Monday, September 29, 2014

Miss Bono

In Style September 2014
Doesn't she look just like Dad? The look. The crossed arms. The cocked hip.

What would it be like to be Bono's daughter, I wonder. She says in the interview that he helps her as an off screen partner: "He uses a different voice ... and he's the only in the family who can do it and not laugh."

I had a big Irish personality of a Dad; and had I been an actor, he would have run lines for me to ... with a different voice.

It must be the breed. And as much as Eve poses like dear old Dad, I imagine any Irish girl would of her Da'.

Pretty girl. I'll have to catch that new series with Clive Owens.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

David Hockney

Harper's Bazaar September 2014

When the page turned to this picture, I stopped. I've been behind in the September magreads for various and assorted reasons; and to be honest, I was flipping through pretty chore-like ... quick and done. But the beauty of this landscape, found a breath of air that I have been long looking for in the last month.

I am particularly fond of landscapes. I've written on these pages before that I am of the J.M.W. Turner variety. Dramatic. Tortured. Naturalistic. Splendor. I have heard of David Hockney certainly, though I'm not familiar with his work. It makes sense that he is English to me with the beauty of this ... and the color. And I approve with envy the description of his home and work space in Boyd's article: "Hockney is a Yorkshire man ... Bridlington, a small resort town on the North Sea, is where over the past few years he has made his home in a seaside villa- with a 10,000-square-foot former factory as a vast studio a few minutes away.' Sounds wonderful. And the scene that would make a perfect muse. The work shown above may be of this place, but as the article says, Hockney has been living and working in Los Angelos. And rather than pen and paper, or paint and canvas,  he's been using an IPad to make art. How cool is that.

As I said, I am full of envy. He says, "They don't teach drawing in art schools anymore. It's criminal. Teaching drawing teaches people to look." Well Mr. Hockney, looking is one of my favorite past-times; unfortunately, I don't have the talent to take what I see and put it to paper. A few years ago I had the inclination to take an art class ... a painting class. But the art teacher in the building where I work explained that if I was going to paint, I needed to draw first, so I enrolled in a drawing class at the Art Institute of Chicago. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but I knew with the first fuzzy pencils sketches that I did, I would never become the artist that could capture what I see to paper. In the article, Boyd quotes Ingres: "It takes 30 years to learn to draw and 3 days to learn to paint." Having that experience at the Art Institute made me fully aware of that point. I don't have 30 years of practice for that in me ... I'll just collect the images in my head and appreciate them. I'll leave ART to the artists.

Outside my door.
The above is what I see. It's magnificent. And my IPhone captured it wonderfully last evening. I would love to be able to paint a picture that looks like this with paint on paper. But I would argue that Hockney may appreciate the fact that I took the time to see it. This is my capture.

Saturday, September 20, 2014


I've said it before ... I love BARBRA. Throw in a little Jimmy Falllon and we've got chicken soup.

I did not see the show live. I was long gone to sleep. And I had forgotten that she was going to be a guest, so it was a surprise when I was told that she had already appeared on the show. I'm not big on Internet searching ... I like paper. I have a friend who is very keen on the Internet, and she often forwards articles to me that she thinks that I might be interested in. I return the favor by finding articles that I think that she would enjoy, tear it out, and leave it at her door. I always am amused at the thought of our exchange. It is who we are and can co-exist.

Jimmy Fallon is one show, however, that I am happy to get on the information highway to check out. I've heard that his show is inconsistent, which is surprising because the tidbits that I get on The Tonight Show web site are all good. He is as cute as a button! And I love when he sings or dances. His eyes crinkle and face softens into a beguiling handsomeness. I want to call him a leprechaun, but too many might find that comparison to be wrong. So, instead, I'll call him a sprite. An adorable Jimmy-sprite.

I can't imagine anyone that would be as easy with Barbra appearing on his show. His adoration of her is quite apparent, and his boyishness entertained a somewhat, it seems, shy performer. She may like a light on one side or only certain colored flowers to adorn her room, but she portrays herself as being like any other girl.

Once a friend called me from his vacation in the Hamptons. Oh yes, that sounds ladidadi, but he was the guest of someone who lives a large life and has a place there. He called me quite excited. He saw two women running along the shore, and called to say: I saw Barbra running. She was with some woman who is famous too. A designer. You know the one who puts the big NY on her stuff. I asked, "uh, Donna Karan?' Yes! That is who it was. He said that they looked like two old ladies out for a jog. It is hard to imagine Barbra jogging. Have you ever noticed in her movies when she does run that she looks kind of goofy ... her hands are held out away from her body with her long fingers as fans, and her legs sort of kick up the knee in a spastic form. Ah, so maybe she is like any other girl ... imperfect.

Ah! But her voice. There is nothing just like a girl about it, and it makes her far from normal. And Jimmy the sprite held his own with her. He is worth the time on a device sans papier that feels so good in my hand.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

U2's Song of Innocence

Bono knew. 

I have been frustrated with the band like many of their fans ... are you/aren't you?! And when it came, I needed it more than they could have known.

I've been absent from the word. I went on vacation with my mother, and on the last day of our trip to Charleston, South Carolina, she fell. Down a fancy brick stair case without a railing. Her arm ripped open. Her head bumped. And the rest wouldn't show itself until later when the body took the trauma and held it.

I knew it was going to happen. It was in my gut. And I ignored it. But it happened, and I am with her as she recovers from the blow to her body. Not having children myself, I now have a better understanding of what it must be like to have a newborn and a job and everything that goes along with it.

And then it came. As a surprise. I nearly couldn't figure out the download for excitement. And it was the tonic that could soothe the worry that I've felt for the last I don't know how many weeks.

I've listened to the album in its entirety probably 10 or 15 or 20 times. I've lost count. I'm not one to critique it as I would be happy with the boys singing 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat.' I listen to it with adoring ears. And I've waited for the first song outside of the eleven as a whole to find myself in. 

Today it came. Sleep like a baby tonight: You're gonna sleep like a baby tonight/ In your dreams, everything is alright/ Tomorrow dawns like someone else's suicide/ You're gonna sleep like a baby tonight. Bono purrs through the song, and he has me convinced that everything will be all right -- even beyond the immediate and out to the world that shows its worst self anymore. This is what we count on the boys for -- they cut through the crap to the heart of what matters most. Our story. Ourselves. And there, we can sleep and dream the promise that there are more of us than the others that are on a suicide mission.