If I wrote well enough to write a poem, I would write a poem about Playing. On summer afternoons in the south of France, the Mediterranean hardly a breath away, our poem would be about playing pétanque. The object of the game is to toss a steel ball, a boule, so that it gets closest to the target, the cochonnet, than the boules of whomever we are playing against. Or rather, playing with. Because the real object of our game is not to win, but to have fun with friends, and strangers, and with each other.
In the painting, the man in the white shirt has just launched his boule into space. The object of his aim, the cochonnet, is the small, reddish ball in the foreground. As an artist, I was less interested in his accuracy than in the scene itself: the intense attention of the other players, the sunlight and shadows, the summer heat of Provence. And of course, a fascination with summer afternoons, with playing, and with you, wherever you may happen to be.
Those summer days in France happened years ago. Now I’m in a Mediterranean port in Spain, drawing and painting dreams. Summer is ending. October just peeked out from under the skirts of September. Leaves fall, the nights grow longer. On the other side of the world, my country seems to be drowning in waves of mistrust, spite, lies, fear and hatred of other people. Fear and hatred of women too, especially women like you.
From one heart to another, here’s an image of a memory for you, to play with you again, now, wherever you may be. Even if it may not be summer anymore.
YOUR USE OF SHADOW AND COLOR ON THE PAVEMENT BROUGHT THE SENSE OF A FRESH BREEZE FOR MOI.
MUST BE THAT OLD REPTILLIAN BRAIN WHICH OCCASIONALLY BLENDS AND INTERPRETS THE 5 SENSES AS A COLLAGE SIMULTANEOUSLY…. THEORY WAS ON HPR…ONE IN THIRTY THOUSAND PEOPLE CARRY THIS CHARACTERISTIC. YOU MUST HAVE IT IN SPADES.