American Glassmaster, Dale Chihuly

Dear Gentle Readers,
When we were in Las Vegas, we were lucky enough to view the unusual and breathtaking glass sculpture of one very talented Dale Chihuly at the Bellagio.  Beautiful as a description just doesn't come close.  Once you have seen one of his creations, you are forever changed as to what you think is beautiful and what you believe is possible.  You can recognize one of his pieces wherever you seen it.  I believe Dale Chihuly invented the American Art category of "glass sculpture."

 My mother had a collection of depression glass, so we were aware at a young age the beauty and fragility of colored glass. But Dale Chihuly's work is jaw-dropping.  His pieces are no little footed candy dishes!

Dale Chihuly was born in Tacoma, Washington on September 20, 1941. Reports indicate Dale was not a stellar student. and after graduating Woodrow Wilson High School in 1959, he bounced around a few different colleges, but nothing ignited his fire, so he quit college and went to Florence to study art.
(Lucky for us!!!)

  

 He began glassblowing in 1965 and found his true calling, becoming an internationally recognized glass sculptor.  He worked at the Murano Glass Factory near Venice.  We toured the facility, as that was something I always wanted to do. (Tour, not blow)

Dale's largest permanent collection can be viewed at the Oklahoma city Museum of Art, and visiting it is also on my bucket list.
          

His work and reputation are more prominent in the West.  I was thrilled to see some of his work in Colorado the last time we were there, similar to these beautiful flower pods to the right, with vibrant opalescent two and three-toned contrasting colors.

During a visit to England in 1976, Dale was in a very serious auto accident, leaving him with no sight in his left eye and the loss of depth perception.  (That's why he wears an eye patch.)  He once said this disability caused him to move on to working on projects of a much larger scale.  

Many of Dale's prominent pieces were chandeliers.  His initial pieces, around 1992, were modest and lovely, but soon they blossomed into beautiful flowers, and breasts, and snakes, and  all kinds of wild glass creations one wouldn't expect on a chandelier, and it was fabulous.

 In the 1970s, Dale did a series of glass paintings based on Native American designs, aptly titles his Navajo Blanket series.

The documentary, Chihuly Over Venice, was a truly spectacular event, coordinating glass and color and water and timing.  

None of these photos are mine.  I claim nothing here.  Nothing is mine, except the memories.  I looked him up on Wikipedia and Facebook.  I simply wanted to share my limited knowledge of this fabulous glass artist/glass master so my readers would associate the name, Dale Chihuly with these magnificent glass creations.



Links to learn more about him:
www.chihuly.com/  
www.ocmoa.com
He is on Facebook and Wikipedia.

Shelby's Gift by Mary Jane Morgan

                                                                                                                  Author Mary Jane Morgan

Surrogate mother Shelby Harrison gives birth to a baby boy, Kyle, and loves him instantly. He’s all she has left of her sister, Debbie, who was killed in a car accident six months ago. She’s prepared to fight for joint custody even as she battles feelings she knows she shouldn’t have for the man who is Kyle’s father – and her sister’s husband.

Ben Martin is outraged that Shelby wants joint custody of his baby. Yet after his initial anger and feelings of betrayal, Ben suggests a marriage of convenience so that together he and Shelby can provide the love and security he and Debbie wanted their baby to have.

What first seems like a workable solution quickly turns into a nightmare of grief and guilt when Ben and Shelby find themselves fighting a fierce attraction – an attraction that seems the worst possible betrayal of Debbie.

But Debbie has her own opinion and reaches out from the other side to Shelby and Ben, bringing them the love and healing they
to move forward with their lives.

EXCERPT:

Ben led the way to her room, wondering what in the hell had ever possessed him to do this. Desperation. Nothing but sure, deep-rooted desperation and fear. 

No, he’d done it for Kyle. And to help Shelby. She needed him now and he needed her.

He set her luggage down and glanced at her. She looked as scared and vulnerable as he felt, and his heart went out to her. He might be desperate and scared, but no one had forced him to bring her here. It was his choice, and it was the only good choice he could have made. “Everything will be fine, Shelby,” he said reassuringly. “Take a nap. You look about ready to fall over.” He smiled. “Call me if you need anything. I’m here for you.”

     She gave him a soul-searching, lost look. He crossed the room and pulled her against him. Sighing, he laid his cheek on her thick, soft hair. He stroked her back and felt some of her tension ease. Slowly she wrapped her arms around him, then laid her head on his chest.

     As they stood in silence, both there for the other one, a feeling of contentment settled over Ben. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered, and much to his surprise, a part of him really meant it.

LINKS:

Mary Jane Morgan

http://www.maryjanemorganauthor.com/

Facebook

 https://www.facebook.com/pages/Mary-Jane-Morgan/747822251897173

Amazon.com http://www.amazon.com/Mary-Jane-Morgan/e/B006BJ20TI/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1424443653&sr=1-2-ent 

Charming Deception, Through the Portal by Carol Ann Kauffman

Chapter One

Confusion

Okay, where the hell am I? What happened to me? The last thing I remember is… nothing comes to mind. Nothing looks familiar here. I turn toward the window. It’s dark outside, cloudy, not a star in the big, black sky. The room is dark. I’m naked in this big, comfortable bed. Judging from the smell of the lavender scent on the perfectly ironed, high thread-count sheets and pillowcases, I’m either in a very high-end luxury hotel or in one of Martha Stewart's guest rooms.

