tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24172375025306818612024-03-12T18:12:33.425-07:00K. W. MorfordKenneth Morford's unique paintings, drawings, and writings about his special friendship with Matt Urban, and musings on growing up in Glenwood, Michigan.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-44067995313391684732014-05-26T11:11:00.000-07:002014-05-26T11:11:37.384-07:00Memorial Day<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ubba3lvXqOM/U4N-lpSJC7I/AAAAAAAAAdw/EHJIvsLUfqk/s1600/matty+in+his+office.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ubba3lvXqOM/U4N-lpSJC7I/AAAAAAAAAdw/EHJIvsLUfqk/s1600/matty+in+his+office.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matty, the first day we met <br />(image property of Kenneth Morford, please ask permission before use)<b><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN;"> </span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> The
woman I had just spoken with, walked to
the end of the long corridor and stopped an elderly man coming from a side
door. She placed her arm around his shoulder leaned into his ear, and pointed
toward the entrance where I was standing. He smiled and nodded in my direction,
and I acknowledged with a wave, even though I later learned he could not have
seen me through the one way glass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> But I didn't know, and so I kept smiling and
waving like a nervous little boy. From where I stood, I
could easily see a pantomime of conversation; I saw the moment Matt mouthed the
question “Who?” to Carol’s motioning
toward me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> And there it was, the face that I
would draw and erase a hundred times before landing the perfect likeness, the
one I lost long ago in my transient life. There he was, the same man I had seen
speaking to Charles Karalt about
President Jimmy Carter’s emotional reaction to giving him the Medal of
Honor. There he was, Matt Urban.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> I can
still see Matt stuffing his shirt
into his pants and straightening his narrow belt while making his way down
the hall toward me. His hand dove into
his back pocket and pulled out a small comb. He threaded the dark piece of plastic quickly through his long hair,
tucking the locks behind his ears with one hand while patting the side of his
head with the other; ensuring every aspect of his hair was in place and
"presentable" he would later confess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> No one ever combed their hair for
me. A habit from a time when men removed their hats inside a building, checked
the fold of the back of the collar and brushed a hand across the mustache to
make sure everything was in place. Feeling self-conscious I followed his role, and
straightened up myself, running my hand over the top of my head; forgetting
just for a moment I was bald.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">"Mr.
Urban, so nice to finally meet you. I've been a fan for a while and discovered
we live in the same town."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">"Nice to
meet you too, you 're Ken?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">"Well Ken,
come into my office. Carol tells me you’re an artist. She mentioned you were
interested in doing my portrait.” I will
never forget how he grabbed my sweaty palm with both hands, and treated me like
an old pal he hadn't seen in years. And
so begins the first of many hundreds of memories I will finally share about my beloved
Matty.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> I see the visage of my friend in one
meaningful experience after another, and I am moved with gratitude for the
decade I shared with him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> And now, this online sheet of paper begins to
bring him back to life. Slowly and clearly the memories return. And there he is, my dear and precious
friend. There he is, just as new and fresh as the first day I saw him coming
down the hallway of the Holland Civic Center in 1985.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">Matt began
pulling out the drawers to his metal filing cabinet. They were filled with
different sized photographs, which he removed by the handfuls and placed on his desk. We pored over each and every one, and on the back of each and every one,
was a comment written in longhand from a noted celebrity or an anonymous
friend. There were plenty of photographs for me to use as material for a
good likeness, but I was overwhelmed by the casual appearance of famous people
congratulating Matt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> In one photograph, he is with the President
in the white House. In an older picture, a barbecue with General Westmorland.
