completion of a sentence, playing hide and seek with me. I have to squint hard against it.
More people are out walking now. The path becomes a medley of color: mauve, red, blue, pink, white, gold, black, navy, tan: the colors of our clothing, our cars, and our floral arrangements.
The walk has emptied, my tea is drained, I leave the solarium in peace having read a few more pages from Louise Erdrich’s book, “The Blue Jay’s Dance.” A Birth Year. Exquisite, lyrical prose by a Best-Selling Author, Mother, Observer of Nature and Poet. These little vignettes are “unpredictable and unforgettable.” The mundane of everyday life is rendered marvelous!
Once back in the kitchen I look out and see the arbutus tree waving wildly in the wind. My concern is for the crow who built her nest in a strong fork of one of the branches. I can see vaguely through the blossoms that she’s home by a small glimpse of her shiny black feathers. The tree is caught up in a baby hurricane and I think of the bird mother having morning sickness in the dizzying gale. If the eggs aren’t scrambled by the time the wind ceases the birdlings will be born remembering this psychedelic drama in their incubation. All day I fret over whether the nest will weather the storm.
I had watched the nest being built and the crow had a mate helping to weave each thoughtfully chosen strand of material into a new home. Many trips were made carrying puffs of something white and fluffy. Normally the nest rests in utopia almost hidden by the thick and lavish white flowers and green leaves of the arbutus tree; a floral-lined loft. By sunset the scene turned calm, the five-hour power outage was repaired, and I had the kettle back on. I was extremely grateful for electricity, a safe nest, and all the energetic forces of Mother Nature purifying the air we breathe. The electric heat is back on, the fridge is cold again, and the food didn’t spoil. So what if the computer wouldn’t work, I got this written anyway… by hand and heart.
I awake from a dream holding onto Julie with my arms wrapped around her waist. I’m saying that my Mum is just wanting to buy as much time as possible before she dies of cancer.
In this dream I see a leopard print jacket with a candy pink, pink bow, at the top of the neck – who’s touching my clothes?
The walk to Ambleside is littered with abandoned logs.
A collage collects along the low granite wall where the seams of blacktop meet with the rock.
The wind presses forcefully against me like a new lover. It takes all my strength to walk forward into it.
The clouds spit at me and a crow sprays white splotches across my black umbrella.
I leave the library on my way home with three heavy books curled into my arm none of which I want to read when I get home.
My Mother’s apartment building shivers in cold grey as I walk by. I let the wind pull my hair across my eyes so I don’t have to look into the dark empty windows where she once resided in warm lighting.
I tell myself all along that nothing matters but the feeling of being under twelve today and noticing how connected I am to all of nature as I walk home in fluctuating weather conditions.
Once inside I put on something warm, wipe the bird doo from my umbrella and brew bancha tea. I ignore the days’ old rinsed dishes and the clean laundry waiting to be put away. I can’t scrub a sink or address an envelope right now. I turn the ringer off on the phone, and relax into nothing.