I cast this portrait of Ellen DeGeneres and Portia De Rossi out into the "Sea of Celebrity" - hoping I will reel in a big, fat painting commission on the end of my line.
Spring is the time pets across the land are blowing their coats - dropping hairs like Christmas tree needles in the middle of January. I scooped up a tumbleweed of my dog Jethro's coat, and had a good time pushing tiny hairs around until a likeness of him appeared; the end result smacks of religious apparition.
Last week I had the opportunity to meet Senator Susan Collins; I presented her with a portrait that I recently painted of her. It was one of those little gem encounters: comprised of interest, appreciation, respect, and possibility - an absolutely delightful ten minutes.
This legendary story had been told many times over the years - his age getting younger with each recital. As I "lazily" floated - watching clouds do the same - I knew I should be doing something more constructive than observing puffs of condensed water vapor enter and exit my field of vision - something more productive than counting horseflies sipping droplets of chlorinated water from the rim of my inner tube. But, I also knew, had I started that very minute - working every day for the rest of my life - never could I eclipse my father's prison-movie childhood. So, instead, I "lazily" floated - imagining him as a six year old, a toddler, an infant shoveling chicken crap - cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth, and whiskey scented swearwords spilling from the other.
I was trying to decide what to post next when I considered these portraits of Wayne Newton, Elvis, and Tom Jones. (I painted them a few years back from a collection of bargain-bin CDs that I own; I found the indistinguishably cheesy poses irresistible, and wanted to see them hanging on the wall as a series.) Interestingly enough, as I was looking up Wayne Newton online just now - searching for fact-based tidbits to add to this post - I saw where his birthday is April 3rd. That sealed the deal; fate has me featuring "Mr. Vegas" on this date! I'm not actually a fan of Wayne Newton's (I'm more oddly bemused than bewitched by his surreal persona) but, despite personally finding his STARDUST character and enormous popularity a tad disconcerting, I have to respect the man's work ethic... in 1994 he performed his 25,000th solo show in Vegas! I remember seeing him on The Jackie Gleason show back in 1964 when I was five; I was lying on my Nana Abend's naphthalene scented oriental rug in Germantown, Pennsylvania, sipping a Shirley Temple (along side her two Pekinese dogs Shecky and Chingy) when I first heard him sing "Danke Schoen." As a little girl, I was transfixed and confused by the girlish voice coming out of this man; I have such a strong association with that first experience of hearing his strange voice in my Nana's apartment that, to this day, I still smell mothballs whenever I hear him sing.
At 13 I purchased an Elvis three record set from a television ad; the first album featured his early Sun years (before "the fever" had set in), the second album contained his most popular hits (after "the fever" had taken hold), and the third featured his Vegas years (when " the fever" had started taking its toll).
It was one of those velvety summer evenings, brimming with the hallmarks of a fairy tale: crickets rosining their bows, moon flowers tuning their trumpets, and fireflies preparing to gild twilight in pale gold enchantment. The candied colors and perfumes of peach, pear, and plum topped off the half-light; these trees were a May Day gift from my mother to us kids, and were planted out in the field - up near the vegetable garden. The first several summers after placing them in the ground, I imagined my brothers and I as our respective trees. My older brother Todd was peach; every season, no matter the conditions, he seemed to effortlessly produce hundreds of sticky drupes, much to the delight of family members and thousands of honey bees. Peach pies, peach preserves, peaches in cream, peach stains on t-shirts and faces - when I think of summer, I think of fresh cut grass and peaches. My younger brother Tedd was pear; he was persistent, but not fecund. Despite being planted between a rock and a hard place, he was determined to produce something; his fruits were small and few, but sweet none the less. I was plum; I had been cursed with leggy limbs, borer, and blight. Concerned that my tree's inferior yield somehow reflected my worth, I kept a nervous eye on each passing harvest; I'd watch my tiny fruits mold and fall to the ground - hoping for better luck next year - trying my best not to take it personally.
