Old spuds and new duds.

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This is really devolving. God only knows why I am being so revealing these days, airing my ill-fitting laundry to the world on this blog. I should really just tell you about my dip pens and the quality of the binding on this book. Instead I’m writing about my new fantasies of myself as suave and debonair on the one hand and hoarding old potatoes on the other. Sad, really.

Alright, I will reveal that I am inappropriately proud of those paintings of taters. And of how many shades of purple I was able to mix with just two bottles of watercolor.

Now if I can only find a sharp tuxedo. Or a leather jumpsuit. Something that won’t show ink stains…

Happy Birthday, Jerry Lee!


My colors are a little murky here. I love the vermilllion in my paintbox but it is so soft and rich, like lipstick, that it can easily overwhelm my page.

I notice the rooftop on this row of buildings on 9th Avenue when I walk to work. I like the jumble or chimneys and windows and, because the street is very wide here and the buildings are set against a large flat wall, the corner looks like a set. It reminds me of the many times we have gone to see La Bohéme at the Met.

I was invited to a taping of a concert Jerry Lee Lewis played on his birthday. I got to meet The Killer backstage beforehand. He is quite well preserved and charming and, once he got out to his flame-covered piano, seriously rocked out with Willie Nelson. As always, it was very hard for me to draw while great music was being played, particularly standing surrounded by a coterie of models in the semi-darkness. Nonetheless, I wanted to keep the memory and beavered on.