Sep 252008
 

I finished this painting two days ago, but didn’t eat any of it, just in case. It’s half gone now though. Wow! I do love chocolate. I thought about it all day at work and was at the fridge the minute I came through the door.

I do these dessert paintings from life, which is such a pleasant exercise because most of my figurative paintings must be done from photographs.

Here is a poem for this week’s blog by Michael McFee. It’s called:

The Angel

unhooks her wings after another long day.
They are her glory but also a burden,
binding her chest and making her sacrum ache.
She reaches behind herself to unfasten
them without the least hesitation or thought,
letting the sweaty wings collapse to the floor.

The angel scratches a ticklish spot
and starts to let down the radiant hair
sometimes mistaken for a halo,
unweaving her braid as gracefully
as she composed its strands long ago.
But how can those backward fingers see?

And then she slips off her slip in the dark.
My heart is tinder to that holy spark.

Death by Chocolate Cake, 6×6, oil on canvas, Sold

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Sep 182008
 

Taste by taste and brushstroke by brushstoke, I’m enjoying becoming familiar witht he scrumpteous cakes at the Rolling Pin Bakery. This one is called Hazelnut Torte. I’m painting another right now called “Death by Chocolate”, certainly my preference out of the various ways to demise.

Here is a poem by Louis Simpson:

The Unwritten Poem

You will never write the poem about Italy.
What Socrates said about love
is true of poetry — where is it?
Not in beautiful faces and distant scenery
but the one who writes and loves.

In your life here, on this street
where the houses from the outside
are all alike, and so are the people.
Inside, the furniture is dreadful —
flock on the walls, and huge color television.

To love and write unrequited
is the poet’s fate. Here you’ll need
all your ardor and ingenuity.
This is the front and these are the heroes —
a life beginning with “Hi” and ending with “So long!”

You must rise to the sound of the alarm
and march to catch the 6:20 —
watch as they ascend the station platform
and, grasping briefcases, pass beyond your gaze
and hurl themselves into the flames.

Hazelnut Torte, 6×6, oil on canvas, Sold

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