Saturday, December 31, 2011


You are swollen to me
With lemongrass eyes and milk silk skin
Lips of pomegranate seed
And textured apple rind

You have purpose and mission
Leaving Beaujolais fulfilled
Through emerald fields of Fontibleau
Carrying a wine bladder

Suspending layers of motivation
I haven’t thought to taste your seal
Yet you clench me, like a shell
Calloused shut squeezing a pitted core

Pallid eyes down, you came to me in a dream
Whispering once, Today is the first day;
I can remember everything you made me believe
But I have forgotten your name.

{Written by: Andrea Currie)


Euphoria of lunch dipping biscotti
Engulfing a trial of desolation
These streams of the abandoned chai
Crumbs melting into a porcelain abyss

Absent of honey and steam
Sticking warm into a belly of froth
Attaching a tongue to thighs
In one Gulp, resting inside a levied surface

Filling eyes with something
Of intangible remain,
Mealtime has migrated to another hour
So far gone.

{Written by: Andrea Currie}

For Sarah:

"No bird soars too high,
if he soars with his own wings."

William Blake

Read more:

sleep dust in our corners

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
- W.Shakespeare

Friday, December 30, 2011

Music Moving Melodies and Magnificent Measurements. "Time Goes Bye". 8x10. for details, or to commission your own tree. One of a kind, not duplicated or copied. 8x10 on cold pressed watercolour paper.

Man spites a woman's scorn; or is it the other way around? "Dietrich" 8x10.

Inspired by the German Actress Marlene Dietrich in the movie "Witness for the Prosecution," 1957. for details, or to commission your own tree. One of a kind, not duplicated or copied. 8x10 on cold pressed watercolour paper.

Flashback Road Trip Part 7: Almost home, One More Important Visit

September 21, 2011
Travel Itinerary: Thunder Bay, ON to Sault St. Marie, ON
Dark navy blue, dark roads ahead.  I wonder what the terrain looks like, and I wonder.  I smell skunk but I see a sign that says Maurice Stewart Bible Camp which appears out of no where in this dark tunnel I am racing through.  I push my foot down on the peddle. Nothing else in site, signs are scarce; just smells of damp forest and skunk. I’m driving, driving, driving...

Daylight: Lake Superior is Serendipitous. Rossport is dreamy (, periodic sounds of mathematical crashing creating a shoreline with sounds of pulling, piling and breathing, slowing my rhythm and pace.  Tree islands of innocent green grace the new orange and shades of fall.  Don’t speed. Enjoy.  Nature’s islands are speckled with houses, cottages and cabins. Shorelines meet the fog as the sky is pressing down.  

There is a symbiotic relationship between the angular rock hills and HWY 17; I know I am driving but I am being escorted. The soundtrack is Road Apples, The HIP ( – icons of this illustrious Canadian natural stew.  Gradations of grey, multiples of fornicating orange: “Don’t you want to see ‘where’ it ends”...

True Grit Canadians, a phrase I am familiar with in my respective tongue. I have heard many of these people and where they are from; what entitles our perch and balances our unsung, and I am in love with the uniqueness of every single one.

There are ghosts clinging to my thoughts from all the years I have not been here; what is a hero and what is a mentor.  Is it family? Friends? Occupations or jobs, fleeting desires compelling a search.  I am resting at this point of now as I straddle the possibilities.  This landscape makes an idea a home.  

Isn’t it fitting the “oh my” in mine, as Old Woman Bay ( lays in my arms like in some sort of dream, haven’t we met before?  From destinations traveled and stories kept, I have seen many places but nothing so close to home so unchartered.  

Lake Superior Provincial Park: ( showing moments to the sides of my side.  The destination is colourful, and huge.

What we do, and what we think we do:

Half-truths are colourful when the other side is presented.  Snake tongues and vibrant lies are bland from the other side of knowledge. Full circle means ignorance isn't blissful, and scars last longer than naivete.

{Written by: Andrea Currie}

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Best Snowboarding Jam on a White-Out day having More Vision with your Board then with your Eyes, letting the Music tell you when to Feel with The Edge and listen to the Powder... Missing Whistler!!

PLayHousesTV on the RAdio. Return to Cookie Mnt.

Inferno, c.I,v.1

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
   Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura...