Layered in between the pictures were hand signed letters from Gerald Ford, Ted
Turner, and the widow of Omar Bradley. I
began to feel embarrassed for thinking I was important enough to even approach him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">Feeling a
little ashamed, I confessed to Matt ,
the portrait idea was just a ruse. I confessed how really, I just wanted a way to get in the door; to meet Matt Urban
because he was famous. For the first time, he laughed aloud, shook his head and
said, “So, you just wanted to rub shoulders with the top brass?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">“Yeah,
well, I wouldn't mind a promotion,” I said looking down at the floor. With a
shared laugh, I realized this was the moment that kilned our friendship into
something solid. Matt made a confession
of his own, and said no one really asks about things anymore. He mentioned how
he had been offered money a few years
back to sell the rights to his story, but turned the offer down. He was
concerned about being portrayed as someone more important than the men who
fought beside him. Reaching into another cabinet drawer, Matty pulled out a
manuscript, cleared a space , and set the thin document in the middle of his
desk in front of me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">“I've been
working on a book.” He said. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> “In this book, I want to mention everyone who
was there beside me. Sergeant Evans, Benny, Sebock, all my men. I especially
want to talk about my parents who went to church every night and prayed for me;
all the years in combat, each and every night-because they believed- I
believed- I would survive.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">As our
time together grew in length and texture, we maneuvered far away from the stacks
of photographs and impressive correspondence on official government
stationary. My newly found friend had
taken these images, one by one, and
pulled the threads from around the edges and allowed the very fabric of
their presentation to drift through an
open window out into the streets. I
watched this man carefully unravel the celebration of his much deserved award. With a thorough pull on the tightest bind around an unimaginable remorse, he ascribed the true ownership of
honor, “to every young man who died in my arms.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">“They
should be wearing this medal Ken, not me.”
As Matt Urban spoke in the softest of words I had ever heard, he held out a small slender box and opened
the hinged lid. Inside was the very Medal of Honor he received from President
Carter five years earlier. I didn't know whether to say something, or just keep
quiet. I couldn't believe it. I did not ask to hold the sacred award.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">Quietly,
he leaned back in his chair and whispered the name of Billy Goodman. He turned
to me and smiled, then pointed with his
chin toward the window as if he had just seen someone looking back through the
thin layer of glass. Matt Urban began
telling me the story of his loss.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> I held
my breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">November 8<sup>th</sup>,
1942, <b><i>Operation Torch</i></b>, was his first exposure to the horrors of
combat. He remembered the first hour, of the first day, and seeing his beloved
friend decapitated. He described being
so overcome by an emotion he had never felt before; how he grabbed what was
left of Lt. Goodman’s head and attempted to put it back on a still warm body.
He tried to close off the escaping steam
rising from the neck on either side of his friend’s face. Seemed a sensible thing in the midst of
unquenchable fear- to bring him back to life, if there is yet life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> Long pauses
appeared in between the flow of
his conversation, like puddles forming beneath the seams of a broken eves trough.
Each moment added weight and measure to the silence. They appeared to me, like drops
of water, making those perfect circular ridges, radiating outward and forever
until there is no where left to go. This was my cue to respect his hesitation;
to fill this silence, with my own thoughts and wait for him to speak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">I no
longer cared about the pictures and neither did Matt. We left his office of the
Holland Civic center, and began running
side by side, M-1 in hand and vested grenades toward the <b><i>Kasbah fortress.</i></b> Gunfire
is heard in the distance, but the bullets strafe the ground near by, “Snipers.”
He warns, and we keep going. “They’re
Germans, right?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">“ No,
French Legionnaires,” Matt whispers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">“But I
thought…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">“I’ll
explain later.” he cautions, putting his finger to his lips. We are sprinting
now. Soon the bullets are just missing the ears. Matt is
swatting at them like mosquitoes, and I am scared to death. Skimming pass the
edge of my nose, a bullet finds its mark in the body of another man. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">All these
men died years before I was even born. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> I am feeling guilty for some strange reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">Matt
glances over at me, removes his helmet.
