Art stuff, blog

Scary piece

In thinking about my friend, Patty, going through chemo, and ready to face the sickness associated with it, I found myself gathering image parts from the web, cutting things out, and modifying them. I needed to work with images I had not made, but with parts of pictures I found that could become part of it. An anon reprint of a witch photo, a flower, some handmade paper, some background and writing of mine: I added these and made up the whole.

As a photographer, I feel funny about using found images but ironically, I do not feel funny about isolating a subject and taking a photo. It reminds me of when Lucho and I were in the pampa of Chinchero and he was painting a tree. The man from the hut nearby came out and demanded Lucho pay him, as that was his tree.

I suppose it is because the image is made of parts I did not create that it is disconcerting to me but then every photograph or painting is made of something out there that one did not make. A creation is an interpretation with a new meaning, not a rip off. I think of Robert Heineken’s magazine page work and how he created something with a meaning and aesthetic entirely new, made from a piece of paper with images on both sides, NOT his images.

I sound like my own apologist. Anyway, I love taking bits and pieces and turning them into something else. I suppose all collage artists work that way.

In any case I am adding the photo which even scares me.


Notre Dame is Burning Down

As I type. My thoughts this last week have revolved around the Second Law of Thermodynamics. Order to Entropy. Today on CNN I watch a 12th Century structure, a magnificent world icon of architecture, burn, crumble, and plummet to the streets below. It is painful for the French, but shocking to this viewer (who has never been to Paris), as a metaphor for the fruitless efforts of humanity to withstand inevitable destruction and decay, be it sooner by fire or later, when the Earth itself gets fried to a crisp.

My existential crisis is coming to grips with that. I seem to have gained some perspective, given what I have learned about the nature of matter and the universe. The arrow of time moves in that direction. Here today, gone tomorrow. By no means is that statement cavalier. I am simply adjusting to the newness of my lessons. Humans make wondrous things, creation being something that sets us aside from other living things on our planet. We achieve marvels in art and architecture, music, literature, and science. Partially we create from a conscious need for self-expression, or from an unconscious urge, or perhaps another for a attempted glimpse at an eternal life. How many more reasons may there be? Unknown. I wish to make my mark, but am very uncertain of any success. It does not diminish my drive that I have no personal gain, other than a sense of satisfaction that I have done something I think communicates itself to another.

Notre Dame is far more than the sum of her parts, even of what were her parts. The impact of awe upon her visitors may have been transitory in the scheme of things but it was there. In six billion years, no. But, for a time, the deep impression of marvel upon millions was enormous and real. Why humans create is absurd and beautiful. Perhaps even more beautiful because they are impermanent.

sex, Sexy stories

Sexy Stories from Lima: #3

In the provinces of Perú, there lived a great uncle, we will call him Toribio. He was quite unattractive, described as squat, hunchback, with stingingly abhorrent halitosis. If that were not enough, he was a man of extreme avarice, a miserly man, whose greed nearly rivaled his disagreeable appearance. Some who knew him well described him as bitter, but his closest relatives recalled him as utterly repugnant.

Now, if those qualities were not enough, he was also openly lecherous. His young niece, when undressing after a dinner party in the presence of a girlfriend, nearly naked, laughingly but with some disgust, referred to removing his eyeballs from her breasts.

Once, on a trip to Paris, aged Uncle Toribio and his young nephew decided to employ the services of two ladies of the night in their hotel, to satisfy his unquenchable libidinous appetite. Word has it that a beautiful young woman came to his room, asking for $200.00 for anything he wanted to do. Licking his lips, he replied that be would give her $20.00, for anything he still could do.




blog, sex, Sexy stories

Sexy Stories from Lima: #2


I apologize for the delay. The Trump/Clinton debate so upset my humor and constitution that I needed to avoid all social media, really social anything, for a minimum of 24 hours. On with the stories.

A friend of my cousin, a young married woman in her 30’s, Señora X, let us say, purchased a cell phone for her 5 year old daughter so she could communicate with her from work and such, putting her daughter’s nanny in charge of the device.

Day before yesterday, Señora X borrowed the phone for a minute to look up a number she had forgotten and found a series of pornographic images of the nursemaid, taken in Señora X’s own bed as well as in her own underwear, spread eagle to tantalize the anonymous recipient/s. Outraged, she immediately began a search for a new nursemaid but, as is rather typical of Limeñans, has not fired her until she has found a convenient replacement.