{Half way along the road we have to go, 
   I found myself obscured in a great forest...}

- Dante

December 25, 2011

I feel like I grew up in this room.  The Life of one room.  The ins and out; people, visitors, dirty shoes, and clean socks. A Cottage Life, but not lifestyle.  This is where it begins.

a thought

"Pain is more psychic than real." - Morgan Freeman {on divorce}, CNN Interview, December 29, 2011

Also Known

When You

When you’re sick of my words, tell me you’re full
When you’re cold, reach for my blanket and pull me in

When you’re bored of my company, tell me so
When you fall out of love, lie.

(Written by: Andrea Currie}

Flashback Road Trip Part 6: Ontario is only half of the way there

September 20, 2011
Travel Itinerary: Portage la Prairie, MB to Thunder Bay, ON
Depart: 9:50am
I slept in... or I forgot to set an alarm, but as I leave Manitoba I realize it is as slow as a start as what I slept through.  The traffic and the skies have a restless ache and everything is grey. The sketchiest stretch thus far – hydroplaning and detouring around Winnipeg as transport trucks plough  me through monsoon puddles, flooding my view and breath.  White knuckles for hours until I reach the outskirts of Ontario. (Woodland creatures kissing the pavement now look like porcupines.)

Northern Ontario: lush deciduous evergreen dreams weaving golden hues, sprouting trees from rock hills as veils of white birches with sunshine curls stitch the wet slates of the Canadian Shield. 
No cell reception in her beautiful northern gate but there is a break in the skies and a break in the drive.  It’s time to shop:

Elgin Farm, ( Sheepskin marvels and gifts for all the fall babies in my life, whether it be itty -bitty mittens or a fuzzy eye-glass case; moccasins of moose skin strong enough to wear outside or just a simple pair of hide.  I think I will be back, I know I will be back, but my journey will be taking me the other way.

Thunder Bay.  10PM.  Holliday Inn Motel – no affiliation with the Holiday Inn.  This is the fifth hotel/motel I have tried.  Conference? The rain is sideways now, coming down in sheets.  There isn't an open sign or a vacancy sign either way, but I pull to the curb.  I can see two people sitting in the shadows of a room which could be a sitting area as there is only a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.  I get out of the car and knock on the door, but no one moves.   It is dumping rain, and the small awning above the door is only keeping my nose dry. I try the door but it is stuck.  I knock again and a shadow shuffles to me.  The door window is fogged and I can't see much else. I see a hand waving and then the door is tugged open.  I step inside with soaking wet feet and a tired face. 

There is a slight Caucasian man sitting on a high stool in bare feet.  He was the closest to the door but he gingerly strokes an orange cat in his lap.  He paints a smile like a man who doesn't speak English and watches me shake off a chill. "Are you open?" The small Asian woman who opened the door for me, hurries back to her desk that looks like a kitchen table.  She stands with her palms pressed against her knuckles.  " Do you have vacancy?" I repeat myself, this is an obvious question. "Of cor," she scoffs. The couple look at one another and then to me. 

"How did you hear about us?" The man asks quickly and adjusts the cat in his lap. 
"You are the fifth place I have tried," I say and let out a breath.
"From where?"
I am annoyed. "I can't remember, but..."
"Ya, we hauve," the woman cuts me off and hands me a piece of paper to fill out my details.  "Jus wu?"
The man looks back at my car and I look with him, "And a plant," I smile. 

In the room, I call a friend out West, to check in but to also ease my mind. I have this Hitchcock induced nervous twitch like there is a key-hole movie being filmed.  There is a door adjacent to the front door with a faint light shinning out from underneath it.  I can't see where it leads to, and there isn't a lock from my side of the door but it is locked.  Or, perhaps just completed rusted.  I push the second double bed across the room and barricade myself in and then i realized, the hinges are the opposite way and the door opens out, not in. It is late.  A few days on the road alone and I am letting my imagination get the better of me.

I shower quickly and set my alarm for a few hours from now.  Tomorrow is early -  I want take my time, I have heard and read great things about what happens next.  ... and I want to get out of this room.

i'm stumped.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011


In Cannes harbour, there is a boat named, Il ya.  I want one.

Early December, 2011. Limited Ed Print Available From Artist. $170. Black Archival Ink, Watercolour paper.

Flashback Road Trip Part 5: On the Road Again...Calgary to MB.

