the TWITTERING machine

I have been revisiting some OLD memories tonight from a girlhood spent painting lines in colors and spinning shapes on a wheel in a damp basement studio in Buffalo New York with tangelo orange shag rug & cold cement walls.
Summers whendayyyys werespent museum-hoPping with my beautifulartist mother.  I was remembering thestark white walls of the Albrite Knox museum where she would walk with the purpose and certainty of a womanwho could educate theworld about anypainting orsculpture you so much glanced at, and I wandered with lighttoes and a deep curiosity while I tried to absorb herknowledge via some form of art osmosis. As she clickady clacked down the halls of whatevermuseum we were in, in whatever awesome sparkly shoes she was rocking at the time, my eyes never stopped bouncing from one painting to another. a Victor Vasarely that made me dizzy,an elegant Degas in the center of an otherwise emptyroom, to the high strung female guard combing the shuffling room with nervous eyes darting from one dormant camera bag to the next.

I fell in love with a few little masterpieces during those years, and  I was trying to remember the name of an old favourite of mine, and, when it dawned on me a minute ago, it gave me a niiiiiice littlebelly giggle...

The Twittering Machine . Paul KleeOil transfer drawing, watercolor and ink on paper with gouache and ink borders on board

Gnashing on: My cheeks
Sippin' on: Apple juice
Listening to: the overflow of sounds from Leigh's rusty Seinnheisers next to me in bed-he must be making a new song. .  .  .    .     .



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