Curiously, yesterday, at a well attended luncheon in their home, Señora X’s husband passed around the same cell phone so all their guests could ogle the infamous photos, the maid (unaware, of course) being a server.

sex, Sexy stories

Sexy Stories from Lima


Since I arrived in Lima two days ago, I have been rather shocked by the scandalous reports about several contemporaries living here in this city. They all relate to sex, in one way or another. So, I thought it might be entertaining to share some of the details with you all. It is not really gossip as I will add no names and, indeed, unless you are a member of the inner social circle here, you could never ever guess the identity of the actors.

I will be here for the next three weeks so, as someone shares a sexy story with me, I will  pass it on to you, dear readers.

Story #1

Yesterday with my cousins we were discussing another young cousin, of another generation, maybe 20 years old, in love with his cousin, on his mother’s as well as on his father’s side. I rolled my eyes and mentioned the possibility of a tail in the offspring of that semi-incestuous relationship.

My cousin laughed, admitting he does indeed know a friend who does have a tail and, that when he makes love, it wiggles. Oh, what a wonderfully vivid vision came into my head. WHO? I asked. My cousin said he would not tell because I am acquainted with said person.

Of course, now I am determined to find out. I would never have liked to be the recipient of Señor X’s passionate advances (accompanied by his fascinating anatomical anomalies) but I would certainly love to see the video, or peek from a keyhole, just to confirm the existence of the squirmy appendage.

Tomorrow, Story #2. The Indiscreet Nursemaid

  • The image above is of a “Tapada Limeña.” It is characteristic of the dress popular in Lima from 1560 until the late 1800’s to connote insinuation, flirtation, and seduction. However, it was still a dress: the “saya” outlining the hips and the mantle covered the head and face, except, of course, a single eye. It was banned by the Archbishop of Lima in that period but he was thoroughly ignored.
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Here, There


Lately there has been a good deal of death among my friends. (And, by friends, I mean the people that I am really connected with on social media as well. I have come to care very deeply about their lives.)  I am of an age where perhaps that is not unusual; but, it has caused me to consider mortality and the afterlife and what I suspect is true. To say “believe” is too strong, like the faith of rabid evangelicals, closed to other possibilities.  Yet, I am open to the strong inclination I have to suspect that those we lose are still around us.

I do not think that an absurd idea. In considering all the things we cannot see and still rely on, from radio waves, the spectrum of gamma and infrared rays, the miracles of telephone, television, wifi, etc. that we accept so casually, why would we conclude that the energy a person possesses, their soul, if you will, just evanesces to nothingness?

I sat alone with my mother when she took her last breath; unconsciously, I had started to breathe in tandem with her, until she stopped. I waited and heard the unforgettable rattle, rat-tat-tat, rise from her chest. I still felt her presence but, after about 15 minutes, her body was just a shell. She was not in it anymore.

She and those I have loved and lost are around me, even my sweet little pets. I have stories to tell you, readers, but I do not want to share those here. I can call upon them to sit with me, help me, guide my way. What some call coincidence is a sign to watch, something that reveals itself that we may not recognize immediately.

As a message to my friends numb with the pain of lost loves, take heart. The nature of the relationship has just morphed, like water changes from vapor to ice, the same and different.



artistic angst


It is embarrassing to admit that I am anxious and insecure about what to photograph. With all the urgencies and dilemmas that face those on Earth, I am focused on ten days of delicious freedom in Rome, in May, with everything already paid for, and a camera which I love to use.

Nevertheless, I am fearful: of wasting the time, of making stupid pictures, and of coming away with nothing but the taste of pasta. NO, just walking around and enjoying myself is NOT enough. I feel compelled to make something that resonates with my spirit, that moves others, at least a few, to feel and think differently through my images.

That is not a simple goal. It weighs on me heavily, as a duty to the privileges I have, to make something valuable, rather than just fritter time away wantonly, like a silly tourist. I do know I have felt this before. Each time, though, it seems new, like a fresh viral strain of apprehension.

In my head I know I have to pass through the incertitudes, the nagging uneasiness, and the fear of failure. BTW, failure, I consider, as failure to my own standards, not to another’s. I do not expect money, fame, or wealth. I crave, on the other hand, the satisfaction of connecting with myself, to my deepest thoughts and feelings, through my work.

I do not want to offend you, readers, with what may seem the trepidations of an advantaged middle-aged woman. I want to share with anyone who, in making art, has struggled with these same demons. I try to find perspective by gazing at stars, watching the news, or moving away from self focus. Nonetheless, this angst seems to be a part of the process. I do not like it, but it is part of it, anyway. I am like the cranky child struggling to crawl or walk. Not there yet, and entirely exasperated.