With worried eyes he says he needs to rest for just a minute. Without a
word, he leaves me temporarily. He needs to help his men struggle through just
one more hour, just one more minute. I
turn away from him , to see Carol putting the vinyl cover over her typewriter,
and getting ready to leave for the day. I look back to see the gentle soldier
has fallen asleep in his chair. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN"> I stare at him in wonder. He looks every bit
the part of the legend I had heard he was. He is not really here; he is
somewhere near <b><i>Port Lyautey</i></b>, getting the young men of the <b><i>9<sup>th</sup> division</i></b>
settled into their bivouac following a costly mission.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">I waited
beside him while he slept. I understood he was not taking anything away from
me, but sweeping up the remnants of a long day and putting them away. Matty is
leaning his head against the side of a canvas tent and listening to the
quiet benediction of a summer rain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-73470755422106763572014-04-26T08:43:00.000-07:002014-04-30T20:33:58.497-07:00Matt Urban: The Last Good Day<div class="MsoNormal">
Matt Urban collapsed on my birthday in 1995, and
lay in a coma for another week before he died. The last time I saw Matt
alive, I was curled up next to his hospital
bed, sleeping on those awful folding chairs. During the early morning hours of
March 4th, while his wife and daughter left for a necessary breakfast, I
quietly stroked his hair, and whispered
in his ear how much he meant to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> Visitors
to the hospital were running back and forth from their cars
throughout the entire night, shielding their heads from the rain with magazines
or newspapers. Sometime during the dark hours, I could hear the unmistakable sound of ice typing out a rougher prose
against the window. I turned to look at Matty one more time because I knew I
could no longer stay awake. I was near the edge of consciousness, where all
thoughts make perfect sense and questions give way to tacit understanding. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> As
the sound of the storm grew stronger, I
pictured all those frantic souls running to the lobby with soggy paper draped over the top of
their heads. I thought to myself how much the rain must love these human faces-
so very much more than puddles or cervices along abandoned roads and swelling
creeks. How each and every storm will trick us into looking up with squinting eyes, just to gather more around the parts
they seem to enjoy the most. Maybe the rain finds something in common with the
place where tears are shed and want to feel something just as we do; maybe the
storms want to be a part of us; to be anything other than the shapeless life
they have outside of these human bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> The endless
traffic on the highway grew quiet as it should be. And I pictured the pavement
being scrapped clean by a single piece of bread, making its way around an empty plate, sopping up all the muddy
gravy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0px;">
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> When I
awoke, Matty was still breathing. I
walked over to the window and turned the handle on the venetian blinds
expecting to see something ugly and mean below.
But the daylight came, one match at a time, to each branch of sycamore and
maple below covered in ice. Smoldering sweetly, tiny flames began to form, then perfectly- burning like the
tips of candles on a hundred chandeliers. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN">Parked
automobiles had been adorned and rounded off with the whitest frosting of snow, and each and every newly
fashioned dessert, waited beside a tall and shiny spoon, that only hours before had been a parking meter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Coming back
into the room with tears in her eyes, his wife Jennie sighed, “Oh look Matty,
this is all for you.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">I drove home
very slowly that morning, and threw
myself into bed the moment I made it through my door. It seemed only a short
while before Jennie called to tell me Matty had passed away .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"> I have kept so many memories to
myself; stored away in a packaged deal with my own mortality. I owe my friend
another version of a life well lived; to speak of an addendum to his story, the
story of a life long after
the hedgerows of Normandy. And I will tell you, of this incredible
friendship; I will tell you of this incredible man- in the coming weeks and
months, but how do I begin and end a story such as this? The story of Matt Urban, my great and
