Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Lady Waits

Folksinger Spirits

Crowing in the Night

The paintings above were done last month. New Year's Resolution: To be much better about posting on my blog.

***And, yes, I've just these hung these and other paintings at the Roswell Teahouse, 108 Magnolia St., Roswell, 30075 (Historic Roswell, close to Canton St. and gallery row).

Opening reception:

Friday, Jan. 21, 6:30-9 p.m.

We'll have tea and treats. A bonus is that not only are my paintings on exhibit, but my son, Andre, also had some of his wonderful paintings in the show. There is a good chance he'll bring his guitar and sing for us, too.

I hope to see you there!


Isabelle Gautier said...

Good Luck for your exhibition, Loretta.

wbr said...

I’m no art critic, but I must say you’ve done a magnificent (weak superlative, sorry) job. Your paintings pull me in; I see in them parts of me from attenuated connection to a shared experience (how did you put it?) “…foggy memories that almost come together…You capture [a few details], but the rest float away unless you’ve captured them in a photo or a journal…or if someone from your past materializes and reminds you of what you shared.” William Faulkner once said, “The past isn't dead; it isn’t even past.” These gatherings of bits and pieces in your art, not present to a passive observer, are tangible and recognizable to me. You are a writer of long and varied experience, and an avid reader, I know…so you might have read this passage, near the beginning of Divisadero, where Michael Ondaatje writes: “ ‘Everything is biographical,’ says Lucien Freud. What we make, how it is made, how we draw a dog, who it is we are drawn to, why we cannot forget. Everything is collage, even genetics. There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly, we contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border we cross.” You say you’ve always been drawn to the arts, your resume is substantial evidence. I would not dispute it. In fact, had I known just how strong was the beat of your artistic impulse, how your life, in a very real way, depended on it, I’d have gotten out of your way, instead of holding on selfishly. Instead of loving you then the only way I knew how.