 A snore interrupts my thoughts. Apparently, I am not alone. I glance over at the noisy lump beside me. Nope. Don’t recognize him. There's a very strong possibility that I've been teleported back to the free-loving sixties. I get up quietly to go to the bathroom. A glint of gold catches my eye from the ring finger of my left hand. I'm married? Oh, shit! When did this happen? This isn't the sixties. This must be Vegas, baby. I creep quietly into the bathroom, close the door, and snap on the light. Definitely a hotel. Plain, antiseptic bathroom. Martha Stewart's guest bathroom would have scented candles and a sense of style, hospitality, and luxury. And not so much white. White walls, white floor, white towels, white shower curtain. A rather bizarre-looking attachment on the faucet, and another one on the showerhead. I look at the mirror. I carefully touch the mirror to make sure it was a real mirror, not a…what? What else would it be? Oh, God, I’ve gone mad. I peer into the mirror.

Yikes… well, I give that bony lump sleeping beside me credit for marrying me when I look like hell. Good grief, he must be a total loser. I examine my dull, spotty complexion, wild Einstein hair, and the bags under my blurry, bloodshot eyes. My head hurts. I check myself for bruises, scratches, and sore spots. No, nothing. Well, at least I wasn’t attacked. So, what do I tell that Bony Lump?

‘Hey, Bozo, whatever happened between us, it was just some bizarre mistake. Gather your things and get the hell out of here. I'll contact my lawyer to annul this fiasco as soon as I get home. Now go!’ Then I’ll point to the door for dramatic effect. Oh, yeah, that sounds good.

As soon as I get home. Home? Where is home? I can’t remember. I look back at the reflection in the mirror. I can't remember where I live, or how I got here. I can't remember where I work, or what kind of car I drive. I can’t remember my name. A…Amy, Ann…B…Barb…Bebe…C…Cianna… Carrie…Carol, no.

Hmmm. did Bony Lump drug me? Did he drug me, take advantage of me, and then, marry me? No, why would he do that? That makes absolutely no sense. I wiggle the beautiful gold wedding ring with a large brilliant cut diamond in the center. Weighty. Expensive. Good fit. And… slightly familiar. Oh, look, a little tan line. Now, how can that be? This has to be a dream.

I snap off the light and creep silently back into bed.

Oh, crap! That might have been my last chance at escape if this lump beside me is a kidnapper. The sooner I go back to sleep, the sooner I’ll wake up, and this bizarre dream will be over. D…Diane…E… Emma …F…Franka, no G…Gigi… H…Helen… I… J…Janie…K… Katie…L…Louisa… M…M…Marie…Mena…Mmmm.

Bony Lump rolls over and pulls me to him gently, hugging me, patting my shoulder.

“It was just a nightmare, my love. I'm right here. You're safe,” he whispers sweetly in a sexy, sleepy voice. “Go back to sleep. You’re safe. I’ll protect you. Always.” He kisses my head gently. He has a wonderful voice. British accent. Kind. Reassuring. Gentle. Loving. Very touching.

So, what else could I do but fall asleep in his arms, with my hand on his just-hairy-enough chest, breathing in his familiar scent.

Amazon Link: 
https://www.amazon.com/CHARMING-DECEPTION-Carol-Ann-Kauffman-ebook/dp/B01N2Q7HOT/ref=la_B0076OMJY8_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1488764662&sr=1-7

The Art of David Hockney

David Hockney.  I had seen his paintings before and liked them, but I never associated his paintings with his name, until flipping through the channels one morning and seeing a segment on him and his work. This particular segment had to do with his new works that are done -- wait for it -- on his iPad instead of a canvas. 

Wow, what a great idea! No muss, fuss, or mess to clean up. This guy is really on to something.




This painting to the right is one of his iPad works, called Purple Calla. It is lovely in it's composition and use of color, it's attention to detail, and the fact he did it on his iPad.
I have trouble drawing a neat box or decent circle around something on the iPad with my finger or a stylus.

 David Hockney is an English painter born in 1937. He has been in his live a set designer, a draftsman, a photographer, and a printmaker. He was part of the fabulous Pop Art movement of the 1960's and is considered to be one of the most influential painters of the twentieth century.

This is my favorite David Hockney painting, A Bigger Splash, painted in 1967 the old-fashioned way, with acrylic paint on canvas with a brush. I love it's clean lines and uncluttered essence, it's highly realistic style and his vibrant use of color.  If I could have painted half this well, one quarter even, I would have stuck with my Art major and been happy as a clam. Are clams happy? How do we know?

The panel above it a copy of one of fifty canvases of trees that are part of a giant wall collection called Bigger Trees Near Water, painted in 2007 and on display at the Tate Gallery in London. It depicts the forested area where David grew up in Yorkshire, England, between Bridlington and York. 

Nothing here is my own and I claim nothing. Info from wikipedia and his artist website, hockneypicture.com where there is more information on his life and his outstanding works of art.

Schedule for March 6 - 10, 2017

Mon., March 6 - The Art of David Hockney   

Tues., March 7 - Charming Deception, Through the Portal
by Carol Ann Kauffman

Wed., March 8 - The Art of Hilary Eddy

Thurs., March 9 - Shelby's Gift
by Mary Jane Morgan 

Fri., March 10 - American Glassmaster Dale Chihuly