Saturday, October 24, 2020
Sunday, October 11, 2020
So. You try a new style in the vein of someone like Frank Francese, whose quick, colorful, expressive paintings you admire. You learn a little as you try to make those quick strokes and operate more intuitively, but your own style pulls you back like a rubber band. The end result isn’t Frank, at all. It’s you.
You can’t even articulate what your own style is. Yet. You see each effort as a whole jumble of mistakes.
But way back in the inner recesses of your heart, your own style is there, just waiting to be embraced. By you.
Tuesday, October 6, 2020
I met Sally forty years ago when I was twenty and she was the one in her sixties. I was a waitress at a Howard Johnson’s restaurant on...