Portrait of Anatomy
Mine’s more like an O’Keeffe/Twombly; born of bougainvillea brush strokes; unraveling petals bearing, groaning out the sixty-eight genius children of Javier O. Huerta. He knew the meticulous folds don’t come easily; the internal orchestration almost impossible to disseminate. But, I declare ---
It can be done. If you go back to the petals - really think about the color: blue-white delphinium, a wink of pink; saturation begins inside naturally, just beyond the stamen line - in the background there is the sea, angry at the unfinished poetry, starts another grocery list; she can’t remember all her old lovers - unaware Cy is watching, unwise to the trick of the tide, molding her size, dictating her movement, spills her secrets on the sand. Georgia is diving in again, deep deep commitment, to an Iris, her lips of lavender-mauve, ripe for artistic improvement, gives herself over, and over and over, a wave folding, a flower unfolding, myself - miraculous folds of female modern art: hybrid growth of complexity.