My friend, The Painter, Louise Wallace, has been doing some interesting things with mustard yellows and blacks.
"You know, So And So. The Poet" he said. With a gravitas that made me chuckle. And what was it? a wretchedness too, he identified in her. Which also amused me from a man mostly too busy with his own wretchedness. So I'm rushing somewhere when I'm hijacked by a yellow field gashed with dark hashes and I have to stop and take a photograph of that for Louise. 'Debbie like. Who else would look that good in a swimming costume and fly shades?" she said. That made me chuckle as well.
Margaret O'Hare, you know, The Photographer