Madrigle

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The Fralians
Tuesday, Nov. 23, 2004 @ 8:07 a.m.

mmm, it's cool and crisp here in the high desert of home like it never is in Houston. The cool creeps in around the door frame and nips at your toes. It raps around you and reminds you you'r alive, little hairs rising in a shiver of goose flesh.

I paint and paint, lately I work or paint. There is nothing else. I used to see words in everything I experienced, paraphrasing my days in catchy turns of a phrase. I experienced only to later write. Now I see paint in all that I do. I see colors in all. Alizaran there, chromium oxide here, ultramarine mmmm I see ultramarine in almost all. Now my world is full of pigments, not words. Or rather the words are all about the pigments. My paper journals are filling up again. I write with india ink and embrace the archaic implements used to mark with it as though they are some fanciful artifacts from long lost lands. After it dries, I close my eyes and run my fingers over my words. You can feel it, those words, the india ink leaving a raised, nearly sharp mark on the page. I adore that, it's tactile properties even after the commencing of marks is done.

Painting, I dream of my instructors paintings and that we (her students) will one day be referred to as the Fralians. She is all about the human figure, she is this centuries Delacroix! I can't express to you how grand and monumental her pieces are. She's my age and already collected by major museums. . . but for all her grandeur, she dosn't teach. My Saturday mornings are spent more in her presence, then in her instructive spere. But right now, that is ohhhh so enough! I love the Glassell school, I don't know of any other place where I could be so exposed to up and coming modern masters. Sandstrom, now Fraliegh. It's an adventure, an odyssey, and I'm ready for the ride.

Love to you.

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