TEMPORISTA
illuminated
gesso
clarum
glaire
graduations
to
temper
&bind
in
virtuosity
Every day is a fresh start, a new beginning.
We can reinvent ourselves
We can be revitalized and inspired.
We can instill hope and love in others.
Every face we make, every word we utter
Every movement of our eyes and smile
Can uplift and enthuse
We can indulge ourselves in positivity.
Each day is a new day.
Yesterday is gone; it is foolish to chase it.
Today is a blank computer page.
A canvas without Gesso.
What we decide to do today
Can make us a hero or a villain
Can uplift and inspire or bully and oppress
Let’s be revitalized and refreshed,
Let’s instill love and hope
He ran the palm of his hand across the canvas,
Felt its soft, smooth surface, excellent fabric.
It was well primed with gesso, and he was sure
The end result would be an immortal masterpiece
The quintessential fragrance of daffodils,
a carpet of yellows in secluded woodlands,
new-born lambs on wobbly legs bleating for milk,
bees irresistibly drawn to luscious nectar.
male cotton less cottonwood trees flourish
as do the blooming peach trees erupting in fruit.
And birds flying here and there, chirping delightfully.
On one side a cottage, beautifully thatched,
with a rivulet wending its way from the water mill,
on the other, a bench beneath an alder leaf birch.
There sat a young maiden fair to behold,
on his knees was a young shepherd hand outstretched,
barely touching, proposing, as she smiles happily.
The painter looked satisfied. It had taken days
But finish it he did. The Museum would be satisfied.
After all weren’t all his vast landscapes immortal?
The flow of the brush
slobbering colored pigment
upon the gesso...
Emerging from the
hogs hair brush tip a minute
color avenue.
Written 3-2-19
For: "Creativity In Visual Arts Poetry Contest"
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
TORRE DE BABEL
Busco a Paz
encontro confusão,
isto é verdade
na Babel da religião.
Raça, tribo, nação
em todo planeta,
línguas em confusão,
paz não aceita.
Deus, O grande Eu sou,
Pai da humanidade,
Não da religião,
quer a Sua Verdade.
Por caminhos toscos,
caminha o homem,
em tudo insensato,
como um Totem.
Rejeita Deus em sua soberania,
Tem mais valor sua religião,
A de outrem diz valer nada,
Só a sua Deus dá aprovação.
Cria ídolos mudos surdos,
estátuas estáticas que adora,
de gesso puro,
e diz que a Deus fala.
De Deus somos,
imagem e semelhança,
com ele direto falamos
Cristo é nossa fiança.
Deus o Todo Poderoso,
É o Grande eu Sou,
o Incriado.
O que a tudo criou.
Torre de Babel,
o homem confunde e se confunde,
destila fel,
quando religião defende.
a verdadeira religião
é com Deus estar,
ter o próximo no coração,
somente ao Pai adorar.
Arbitrar e conciliar,
não esquecer o órfão,
a viúva apoiar
a paz levar.
não se aliar a corrupção
oferecida pelo mundo,
levar sempre no coração,
a paz do Todo Poderoso.
José Carlos Pereira
Francisco Morato, 20 de Novembro de 2017
São Paulo Brasil.
(after a drawing by Ghirlandaio)
We see that it was dashed off in a trice,
without a trace of reticence or nerve.
The contrapposto thigh, the shoulder’s curve,
are perfect. Nothing wasted. All precise.
And yet it has the power to entice,
with just a hint of maidenly reserve;
vitality and vigour, volatile verve,
it offers us a glimpse of paradise!
There’s movement in the stillness. Chimes unheard,
the breeze, unseen, that’s ruffling the flounces,
are ghosts in the machine: thus Vergil’s Word,
the gentle kiss of gesso, makes, announces
the life that’s in those folds and clefts and flourishes.
The Word’s made flesh - and what it strokes, it nourishes.
When he starts a new painting,
Canvas stretched taut against the defining frame,
Gesso-coated smooth and even,
Pure and uniform…
How does he begin?
Are his tubes of paint arrayed in careful rows,
Summer colors first – winter colors last?
Is the final result already in his mind,
Or, does it grow organically,
Layer upon layer?
Does he paint all the reds at once,
The blooming roses and spurting blood?
Are the blacks a backdrop for stars
Or a prayer against the coming night?
Is the smear of green a leafy tree?
The blue streaks a sky?
How can he tell?
And, after all the colors are piled up,
And the canvas is awash in paint,
Leaping from the edges of the frame
Ready to crawl across the wall…
All this I can understand in my engineer’s heart
But… how does he know when it’s done?
This is why I prefer nature to modern art.
God knows we’re not finished yet!
It snowed last night.
Sometime after the New Year arrived
And left everything pristine
Covered in a thick gesso
Applied by Mother Nature
For just such an occasion
As I looked upon this glory
I realized it was a gift
A new beginning.
The palate has been wiped clean
It was a new world.
I took my snow ski’s from their resting place
And bundle up for a cross country ski.
It would be brilliant to be among that which made me
And appreciate the quiet that only new snow fall brings
And of course to give me time to reflect upon my life.
Where was I?
Where had I been?
Where was I going?
All valid points on this the first day of a new year.
I grinned ear to ear as I slipped into the morning light
It was going to be a good year.
Colors of the sunset
painted on the sky canvas
mixed emotions
abstract thoughts
impressions of love
cloud strokes lost
a palette of dreams
sits by the waste side
a talent of words
a misguided brush
a nervous hand
so many imagines
can't comprehend
a gesso of emptiness
search for a masterpiece
a work of art within a universe of undiscovered
sunrises
Memories of a love I’m losing
arrested thoughts on sculpture paper-
an altered photograph, adorned
by hand cut leaves, evergreen shades, and lace
From the page emits, cricket songs
drifting to gloaming, and on and on
into my own mandarin twilight.
I adjust a pair of glittered wings
to your thorax, twiddle them
these symbols of your intending flight
Next, I place a crumpled love letter.
its text, garbled by smeared on gesso
Covered so no one will guess the message-
except, perhaps where a small spy glass
magnifies, I LoVe YoU- I LoVe YoU-
High on the page a bluebird brightly sings
10/28/2013 10:17 AM
Here's a tangled thready mass of dental floss
Glued on some canvas board with gesso
Each layer of the spider's snare dyed a different color
One layer dried then layered o'er another
Oh the marl-morning sour-gut history
The saw-toothed plaque-frozen mystery!
There's corn beans and sirloin on the string
Microscopic V-8 a thermal-digested chicken wing
Good bad medium days
Hidden 'neath and in filet
Here's Jackson Pollock with his dripping
Splashing abstract expressionism
Pollock though a genius failed
In splashing paint pale after pale
To realize a more thrifty less messy way
To say through teeth what he had to say
To picture this:
the artist in her truest form:
Morning light in dusty shafts
nipping her wild hair to burn,
Turpentine fingers to print the palette
Dark sienna, aquamarine,
blues on a canvas with gesso skin
a favorite cd to play, repeat
Lips in quirky concentration
brushes to put behind the ears
and one faded shirt worn through in places
stained with love of hardened oils
vermilion, ochre and scarlet tint
Feet gone bare to feel the carpet
feel the wood and the tile too
Absorbing the sounds from the world around them
Setting the pace of the afternoon
Back on the verge of almost aching
Fingers gone stiff with emotion's glue
purging of soul to the owner's survival
covered with paint through and through
The truest form, of art or love
revealing on canvas communiqué
falls into the realm of the most asked question:
is the art or the artist the masterpiece?