Opera Bastille at Amis

Simple. Direct. Even has corners, which for me is rare. In my painting life, I am drawn to organic shapes, round, ovoid, irregular, odd. Things Fibonaci would like to count. Except there are doodles in my sketchbooks of rectangles of color standing alert with shadows cast and lines marking their place on the page. All of my years of technical and architectural drawing rise up occasionally and demand some time. My urge is to make them softer, rounder more welcoming. But right now, I long to straighten edges, cross hatch value, measure angles. Codify with measurements and topography. Quantify. And yet, I see tuxedoes here, gowns and smell perfume richly wafting through the air. The orchestra warming up, the audience hurrying to their seats. I need ruffles and flourishes, spaces to dream. Wiggle room in the measure, a soft edge or two.Possibilites unexplored, not quantified or fixed. Paint not yet tamed.There is perfume in the purple and a dance in the blue.