Friday, April 20, 2012

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...

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