enduring friend? I will try. I will try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.kwmorford.blogspot.com/"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YZRi0rC9Kuc/RflivnlRVFI/AAAAAAAAABI/zSCykIgTZQ4/s1600/Matty.jpg" height="290" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.kwmorford.blogspot.com/">Painting by K. W. Morford. All rights Reserved.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>You may find a copy of his book, which I illustrated, here:</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.hpbmarketplace.com/The-Matt-Urban-Story-Life-World-War-Two-Experiences-Matt-Urban/book/4239353?cm_sp=rec-_-RHS-_-p1-0&qsort=p">"The Matt Urban Story"</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-32537082497372167142012-01-05T05:44:00.000-08:002014-04-26T08:44:13.221-07:00Christmas Pears<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-02xmJn_1TmM/TwWpgBTH79I/AAAAAAAAAao/v8Ip93K4E8Y/s1600/IMG_1647.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-02xmJn_1TmM/TwWpgBTH79I/AAAAAAAAAao/v8Ip93K4E8Y/s200/IMG_1647.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694143671449415634" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a>This was a gift to my wife for Christmas. The hardest part of the adventure was switching out a different canvas when she walked into the kitchen where I was painting; trying to make her think I was working on something else. She almost caught me once.<br />
<br />
I have been avoiding a strong palette these days, and so I had to constantly ask my daughter for advice on the color. To me, the pears look like they were rubbed with pastels and set on a plate. Nothing blends in or fits together. Of course, I can always say my paintings are intentionally impressionistic, but then I would be lying. I think I make the fundamental error of most people who are color blind, by asking for help in seeing, because I am asking for information I can't possibly use. How can I really know what red is, if I have never known red?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-89849816054717654062012-01-04T13:23:00.000-08:002014-04-26T08:45:29.172-07:00Edible Paintings: Tomato<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tc6-iedDthM/TwTDYfLukbI/AAAAAAAAAaY/REn21uskiuo/s1600/IMG_1649.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tc6-iedDthM/TwTDYfLukbI/AAAAAAAAAaY/REn21uskiuo/s200/IMG_1649.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693890654358114738" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
I found this in the attic, a painting I had done twenty years ago. I still love tomatoes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-21974342508134583672012-01-04T13:13:00.000-08:002014-04-26T08:46:35.121-07:00"old pencil " drawings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FXYImKgjggk/TwuMcUkKVxI/AAAAAAAAAbM/eVz6Myi458Q/s1600/IMG_1653.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FXYImKgjggk/TwuMcUkKVxI/AAAAAAAAAbM/eVz6Myi458Q/s320/IMG_1653.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by Ken Morford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-52298614959655647892012-01-04T12:30:00.000-08:002014-04-26T08:47:57.586-07:00Thrown AwayLately, I have been drawing on paper that someone tossed away, and using what's left of pencils made fifty years ago. I am thinking in my mind, there are faces left in the remnants on that tablet, and something left unsaid in those old discarded pencils. Who are these faces, and what are they trying to say to me? I will listen.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x06zMafw13U/TwS3ABTNydI/AAAAAAAAAZU/f0WmhphXJDo/s1600/IMG_1651.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x06zMafw13U/TwS3ABTNydI/AAAAAAAAAZU/f0WmhphXJDo/s200/IMG_1651.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693877039880063442" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing on Old Paper by Ken Morford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-86522498539723992052011-09-01T18:11:00.000-07:002014-04-26T08:49:46.067-07:00"Spill Life" Drawings: Morning Coffee<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3tynf03qyVA/TmAtiYyopKI/AAAAAAAAAX4/Zc5HBSl7a8I/s1600/DSC06986.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3tynf03qyVA/TmAtiYyopKI/AAAAAAAAAX4/Zc5HBSl7a8I/s320/DSC06986.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647564001516233890" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Spill Life" drawing</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-33245023110349714862011-05-20T07:26:00.000-07:002014-04-26T08:52:37.997-07:00"Spill Lifes" with coffee<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_P3RY1mPWpY/TmAzzCvQ-rI/AAAAAAAAAYI/rvLZFLpfocY/s1600/DSC06991.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_P3RY1mPWpY/TmAzzCvQ-rI/AAAAAAAAAYI/rvLZFLpfocY/s320/DSC06991.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647570884724062898" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jeremy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IUPwJV_6a6E/Te1TwRLnUGI/AAAAAAAAAXw/MCv6N8K1fAs/s1600/spill%2Blife%2Bjeremy1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}">