September 19, 2011  
Travel Itinerary: Calgary, AB to Portage la Prairie, MB.
As I leave at dawn I know I am going to marry the night with a hotel room and a glass of wine.  Though it is dark now I know the sun will eventually light my path, within an hour or so, but I do not feel comfortable driving into the night as the roads are producing sizable animal debris. (Observation, as the land gets even the road-kill has changed from small varmint to what could have been a deer head over there and the deer body over there.  Note: For lunch, something vegetarian.

The town of Bassano has farm yellow plains under melancholy skies.  The fields are scattered with brown as cattle make the appearance of our Canadian frame.  It is cool today and the air is dry but the sky is wet. I am the only Honda mixed with transport trucks and pick-up trucks, empty flat beds and farmers with soft pedals.  No one is in any hurry to get anywhere.The soundtrack of my moment is the radio proving to be a distraction for the next hour or so.

Spoon, Gimme Fiction, carry’s me from Brooks to Medicine Hat. (Calgary to Medicine Hat. 290km: Medicine Hat, We are the gas city!) ( Outside of Medicine Hat two RCMP officers have pulled a tanned 4-door car over to the shoulder of the Trans Canada.  The car is completely torn apart.  I double check my speed – I am teetering 110km as I adjust my speed, and accelerate.   The countryside leading out of Alberta is relatively straight with only a few bends and pulls.  The colours are brown and dusty yellow and I have a scary image associated with a set of thick black tire marks that skid off of the highway at a point where the road levels off next to a rather large gully. I have a lonely stare at this particular thought.  

Side-tracked with gas stations and coffee shops, rituals and celebratory reliefs of a traveller, I am humoured by its repetition.  Somewhere in Saskatchewan I am asked, Is that a pot plant? by a stunted man, a gas station attendant well-over 40 years old and under 5 feet tall. He fills my gas tank and leers into the passenger window as he inspects my over stuffed vehicle.  He sidesteps and washes my front windshield, a little too interested.  He eyes up the plant sitting on the floor.  It is my house-plant named Puka (pronounced: poo-ka, a Pachira Aqcuatica: she is green, five leaves in her stem like a hand, five fingers extending from her palm.  She is planted in a red clay pot with sentimental value or least I think so.) I tell him it's a 'money tree,' and he replies disappointed, Oh, Anyhow, I thought you were brave.   I will count this as the second gas station observation, the first was in Golden while I was on route to Calgary by a middle-age man who asked me across the parking lot.  Social barriers are knocked down when someone mentions pot.  

Regina sings "Lungs," by Florence and the Machines, ( ) and what is that smell!?  I breathe out this pungent smell that formulates a taste of rancid packaging as yellow wheat fields reel through the looking glass of my rear-view mirror. 

Portage la Prairie, Manitoba.  Super 8 Motel. , it is raining, again.  Today, 11.5 hours in total.  I had breakfast in Alberta (TC#1: 110km/hr), lunch in Saskatchewan (TC#1: 100km/hr) and dinner in Manitoba (TC#1: 100km/hr).  Alberta’s flat open road lead into Saskatchewan’s rolling and tufted landscape as shrubs and pockets of sparse trees manipulated these grasses into something coarse and attainable.  Passing through Swift Current the picturesque terrain flattened completely next to Reed Lake and then into Morse, and I felt like I was driving on water.  Then into Manitoba the scene evolved once again into these undulating hills as meadows began to realign my peripheral.  And then the rain moved in.  And then dusk set in.  And here I am cozy and snoozy...

Monday, December 26, 2011

Forgiving Withered Lines of Rain on an Ink Page

Meet me in a busy city, in a place where
We can exchange glances and commiserate distance
Through our glass of fog behind the hours
That pine the day of their shortcomings;
Sunlight pooling yellow
Casting imperfections that trace your face
Reveal a tired resilience
Painted in a baroque elegance;
From our liquid centre of folded ties
A broken silence and mirror,
Forget everything else and say it to me as a friend;
Withered hair, frayed like a furrowed brow still,
Growing into ourselves furthering from significance
We carefully treasure meaning with ruined handshakes;
Tired, life ushered with indifference,
Turning realism into vacancy
Shattering forgiveness, we polish and heave ourselves into slanted lines of gratefulness.

{Written by: Andrea Currie}

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Language and Description:

..."Six Children, and she 'bout to issue another"... - Little Women

Excerpt: Work In Progress....

