Wait, Wait, I Never Did Find Out...

...What is the color of love?

The End

Today we looked at our final digital experiments drawn from our direct experiences of color. There was a great variety of palettes employed including monochromatic, complementary, split complementary, triadic, and analogous systems as well intuitive systems. It was interesting to see how everyone fused together the wide variety of experiments we've been conducting in these final works.

Hope you all have a great winter break.

Good luck to everyone next semester!

digital interest

work in progress

my color experience

An erosion of color, A master piece in its prime. Reds Greens and yellows showing through over time. Completely in awe at what has just taken place, Pale purple lips on my plush red face. Dark grey clouds as the storm rolls in, Wide brown eyes as the session begins. Sweat stained pavement,Red eroded rails.Hoops. Hollers. Curses and Yells. Lost in color conveyed over time, this skate shit has always been mine!

a few exhibition opportunities

Art House Co-Op is sponsoring a sketchbook exchange. Works will be exhibited at 8 locations around the country. You can sign up at their website http://www.arthousecoop.com/project/list.
The deadline is January 15.

Another great opportunity to apply for is the exhibition Reclaimed at Target Gallery in Alexandria, VA. It will focus on objects that are made from recycled materials and reinterpreted into works of art. Check their website at http://www.torpedofactory.org/galleries/targetcallforentry.htm.
The deadline is January 13.

direct experiences with color

As you are all gathering material for your final series of four digital works inspired by your direct encounters with color, I thought I'd post some of the poems I read to you in class. These poems capture so well each poets' direct experiences with color and the multi-layered meanings embodied in the colors. Reread the poems and think about what the colors are suggesting to the poets and to you as a reader.

********

Color As Beginning

 Forget love
I want to die
in your yellow hair

Richard Brautigan


********

Rock azaleas,
flushed red
by cuckoo's cry.

Basho

********
Blackberry-picking
  
  Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Seamus Heaney

********

Crab
  
  When I eat crab, slide the rosy
rubbery claw across my tongue
I think of my mother. She'd drive down
to the edge of the Bay, tiny woman in a
huge car, she'd ask the crab-man to
crack it for her. She'd stand and wait as the
pliers broke those chalky homes, wild-
red and knobby, those cartilage wrists, the
thin orange roof of the back.
I'd come home, and find her at the table
crisply unhousing the parts, laying the
fierce shell on one side, the
soft body on the other. She gave us
lots, because we loved it so much,
so there was always enough, a mound of crab like a
cross between breast-milk and meat. The back
even had the shape of a perfect
ruined breast, upright flakes
white as the flesh of a chrysanthemum, but the
best part was the claw, she'd slide it
out so slowly the tip was unbroken,
scarlet bulb of the feeler—it was such a
kick to easily eat that weapon,
wreck its delicate hooked pulp between
palate and tongue. She loved to feed us
and all she gave us was fresh, she was willing to
grasp shell, membrane, stem, to go
close to dirt and salt to feed us,
the way she had gone near our father himself
to give us life. I look back and
see us dripping at the table, feeding, her
row of pink eaters, the platter of flawless
limp claws, I look back further and
see her in the kitchen, shelling flesh, her
small hands curled—she is like a
fish-hawk, wild, tearing the meat
deftly, living out her life of fear and desire.

Sharon Olds
********