</a>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kk56i_CEgE8/Te1PSiBdIYI/AAAAAAAAAXg/aHYDjK5gBeQ/s1600/evaporation%2Bfor%2Bken.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Kk56i_CEgE8/Te1PSiBdIYI/AAAAAAAAAXg/aHYDjK5gBeQ/s320/evaporation%2Bfor%2Bken.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615231490190025090" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evaporation</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-81706529223303353932010-10-23T14:57:00.000-07:002014-04-26T08:53:50.646-07:00Joan of Arc<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNaZF2ozWI/AAAAAAAAAW0/sTTM3xIRCfk/s1600/coffee+stains+1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNaZF2ozWI/AAAAAAAAAW0/sTTM3xIRCfk/s320/coffee+stains+1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531364154455674210" style="float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 292px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan of Arc, "Spill Life" painting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-17869305749116404702010-10-23T14:46:00.000-07:002014-04-26T08:54:58.121-07:00Crayon Drawing (and the model involved)<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNZaxz_4WI/AAAAAAAAAWs/C7Eai04j37g/s1600/jeremy+coloring.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNZaxz_4WI/AAAAAAAAAWs/C7Eai04j37g/s320/jeremy+coloring.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531363083924005218" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNZaSkfaDI/AAAAAAAAAWk/JGsgpr9VpJw/s1600/DSC00589.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNZaSkfaDI/AAAAAAAAAWk/JGsgpr9VpJw/s320/DSC00589.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531363075537463346" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-56841289875949788602010-10-23T13:29:00.001-07:002010-10-23T14:45:11.356-07:00Working with Watercolor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNFv88NOuI/AAAAAAAAAWc/fSi9syPevbg/s1600/ken+and+jeremy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/TMNFv88NOuI/AAAAAAAAAWc/fSi9syPevbg/s320/ken+and+jeremy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531341457455921890" /></a>Painting with watercolor is like painting with the light from the sun, what you leave out becomes the most important focus of the picture. Painting with watercolor is like writing on blank paper, what you do not say allows the reader to fill the empty places with their own words.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-19126041117936480942010-04-10T08:22:00.000-07:002010-10-04T19:09:33.169-07:00Drawing<img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 241px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 201px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458529690614384130" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/S8CX1UT-RgI/AAAAAAAAAWE/NmQ9hGy8Wt0/s320/DSC09223.JPG" /> <i>There is no such thing as a line in real life, but the eyes and brain accept the long thin roll of carbon as though it were a common thing.<br />A common thing to see each each of us wrapped inside a soft black thread as we walk from our cars or sit on the back porch telling stories.<br />We look at a drawing and recognize faces, names; the shape of hats, elbows, and tired eyes and say, "that's him alright", or "you call that art?" For me, drawing is like fishing on a square white lake pulling out the endless shapes that live just beneath the surface.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-15077659983876807742010-02-13T09:04:00.000-08:002010-02-13T09:29:34.232-08:00Speed<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/S3bbnW-PGWI/AAAAAAAAAV4/-v_ZK39su4U/s1600-h/DSC07577.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437775069324450146" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/S3bbnW-PGWI/AAAAAAAAAV4/-v_ZK39su4U/s320/DSC07577.JPG" /></a><br /><div>He thought his life was too slow, </div><div>and so he believed smack was the answer. His friends would set him up for awhile, and he would return the favor, keeping each other suspended along the edge of precipice. "You need to get high like me" he said, but I told him when he is old, life will look different from the ground. </div><div>Just before he leaped, he promised to wave good-bye when he passed my window.</div><div> </div><div>And now I stand above his grave, scraping away the snow and leaves, covering up a name only I remember.</div><div>Life will look different from the ground my friend, when you are old</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-83578598032806155912009-09-22T15:11:00.000-07:002009-09-22T15:12:51.067-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SrlLr2RGVHI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UzV_uA6OB1U/s1600-h/DSC03970.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384418046171829362" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SrlLr2RGVHI/AAAAAAAAAVo/UzV_uA6OB1U/s320/DSC03970.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-37782078881434795682009-07-31T16:06:00.000-07:002009-09-09T12:57:31.847-07:00Salvage: drawing free hand on paper I found in the street.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SqgHoVsElbI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/ySxrpU30La8/s1600-h/DSC03582.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379558144492213682" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SqgHoVsElbI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/ySxrpU30La8/s320/DSC03582.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SnN5RxTKyjI/AAAAAAAAAUI/hOdOtrKNYTg/s1600-h/DSC02326.