He is ready to cry, pressed against my chest.
"You are a tourist," I say mockingly, "between take-offs and landings." 
I play with the curls on the back of his neck like little snakes, pulling gently on the coils.
"You do that so well."  His voice trails as I begin to place my lips against his forehead. 
"I’m going to bed," I say instead.
I let him go and disappear down the black hallway like a minnow sucked into a willing abyss.  The door closes behind me and the night cools my skin.  He will never understand and yet, I still love him.

Flashback Road Trip Part 4: Calgary is throaty rock and big boots

September 18, 2011 
Summary of Calgary
Una ( on a Friday Night: gourmet pizza on the patio - Swiss Chard, Double smoked bacon, wilted shard, goat provolone, piccante ~ a bit salty of a combo but the service and the delight of the night’s air was ours truly. The clever Stephen, our delicate and peppy server with a chivalrous bravado kept us smiling. We combined the gourmet pizza and our patio gaze on 17th Avenue with a bottle of Hugo, a Grenache/Shiraz (McLaren Vale, Australia, 2006).   The wine was not alone in keeping the evening dynamic and unfailing as we watched Calgary stumble down its concrete catwalk.  

The Trop (Bar and Grille) ( on a late Friday Night: a bar with a live band and great atmosphere.   Truthfully coined ‘around-the-corner-pub’ in all its bluster was never a let-down.  The service was bright and breezy and the fellow patrons were numbingly humorous to watch as we all mingled elbow space under the high-lit ceiling. Van Gough’s Espresso gets me every time. This bar had many kings, on top of their piles and our great escape at the end of the evening was a short walk home with heels in hand as the night was truly finished.
Morgan’s ( on a Saturday Night: a bar and a live band.  Bush League, the brining voice backed with the stunning chorus of unique and versatile scratches of classic covers and garage melodies.  Stardom into a microphone crooning the crowd as it swooned for more.  Brilliant to watch as the energy and exuberant drum player sweated and peeled for all of us, the rest sang from guts of musical reverie ~ and oh how the Lead Singer sang to me.  In the pit, fusing with the crowd, drinking bubbles of Mexican ale while everyone else fancied a rye, the conversation continued about cross-provincial-travels as this backdrop of the knee crashing and head swinging hymns became spectacles of Canadian accessory and charm. 
The Chinook Mall on a Sunday afternoon:  paying 5% tax on items instead of 13%, cruising for layers for myself... Victoria’s Secret ( making clothing confidence and rehab for new beginnings.  Lunch was an extra spicy and muddy Caesar at Joey Tomatoes, though the pretty waitresses with nothing between their high-heels to shaded eyelashes were a disappointment, the Rugby World Cup was truly shattering as the Canadians fared poorly against Ireland. 
All and all Calgary on a Sunday night is early to bed, early to rise.   It was a mellow night of checking out a point to drive to tomorrow on a crinkled paper map.  Thank you for the hospitality Cathy!!!

Friday, December 23, 2011

Flashback Road Trip Part 3: West Coast Host, Cow-town Alberta Bound and Found

September 16, 2011
Calgary, Marda Loop, Afternoon

Taking 14 hours (approximately) to get to Calgary (, I am awake after a lovely coma.  
The damp road meant taking it easy 'round the turns and twists and the few construction pits (mostly between Vernon and Golden).  Moments on the road were music at times sizeably loud and other times malleably soft; the fast-paced pavement and several flavours of gum chewed, tasted and spat and re-chewed for flavour, were abbreviated by frequent stops to digest the scene and stretch the limbs. 
An hour west of Banff ( the crown of the Cascades framed the sky amid frills of clouds in tessellations and the sun set silently but it drew cold breaths in the shade.  
Now as I reminisce in Cow-Town, I realize I have not been here in three years.  Once upon a time when I book-ended a summer in Calgary, stampeding ( and camping Kananaskis (, I came back for a few snow-sessions at Sunshine (, Lake Louise ( and Fernie (, and I pondered about making this paradise my permanent placement. 
However, as I sit here and scratch, peeling the tan I carefully acquired this summer watching it flake and whiten my once brown supple skin, I remember: Calgary is DRY! 
Observations of touring a West Coast haven are just words and maps but the spirit of the journey lies here in my self-propelled exploit because I am meeting old friends along the way who are helping me find my voice - All the while of course enjoying our similar LOVE of wine. Tonight: Bear Flag (, a blended Californian red by Beth and Hillary; spirited in flavour and bottled with an attitude.  Enjoy with picnic style nibblies and conversation which is just as funky and good.  

