Tag Archives: photography

What Dreams May Come…inspired by my husband w/love

What Dreams May Come
What Dreams May Come
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what lies beneath … art blogging/journaling

“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.” 
― Pablo Picasso
what lies beneath
what lies beneath

There is a company, Stampington Press, which produces many magazines about art and blogging and journaling.

This is the process I use and I find it a great escape, but check out the many magazines they offer online and in many stores, and see what process you want to design for yourself.

First, I pick some materials.  In this case a photograph from 2008 of a Magnolia tree in bloom.

(If you are doing a hand piece, grab some paper, and a  few tools: magic markers, pens, colored pencils, stickers, bling, and/or whatever you like, but don’t feel you must have the whole art supply cabinet with you.  Once you have a few items, sit with them and see what emerges.)

Second, I pick some tools.  In this case, Photoshop.

Third, I start playing.  I work with this e-media in my day job, so to make it fun, I just try different filters and things I know how to do.  In this case I duplicated and cropped the picture 4xs to make the frame, which also has lighting adjustments made to it.

Then I played with the Magnolia photo itself, enlarging it and filtering it.

Finally, I saved it and then started layering the layers.  Then, all of a sudden:  this photo was done.

I named it what lies beneath because it reminds me of a time when I bought a picture only to find others underneath it.  A common experience for flea market investigators.  I thought it would be fun to find a quote to go with it so I googled art quotes and Goodreads showed the quote by Picasso at the top.  Serendipity, I guess.

@claireaperez@gmail.com

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Being held at the Lansing Community Libary…click for details.

 

 

“God Bless America,” land that I love

kate-smith
Kate Smith…former house in the Adirondack…song: click here

In the Adirondacks, on Lake Placid,  a boat tour guide will tell you as you as he slows the engine and pauses in front of the house that was Kate Smith’s, that she would sing from the balcony.

In the stillness last summer, I heard her famous voice belting out God Bless America.  As if reverberating  through the decades to wrap me, and US, in soothing protection.

In the quiet with no cell phones buzzing, in my mind’s eye, I saw Kate Smith on her balcony. My mother’s mother, I am told, loved Smith’s famous “God Bless America,” she had three sons in World War II.  Perhaps that fact about my Grandmother made Kate Smith’s voice and spirit boom even louder for me that day.

They say your offspring will care about what you care about, and this, my grandmother’s love for Kate Smith and God Bless America is about the only thing I know about what rested in my grandmother’s soul. 

Today feels heavy, but I pray we keep Hope and our values alive…just as Kate Smith did during World War II.  

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President Obama believes in us…he proved his campaign slogan and he is not dying.  Obama has  led us, WE THE PEOPLE, to an inevitable tipping point.  That veiled line between justice and injustice, …   It is up to us now to keep dusting ourselves off  and hear his voice to participate, help each other out, and believe that YES WE CAN! 

one evening, many years ago

19 years on a farm

My husband and I were talking late at night about what we saw during a lovely summer day.

Oh, he said, “I was walking near the lower pond and I saw the most beautiful fox running toward the Western field.” He went on to describe its golden-red color and the way it ran through the Western trail, long beautiful grasses on either side of it.

I then thought about my trip home and the beautiful animal I saw lying dead at the edge of the neighbor’s driveway. “I think I saw that fox.” “Where?” asked my husband. I told him.

“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” he said.

Perhaps one day, when we see these beautiful animals as road kill, we will cover them up, one by one, with a sheet.  A day of reverence…this was actually my husband’s idea.  I think it is a good one.A day of passage, a writ of honor.