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364764927326865970" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SnN5RxTKyjI/AAAAAAAAAUI/hOdOtrKNYTg/s320/DSC02326.JPG" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-64220888167996950702009-05-30T13:33:00.000-07:002009-08-13T16:49:10.100-07:00Drawing<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SiGYm5OMvxI/AAAAAAAAATg/ow3pPtyFBQw/s1600-h/christian1.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341718427000946450" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SiGYm5OMvxI/AAAAAAAAATg/ow3pPtyFBQw/s320/christian1.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/SiGYc8ruC7I/AAAAAAAAATY/QT2o7EdlDSo/s1600-h/christian2.JPG"></a><br /><br /><div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-56089564519388520732009-05-16T18:21:00.000-07:002014-04-26T09:39:27.329-07:00Experiment in Grey wash<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg9mm6Tj_wI/AAAAAAAAATQ/WC514-dmTX8/s1600-h/DSC01111.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg9mm6Tj_wI/AAAAAAAAATQ/WC514-dmTX8/s320/DSC01111.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336596902129696514" style="float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Ken Morford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-7586453263468263292009-05-16T18:10:00.000-07:002014-04-26T09:38:13.246-07:00Rebecca, Unfinished<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg9kpM8DoyI/AAAAAAAAASw/VeFtxnKghgQ/s1600-h/DSC01112.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg9kpM8DoyI/AAAAAAAAASw/VeFtxnKghgQ/s320/DSC01112.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336594742467863330" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
...quick paint sketch </div>
<div>
as yet unfinished</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-66682655665371456332009-05-16T13:27:00.001-07:002009-05-16T13:27:31.328-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hrrUjzKI/AAAAAAAAASg/c0C69SGkuE8/s1600-h/margaret.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336521117704375458" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hrrUjzKI/AAAAAAAAASg/c0C69SGkuE8/s320/margaret.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-84827442033543563782009-05-16T13:25:00.001-07:002009-05-16T13:25:45.969-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hRQs3uOI/AAAAAAAAASY/t-V0kAEKTD0/s1600-h/ray2.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336520663881988322" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hRQs3uOI/AAAAAAAAASY/t-V0kAEKTD0/s320/ray2.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hOFGEy8I/AAAAAAAAASQ/0NyIHAcyUvQ/s1600-h/ray.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 259px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336520609226869698" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8hOFGEy8I/AAAAAAAAASQ/0NyIHAcyUvQ/s320/ray.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-87447622785208908892009-05-16T13:10:00.001-07:002009-05-16T13:10:49.055-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8dxHw1iqI/AAAAAAAAASA/dP2bl9ngT68/s1600-h/amarand.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336516813192006306" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8dxHw1iqI/AAAAAAAAASA/dP2bl9ngT68/s320/amarand.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-17659248622615456972009-05-16T13:07:00.000-07:002009-05-16T16:43:33.624-07:00Watercolor of blue brown and grey<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8dICkNbGI/AAAAAAAAAR4/vWsUB1rg9PQ/s1600-h/DSC01107.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336516107422231650" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8dICkNbGI/AAAAAAAAAR4/vWsUB1rg9PQ/s320/DSC01107.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-13015127610250270632009-05-16T13:03:00.001-07:002009-05-16T13:03:43.973-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8cGxfFb1I/AAAAAAAAARw/mul3IFP6xvc/s1600-h/emily.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336514986145836882" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8cGxfFb1I/AAAAAAAAARw/mul3IFP6xvc/s320/emily.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-77764283372941511122009-05-16T12:23:00.000-07:002009-05-16T15:29:01.900-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8-I0blylI/AAAAAAAAASo/yKtd-afzo7Q/s1600-h/rebecca.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336552404691569234" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8-I0blylI/AAAAAAAAASo/yKtd-afzo7Q/s320/rebecca.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8SyF_Dw6I/AAAAAAAAARQ/Af6asbhR_74/s1600-h/DSC01109.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336504735266751394" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8SyF_Dw6I/AAAAAAAAARQ/Af6asbhR_74/s320/DSC01109.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2417237502530681861.post-17930334530452715852009-05-16T12:19:00.001-07:002009-05-16T12:19:52.869-07:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8R1MkjspI/AAAAAAAAARI/iG7TnytB7bs/s1600-h/hand.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336503689062625938" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_uWEkIgqpuR0/Sg8R1MkjspI/AAAAAAAAARI/iG7TnytB7bs/s320/hand.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00640092435707786367noreply@blogger.com0