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Flashback Road Trip Part 2: Vancouver to Calgary. My Favourite Colour Moss Green

September 15, 2011
Leaving Kitsilano (, finding the road fresh and eyes tired, I have a CAA map for every province, a ghetto phone with an excellent long distance plan, I don’t own a GPS and I have somewhat of a dusty sense of direction. I know where I am headed, Ontario, I just don’t know the specifics.  I have a Lonely Planet somewhere - good readings for in-the-moment referencing, but between travel, destination and occupation, I will let the road be my guise for now. Haka is my co-pilot, my 2002 black Honda Civic - my warrior for wisdom and medium for scene exploration. 
Lehman (
Sumas (  Names layering geography towns and their peripheral pictures of plump green floors as I remember sermons heard in liquor store aisles as this is the getaway with a south-east bend. The road that travels next to the rolling trees and evergreen hills with peek-a-boo bouquets of coarse red rock make this my scene as I take my time and meander in this sluggish route.  Eventually I will tour off of the TransCan to see a little more of this majestic green. 
Chillowack and emerald stretching farms - Where business grows (; Bridal Veil Falls Provincial Park - another stop in this abundant sprawling paradise.  
Hope ( is misty mountains as the sky sheds atmosphere.  Rain flecks my windshield and I am finally beginning to digest these next few hundred (820) km’s. ( (.......Please don’t rain the whole way........)
Crowsnest Highway(HWY 3), detour through Manning Park (; swirls of green smokescreens weaving olive, apple and harlequin shades of earth mixing into a pallet of tropes emerging into a pleasing cacophony between trees, leaves and bushes grounding life – I have taken this route before, but today it stands alone.  I remember past trips when we toured through the Okanagan and this was the road we camped along, sleeping in its parks as we took our time before the snow fell.  There is always a river to perch over or a wooded path to climb through; though September is usually damp, this is my favourite time to camp and get outside.  Because everyone is gone, back to their hovels and a routine that puts them into a habitual 9-5 which leaves me to soak in these last leaves of solitude before I replace green for white.
From Princeton ( to Kelowna ( the doll-houses align the hills over Lake Okanagan.  This jade-coloured mirror is cold and stoic like the fixed glimpse of a stare as September mid-afternoon rolls in clouds and gloom.   
A few hours ahead, rolling with the escarpment, Shuswap Lake is to my left as I pass through an area of tucked away cabins in a rural seasonal playground for hot summer hay-days East of Salmon Arm (the house-boating capitol of the world:   
Pushing on, the mountains grow thicker and heavier as Revelstoke ( and Rogers Pass ( seep like spilled ink-wells brooding colours of magnificent dark intensities as the dense forest paints depth into a windshield scene.  What a magnificent place to create a story: a locked community subject to the perils of Mother Nature and this feeling of complete isolation as closing walls and extreme bends press with the changing altitudes which organize and categorize themes churning a journey –
I don’t like San Francisco, I thought I would fall out of bed and roll down one of those hills.  – Jane Fonda, California Suite, 1978

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

"R.M". 15x20cm. Fine Ink Black Archival, Cotton Canal Jute Paper. 13 plus Hours.

Quotes and Quoted

If you love them, love them. If you miss them, miss them. Send them light and love, and then drop it. – Eat Pray Love.

