I only have myself to blame for over scheduling my time. Partly, it’s the life of the freelance, taking work when it comes, as inconvenient as it might be. But partly, it’s me, saying yes to all manners of things that are interesting and then end up piling up on each other. It’s also Spring, and I have come back to life, after a hermit Winter. So, if I can get to the end of Friday, I am planning a weekend of nothing much: dogs, yoga, books, mindless videos and general laziness. Starting with this post.
Sometimes I bookmark art that I see in magazines, or online, for future exploration. Most of the time, what piqued my interest in passing, on closer inspection, doesn’t end up moving me but, when I dig deeper, and find more about an artist who caught my eye and I fall in love with what I see, it’s like happening on a wonderful book you had never heard of.
I am no stranger to old, naked bodies, especially female. During the course of the hours I spend volunteering at the hospital, I see bodies ravaged by disease, scarred by surgery or just plain old. There is something about a hospital setting that allows for intimacy and a shedding of prudery. There is also a generosity in women who share their stories, complete with images to match.
4:40 pm on a Wednesday afternoon. I look up and the sky is a perfect shade of intense blue, so velvety I think I could touch it. If I turn around, towards the mountains, the blue dissolves into a hazy white, fading into the rock. On the opposite side, the sky mingles with the ocean, creating a smattering of stripes, from grey to baby blue and every shade in between.
Los Angeles is currently enveloped in Mapplethorpe mania. Two companion exhibitions are on view at the Getty Center and at LACMA, and a new documentary titled “Look at the Pictures” just opened on HBO. Twenty seven years after his death, it seems it was time to rediscover the work of an ambitious and provocative photographer who started taking pictures by accident.