Trail
Trail

 

Summer into Fall

Pictures, some enhanced with color,  and filters

Sunflowers = seeds plus strategic protection from creatures who dig the seeds up, drought that dries the soil up, and creatures who eat the finished flower
Harvest Time

Bolt Castle…Summer 2016

I do not, hear me, Do Not, want to go outside. Signed Moby! on a rainy day, or any day that looks cold or messy!
Breakfast after Bed….upside down French Toast
A walk among the trees
The Summer Wanes

..amended poem of Joyce Kilmer Oates

I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a Sycamore tree
Sunrise, Sunset, swiftly flows the life…first heard from Fiddler on the Roof as sung by my Uncle Ed in 1973, circa
“A place is more than the sum of its physical parts; it’s a repository for memories, a record and retainer of all that has happened within its boundaries.” ― Kate Morton, The Distant Hours
“Oh Mrs. Dalloway, always giving parties” The Hours
Almost Timeless
Try to remember the kind of October that was this beautiful

 

 

 

 

 

And so it came to pass, that like most Thanksgivings during my 19 years on the farm ,the spirits let there be snow for Thanksgiving

Deliberate

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Henry David Thoreauimage

one door

one door opens for blog

claireaperez@gmail.com

The quote my Father repeated

Sunset in upstate NY summer
Sunset in upstate NY summer

My Father would be 86 in a few days, he died years ago.  But as if in warning of the precious reality of time, as if to remind himself, he often said this quote throughout the full 44 years I knew him.

Spring passes into summer, and through summer and autumn into winter, only the more surely, by its own ultimate return, to triumph over that grave, towards which it resolutely hastened from its first hour.

Cardinal John Henry Newman

Photographs: some of my favorites

I found somewhere in my archives that at 16 I wanted to be a photojournalist. I was discovering the New York Times then and I was thinking action, adventure, and travel. That was good until I discovered in college, I really did not like flying, and until I discovered later in life, that I am a bit of a home body. Creature comforts trump adventure for me. So, as I am always telling my friend Myra, one must bloom where they are planted. Ironically, I am in the middle of a lot of vegetation and life with a gardener. So, here is a collection of some of the pictures, many of which have appeared here before.

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photo: Moby loves Macadew
Moby loves Macadew

My Child, You are the devil’s stool!!

You get old and you realize there are no answers, only stories.  Garrison Keillor

St Patrick's 21st Century, adobe water color, source below
St Patrick’s 21st Century, adobe water color, source below

 Link to St. Patrick’s picture, source Wikipedia commons.

This is St. Patrick’s Grammar School, the one my grandfather, Harry J. Lagonegro, an Elmira businessman and co-founder in 1912 of the Arctic League*, attended with Hal Roach, the famous Elmiran who produced the The Little Rascals comedy series.  According to my Mother, they became life-long friends because they were  outsiders, my grandfather was Italian and persona non grata in an Irish Catholic milue and Hal Roach was protestant.

At this same grammar school, my Mother, years later, with some real Irish blood in her, attended grammar school during World War II.  I later attended religious education here. It is now, residential apartments.

This is the story…

sitting at my Mother’s kitchen table Saturday, I mentioned I might like to write a book about my public school teaching experience: the high school I taught at recently closed.

“Well,” boomed my Mother, “you will have to start with my getting hit with a yardstick in grammar school!”

“What?” I replied.

“Yes, one day Sister took me out into the hall, whacked me on the arm with a yardstick and screamed, ‘You are the Devil’s stool, You are the Devil’s stool.’

My mother started to laugh…”That is what I heard, but, of course, what she really said was  ‘You are the Devil’s tool, you are the Devil’s tool.’ “

My mother was born in 1931  and three of her five brothers were soldiers in World War II.  She went on to tell my husband and I that when she was having a bad day, she’d start sniveling a bit, and say, “We got a letter from my brother yesterday.”  I surmise this kept some of the yardsticks away.

Recalling a different incident and not specifying whether it was before, or after, her whacking, my Mother said,

“I was so naïve, one day Sister asked the class if anyone had any old yardsticks they could bring in for her.”

 My Mother continued, “I enthusiastically raised my hand and brought one in for her.”

My Mother raised her eyes to heaven as it to say, can you imagine.  Yes, I can, women always at the ready to be helpful, and teachers that abused authority so badly the logical counterbalance was to take their authority away.

*Arctic League-The Arctic League began in 1912 as a group of baseball fans who met regularly at Harry J. Lagonegro’s cigar store at 157 Lake Street. 

©claireaperez@gmail.com