Elan Mudrow
Smidgens
Category: Portraits
Words can paint, each letter, a bristle of a brush. The sentence becomes a stroke. Paragraphs shape objects. A portrait needs no beginning, middle, or end. When we look deep at a painting, we can’t help but wonder why the Mona Lisa smiles. If you look deep enough at portraits, close enough to pick out desire, they jump out of the frame. The frame is the story. Break out! Break out!
The Small River
Although I haven’t seen the small river yet… the one tucked back in the Coast Range, I know the trees will come up to its edge, some will lean too close, arching over the water. Ferns will dot its shores, trailing back to darker…
Been Leaving Ever Since
There used to be a couple. Bud, Miller. Pissy, yellow stuff with names of factory workers and truck drivers. Now, flavors flourish like house cats, calico, Siamese, tabby. He loves tabs. Drunk on credit. Purrrrrrr. That’s something to be proud of. More important than…
The High Desert
The cougar is up high in a yellow pine, hidden. I only see his misplaced paw print, formed when the mud was thick last spring. Now, the trail has dried into cracks, wrinkles in the earth, his movement of the past solidified. He won’t…
Enclosed
Hawthorne Street, Portland Oregon, April 2019. Click on image to enlarge. More images can be found here.
Tough Daylight
Chiado District, Lisbon Portugal, May 2019. (Click on image to enlarge.) More images can be found here.
Ripple
Branches, once a small bridge, lie over missing mud, lose their original meaning. Now, a hard turf sits like a soft concrete, an uneven glaze dried upon them. The branches are caked, bricks in dirt, an ancient architecture. I see the trail, in its…
Recent Comments