Los gitanos reales

I'm grateful to Andrea Jepson for sending this photograph of her painting to me.

The 90's sometime in the 90's.

1994.

Fall of 94.

The Gypsy Kings with Susan and Kevin at the Greek Theater.

Noe Street.

Escucha me
I remember, I think, that I thought of painting doves and oh, a dozen seriphim at least: that what was needed was to add more light all around, toss the light into corners, sparks at the end of the guitars, fireworks between legs; I wanted to fringe the carpets with sunbeams, add more roses and flying mouchoir, as if light and each feathery stroke were the music of the universe and the whole thing were pure notation, a score for dancing, something someone else could sing.

I look at this and have the impossible idea that learning to play the violin is still an option.

Or that I will finish reading 'Don Quixote'.

I look at this and recall a conversation with a friend one Hollywood evening in France, the sun going down, the Gironde all farmer's red, Bordeaux in the glass, silhouettes to the west, and questions about art and work re-asked, like...our best shots...what painting is your very best?

I am in a theater.

I look at the stage and feel (Roman) concrete under my legs.

I watch silk shirts with Algeciran patterns, Dionysian sweat, Berkeley zip codes, and all that hot music.

I am in love with the audience.

It is a small painting on tempered masonite, 12x13 inches, one of several hundred pieces of masonite just the same, panels for shelving that once held plastic stick-on letters at the Flax discount art store on Market at Valencia. Flax recycled the boards, sold them for 50 cents a piece, I loved them, I bought a lot, made a lot of art on them.

Like this one.

And this one.