Cubist Campfire

In the interest of parity, which is paramount around these parts (think cookies, applesauce, bikes, skittles, pencils, paints, drawing, clothes, and anything else impossible to make exactly even), I was looking around in what I call "the keeper file," a bin of potential blog-fodder I keep close, for something colorful from Z.  I was profoundly rewarded:

I'll wait... just take a moment.

I know.  Somewhat Wyeth (Andrew)-like in gesture, a modern abstract pallet (I love the way the colors in the sun mimic the colors of the campfire, the purple woven into the blue of the evening sky) a sort of big-sky-western feel in scope.  And the oddly Cubist logs of the fire, what of them?

All that aside, and without my tongue in my cheek for a moment, what I love about this drawing is it's profound mood.  It is positively bucolic.  I mean, who wouldn't want to be sitting in that westward facing lawn chair, hotdog on stick,  under that purple-blue sky?  It slaps all the senses; I can smell and hear the fire, I can taste the hotdog, I can see the colors, I can feel the heat from both sources, I am alive in this place.

And what else is going on?  Here's is what I think:  Whoever drew this is a happy person.

From Marci's  '...things you don't expect to hear see from in the backseat yard...'

Z:  "We know how to get down, Daddy."

Yeah, well, until forty-five seconds ago you didn't know how to get up...