Wednesday, 29 August 2007
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
When I first went there in 1975 the place was unspoiled by the commercial and terrifying dictatorship of the nouveau riche, so prevalent these days, with their large automobiles and noisy stereo systems. Another visit in the year 2000 showed a terrible trend of chic boutiques and expensive posadas catering to the capitalinos. But the town still survives in its secret corners and ancient stones and fossils, which are scattered all over the surrounding hills.
Once you conquer the top of the hill, the city looks sleepy in the distance. The streets are curvy and the walls high. There is some politically oriented graffiti painted on corners. The sight of sheets dangling in the wind, to dry from wire spread from every angle and every balcony, vanishes. It is then that you find this island of a park, overlooking the subtle hum of traffic down there in the big avenue.
Villa Betania, in San Sebastian, had a wonderful, lusty, semi-abandoned garden with tall trees.
There was a long hill and the morning walk, in search of El País, was a trip in itself. The best memories to recollect were the many afternoons spent by a tiny window, which overlooked a heavily pregnant pear tree, whilst sitting in front of an old Olivetti typewriter, which stubbornly kept many of my thoughts locked within its keys.
Laura Shanahan's real lineage came through one day when her blue eyes were angry. Her expression is a study in self-contained rage. The painterly angle of the crossed leg give this portrait a definite air of art school live-drawing session.
The title of the portrait is a reflection, and homage, to her Sicilian grandparents who came to Boston in the early 20th Century.
This was taken in San Francisco in 1992
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