I have created a new series of work based on floral themes. These are collaged mixed media paintings on canvas. In researching floral paintings, I found that most offerings on the net were your typical ‘flowers in vases’ or photography studies. I wanted to present an option to designers for client needs. In particular, these originals can be done in multiples in giclee reproductions.
A new experiment with my new process of recreating generations that anyone could put on their wall, see their grandfather, father, brothers, sons, etc. The new work, which I will soon put a photo of involved incorporating 5 generations of males in my family. My grandfather, father, their father, the two brothers and my grandson. The task was to make a unified statement which the brothers (and I am giving this for father’s day to my sons) could relate to, incorporating text that was meaningful to them. I ended up with many words and phrases that they would know as family humor and places they had lived and visited all over the world. It was a bit daunting, but I finally found the answer in the process!
Spring is summoned out of icy doldrums
with icicle melt comes the crocus
poking their heads through snow vestiges.
The Buddha in my garden uncoverd sits
naked in the morning sun, wondering
if the chives and rosemary survived.
And what of the goldfish in the pond?
A new child, a spring arrival.
We see her movements on computer video
hear her unique sounds.,
and we are at once enchanted.
All this bliss as we watch the war begin on a different screen,
the blaze, in reds and oranges,
against the indigo backdrop
a silhouette of buildings, spirng arrival unnoticed.
Surrel, distant images,
troops, trucks and ordnance plowing through
sand storms.
Will there be peace in Iraq?
and now Afkanistan.
Nothing is impossible,
and will the priest heal the sick
this Sunday?
Melting icicles in the yard
signal normal in my world.
I wish for this peace for those wounded in
the name of the creator of us all.
A huge raven flying over the trees lands on a branch near the window,
and his black feathers
shimmer in the sun.
I watch his drkness as I wait
for doves to appear.
2005
Waiting in Boston’s Logan Airport with my son,
the excitement so heightened that we had to call someone. No cell phones yet. The public phone was the avenue to call dad in Michigan.
“We’re on our way to Miami, the on to Guatemala. I heard Michael say.
He is a Leo and Leo’s are bound to travel. He radiates total joy when about to embark on an adventure to an exotic destination.
A month earlier he queried, “Do you want to go to Guatemala?”
I thought a minute and then said, “Why not?”
Our butts still a bit sore from the gamma globulin shots for the trip, we squirmed in the tight seats. We landed in Miami, the took off for Guatemala City.
We found a place to spend the night before the next leg to Tikal and the Mayan ruins.
Fell into bed, pretty tired.
Awoke the next morning, got to the airplane and boarded. We flew over dense jungle and were only aware of the color green. Landing at a remote airport, found a ride to the Tikal Inn. “Inn” isn’t exactly a New England B&B. It was a center frame building with a large screed in porch where delicious meals were served. Sleeping arrangements were in thatched roof huts on dirt floor, a shower that trickled cold water, a mosquito coil was nearby the twin beds. Lights went off at 9 pm. The jungle sounds surrounded us and a stagnant swimming pool was home to the mosquitos. When I screamed after I stepped on a baby mouse on my way to the bathroom, I knew I had to grin and bear it from then on. Getting used to a jungle after coming from a concrete world was an adjustment that night.
The next morning the bright sun shone on us as we walked onto the path that would lead us to the ruins of an ancient civilization. On our way, the howler monkeys breakeating in the treetops. We came to a clearing. And there they stood! The Mayan Temples, surrounding a rectangle of grass, larger than a football field. On the perimeter, stood a temple that towered above the trees. An older woman was climbing the steps. She was 84. Michael looked at me and said, “That should be your mantra mom, Temple IV at 84.”
He is our family historian,
he moves around the world with ease,
discovering family secrets,
uncovering lost traces.
“I found the ship’s manifest online,”
he said.
“Shows the date and time Grandma Benzli
arrived from Europe, with her Uncle John
and sister, Betty.”
Seeing the document
I felt I had touched history,
a fantasy made real by virtual reality.
Michael has uncovered my ancestors from Switzerland,
has dug these lost great grandparents up
online and
now we know where the skeletons are buried.
