and could afford to experiment with student-quality paint and cardboard for canvas.”
“I had absolutely no idea,” Carolyn murmured, running her finger-tips over the soft pliant bristles of several paintbrushes.
“A few years ago was the worst, when inflation was so bad. Prices just skyrocketed. I didn’t have Susan’s gallery then and I was scrounging to have my work shown anywhere—laundromats, anywhere. For a while I even had to stop working till there was a little money again…Either that or sell my body for paint, which believe me was a temptation. Imagine me down on Hollywood Boulevard—a six-foot hooker.”
Val lifted a large canvas that leaned against a wall facing into the light and propped it against the box. “This is another in the series I’m doing. It’s finished.”
Carolyn felt enmeshed in the painting, as if she were caught in the multitude of tiny shapes tinged with pink and green against a riotous background of wiry dark green. The detail of the painting was dense, the images covering the canvas from edge to edge without break.
“Manzanita,” Val said, frowning at the painting, chin between a finger and thumb. “This particular kind grows along the California coast.”
Carolyn said faintly, “I feel like I’ve fallen into the bush.” She was frustrated by her inability to articulate her perceptions.
“You do? That’s wonderful.” Val looked genuinely pleased. “Susan likes this entire series and this one in particular. She says it’s like a Pollock, and I guess it does have that barbed-wire effect.”
Swiftly, Val removed the canvas and replaced it against the wall. Her upper arms in the sleeveless T-shirt were lighter tan and large, the muscles firm and smoothly working as she pulled canvases away from the wall. “Here it is. This one’s almost finished.”
Carolyn blinked at the feast of color—red, yellow, blue, and white hues and tones. “It looks so…joyful,” she managed to say, again angry with her inadequacy, her eyes drawn to the rich yellows and blues, following and exploring the color patterns.
“I like how you react to my work,” Val said immediately. “This is a fusion of desert flowers. It was very hard to do. To me the desert has always been like a starving entity that goes on an incredible binge in the spring, as if to compensate all at once. I wanted to show the profusion, the sheer extravagance.”
“Warm,” Carolyn murmured, “the painting is warm.”
“Thank you. That’s what I was hoping to achieve with the reds and yellows. But balance was such a serious problem with so many color tones…Color is energy; colors act and react with one another. There were more decisions than usual about composition. I do love the red flowers,” Val said, smiling and indicating a section with blossoms shaded rose to reddish purple, the stamens long and white and tipped with scarlet, the branches profligate. “It’s called a fairy duster. Remarkable, isn’t it? And this one with the brilliant leaves and inconspicuous flowers is Indian paintbrush.”
“Did you…do you paint from memory?” She wondered if the question was foolish, if any question she might ask would be foolish.
Val hesitated, “Well, when my work isn’t representational, actual color isn’t relevant—it’s just one of the many elements you synthesize in creating a painting. I usually sketch and make color notes and then let things percolate in my head till it feels right to begin. But for this series I took pictures. I have a terrible camera but I matched my snap-shots with high-quality photos in books about desert flowers. That’s how I learned their names. I want to do more of these paintings, focusing on light and shadow. I’ll need to look very closely at the actual flower for those, too.”
She pointed again. “This flower’s called blue sage. This one’s baby blue eyes. Aren’t the names marvelous? The white with the bluish band down each petal is a desert lily. See
“I had absolutely no idea,” Carolyn murmured, running her finger-tips over the soft pliant bristles of several paintbrushes.
“A few years ago was the worst, when inflation was so bad. Prices just skyrocketed. I didn’t have Susan’s gallery then and I was scrounging to have my work shown anywhere—laundromats, anywhere. For a while I even had to stop working till there was a little money again…Either that or sell my body for paint, which believe me was a temptation. Imagine me down on Hollywood Boulevard—a six-foot hooker.”
Val lifted a large canvas that leaned against a wall facing into the light and propped it against the box. “This is another in the series I’m doing. It’s finished.”
Carolyn felt enmeshed in the painting, as if she were caught in the multitude of tiny shapes tinged with pink and green against a riotous background of wiry dark green. The detail of the painting was dense, the images covering the canvas from edge to edge without break.
“Manzanita,” Val said, frowning at the painting, chin between a finger and thumb. “This particular kind grows along the California coast.”
Carolyn said faintly, “I feel like I’ve fallen into the bush.” She was frustrated by her inability to articulate her perceptions.
“You do? That’s wonderful.” Val looked genuinely pleased. “Susan likes this entire series and this one in particular. She says it’s like a Pollock, and I guess it does have that barbed-wire effect.”
Swiftly, Val removed the canvas and replaced it against the wall. Her upper arms in the sleeveless T-shirt were lighter tan and large, the muscles firm and smoothly working as she pulled canvases away from the wall. “Here it is. This one’s almost finished.”
Carolyn blinked at the feast of color—red, yellow, blue, and white hues and tones. “It looks so…joyful,” she managed to say, again angry with her inadequacy, her eyes drawn to the rich yellows and blues, following and exploring the color patterns.
“I like how you react to my work,” Val said immediately. “This is a fusion of desert flowers. It was very hard to do. To me the desert has always been like a starving entity that goes on an incredible binge in the spring, as if to compensate all at once. I wanted to show the profusion, the sheer extravagance.”
“Warm,” Carolyn murmured, “the painting is warm.”
“Thank you. That’s what I was hoping to achieve with the reds and yellows. But balance was such a serious problem with so many color tones…Color is energy; colors act and react with one another. There were more decisions than usual about composition. I do love the red flowers,” Val said, smiling and indicating a section with blossoms shaded rose to reddish purple, the stamens long and white and tipped with scarlet, the branches profligate. “It’s called a fairy duster. Remarkable, isn’t it? And this one with the brilliant leaves and inconspicuous flowers is Indian paintbrush.”
“Did you…do you paint from memory?” She wondered if the question was foolish, if any question she might ask would be foolish.
Val hesitated, “Well, when my work isn’t representational, actual color isn’t relevant—it’s just one of the many elements you synthesize in creating a painting. I usually sketch and make color notes and then let things percolate in my head till it feels right to begin. But for this series I took pictures. I have a terrible camera but I matched my snap-shots with high-quality photos in books about desert flowers. That’s how I learned their names. I want to do more of these paintings, focusing on light and shadow. I’ll need to look very closely at the actual flower for those, too.”
She pointed again. “This flower’s called blue sage. This one’s baby blue eyes. Aren’t the names marvelous? The white with the bluish band down each petal is a desert lily. See
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