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“Wine Tour in Florence” 6’x3’
“Wine tour in Florence” 6’x3’. I really have nothing more to say. Can we just stand here and stare out at this view in silence? I’m all out of words. My voice has become too weak and breathy for clear annunciations. I’ve tried to write it and all the pens dry up and the pages turn to sand. If longings were pages this book has been re-written a thousand times. Yet, here we are, in this place, in this time, with this nature and all her beauty. She’s whispering “Come inside, tiptoe in my tides, and dance on my shores”! What are we waiting for? The number of summers has a limit and the water is warm. I’m going to her with or without you this time. If she swallows me I’ll be forever draped in her gold. The wine is flowing and the fields have been picked. It’s time my love .. it’s time..
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“Aerlig” 48x48
“Aerlig” .. 48x48 I’ve stared at you for months. You were evasive and had trouble with honesty. I know you wanted to tell all your truths and also you feared the consequences. Such a human trait for a muse. You just couldn’t tell me when you were finished. Why is it such a courageous quality to say “enough is enough”? I think I left you more bare and unused than I wanted to. Your lack of communication forced my hand into an emptiness that I’ve had to learn to live with and ultimately love. Your layers, love, and how you shine melted me. You did me in with your lack of atonement to my will, thus I was hooked. I love seeing you without my own lens of perspective. It’s what is being asked at this time for you to call this relationship complete. I do love that you were willing to play in the darkness with me. It’s so rare to find one so interested in the willingness to be deeper & darker. To be in the presence of a space that says “I can take it”
Aerlig is Norse for honest.
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“Meet Me in Tuscany” 34.5x34.5
“Meet me in Tuscany” 34.5x34.5 Maybe the longing for something is the greater feeling to having it. When what we desire arrives it can be whelmed with further questions around how to receive the much of it. I’m drawn to the stories of unrequited love and the lust that years in the making of an image can conjure. Can what turns up ever compete with our imaginations? Can it be more? Expectations of grandeur are surely the death of simple sweet realities. Can we ever be met fully with all this ceaseless daydreaming?
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