Study for a portrait of my Grandmother

So long neglected it's almost antique, but I want to get back to it soon. Actually about life-sized and full figure, on canvas:

Marion Richmond Gardner Rogers, my paternal grandmother and one to whom one could confide anything without hesitation.

Memorial Day

Thinking of those far from home and under duress.  And those left behind.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
   Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
  The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

                ~ Wilfred Owen, from "Anthem for Doomed Youth"

In Memoriam

"Shaman," by Lou Rogers, my mother.

    Memorial Day was the day my father was found in the river by a fisherman.

    Those pins of fate around which lives turn -- his disappearance two weeks before was the first one in my life, though I was unaware, being a baby. My mother was 27, and how she managed I do not know. Though I believe she already dwelt largely in an internal world of tales and visions, and that she fled there.

    I woke at 4 this morning with yet more clear a sense of the echoes down the many years of that first event in our tale. Things of great regret, yet perhaps necessary.

    What do we do with these things, for our own healing and perhaps the helping of others?

    I remember seeing great barges turned by tugs on the rivers of Pittsburgh, slow, slow and with so wide a wake. Turning a life seems as gradual, though with moments of sudden, forward clarity if one is fortunate and receptive. One thinks one is there, and one is not, yet. And the rocking of the waves stirred in the process, what currents and cross currents do they send out that wash through the lives of others in ways we cannot know.

   I am convinced that this life is a dash in a continuum, that there are no throwaway beings, nary a flea, and so I think we have no choice but to pour all our misadventures into an alembic and strive to transmute them.

    Will we never be who we might have been, or are we who we were meant to be, precisely because of our blunders and the patterns of mischance?

By Lou Rogers, my mother. Oil on canvas. I do not know the title.

Little Mermaid, again...

Still on the year's Carnegie Dinosaur toy prototypes.  Alas, I cannot show them to you yet. Safari, the company producing them, very much wants the subjects to remain a surprise until they are released for public consumption. But thereafter, I’ll post some in progress images, and further develop the Carnegie Museum Dino page.  Meantime, here’s the Little Mermaid. You likely saw her before, but...  I aim to do more with Hans C. Andersen tales over the next while.

Almost...

...out of this year's dinosaur marathon. But meantime:

"Tell all the Truth but tell it slant---"

                                   ~ Emily Dickinson

One of the great uses of art, I think. And also sometimes of humor.

"The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them."
                                              

                                                                    ~ Thomas Merton

Interview with Prehistoric Times

I was honored to do an interview with Prehistoric Times, a quarterly publication for dinosaur enthusiasts and collectors. It appears in the current issue (no. 92) and was instigated by Dan Liebman of Dan's Dinosaurs, who asked excellent questions.

Yuki Onna

My take on a little Yuki Onna, snow spirit:

She's a miniature in Kato polymer clay, with silk and mohair.

Baba Yaga Dressed