Flashback Road Trip Part 1: Good Bye Whistler

September 2 – 14, 2011
Floating docks and friends on Alta Lake with fire pits,
trapdoors and bitch-pops until 2am;
beach cruiser cruising along the Valley Trail (, 40 km of winding vistas
and a panorama of snow-tips, brown gully’s and forest-tipped mountains
from Spruce Grove, Green Lake, Apline to Lakes Lost (,
golf courses primed and teddy bears of the 3-D kind
in every colour and size of their majestic girth
to Creekside and the other side of home-grown local watering holes
South of Southside’s pride ( to Function
(what a junction of art and business bonafide)(;
home-cooked dinners and dinners at Sushi ( combining parties
sending off new friends and old souls,
welcoming back those from a dusty desert Burningman patrol (; Craigslist -sold! from bed to bike and household goods alike
which cannot be stuffed into a Honda that I’m fond of -
this original companion and host for the last few years of wine touring (,
island touring ( and rocky mountain highways
in all terrain and all West Coast weather
of snow dumps, drizzles and sunny bliss;
54-40 concert in Olympic Plaza (
wailing jeers of new-school cougars dancing with their daughters,
mixing and mingling to catchy beats with bare feets;
long walks for art ( and hikes reuniting friends from years apart
last recalling when weather was not this good;
positivity pointing perspectives in the right direction
of our own introspection and habitual migration;
movie premiere Art of Flight (( meeting Mr.Rice and a crew
who soured and slid those salivating tips askew
hyping an imminent season of sensational snow, Bravo!;
saying good-bye to geography and wishful thinking
remembering primal fears and tears from bits of humour exchanged, echoing
 men are cowards and women are liars
LIFE – is –  GOOD.   

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


The other day, Josie Dye from 102.1 Edge said that the Number 1 hit for Canadians on Google is the Question: What is.  And the Number 1 question asked is, What is Love. ...I say, ask the Trees.

Finis! "January " (2012). 15xin22in. Fine Tip Black Archival Ink on Canal Jute. 12Hrs.

Admirably Brave in a White Land of Soft, Cold Air.
{by Andrea Currie}

Dear Santa:

For Christmas I would like a picture book of trees.  Gnarly trunks, lean trunks; skeleton branches, lush branches.  Trees from home or from abroad, because Santa, I have been a good girl this year.  Inspirations are the lines which replicate in my ink and through my mind...~ PomonaLIFE


You’ll find pretty creatures do ugly things to people.  – Doctor Zhivago, 1965

For Mum:

In the Middle of Difficulty Lies Opportunity. - Albert Einstein. I'm missing those who are not here, but I am drawing them in the knots and knuckles of my latest wooded buckles remembering gifts of laughter, not such a disaster that they are not physically here because I can still hear their voice.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Colourful Layers of Black and White

"I want to fall asleep to your song"....a  musical background soaking a visual soundtrack and a memory book with eyes of the young and fallen; our cinematic warriors, icons and professors of expression.  They are shown  in their  prime, when they are young, capacious and vicariously enigmatic.  They have deciduously made their imprints, as their predecessors tell their tales of songs that sing us to sleep... Thank you, TCM.

{Written by: Andrea Currie}
Altitudes are ContagiousPomonaLIFE

Sunday, December 18, 2011

"Making money is simply a matter of analysis." – It happened on Fifth Avenue, 1947

Christmas Card for 2011

An Andrea Currie Design 
copyright PomonaLIFE, 2011

$5 ea
5 for $20


NEW!! Unique PomonaLIFE Tree Card. Blank Inside on Birch Bark Paper. Green, Blue, Red or Purple Insert. 5 for $20, with Free Shipping. Email:

"R.M." ... 10-hours clocked.. a few more to go...

Work In Progress: 4th in the Monthly Series, "January"...(.2012)

It's A Wonderful Life! Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed, 1946.
We are stripped to our branches in order to learn, love and share.

Kings of Leon.... Because of the Times....

Swinging to the rhymes from seductive times which remind me of snow-covered tips when I lived a life of make-believe.  West Coast panorama and hilarious drama, now i reminisce and begin from the bottom up; curvy and gnarly, breathtakingly sore, yet I adore the not so crisp and clean but a few bumps and bruises which etch the canvas of my skin.  ... And this is where I begin.... Again... 

Saturday, December 17, 2011

For Dad:

Luck is a fabric spun of many skeins,
and men are individual threads
worked into the whole by the hand of Destiny.
- William Sarabane, Wolves of the Dawn. 1986

A Conversation Piece.

Generations between us
Impressions on hold;
Mom, where did Nan go?
Nan is not with us any longer.
Can I visit?
Someday, but not for a long, long time.
But she was showing me a story.
To all of us, I know.

{Written by: Andrea Currie}

Thursday, December 15, 2011

"The Duchess" 8x10. Original, Not Copied. Watercolour, cold press paper. For Sale.

We do not know our inspirations until we are compelled.  New thought: To Impel ...; or, juxtapose.... to Suppress.... my Inspiration was the Movie: "The Duchess," 2008 with Fiennes, Knightley and Cooper.

"November" 2011. Print 1of 20. White Wood Frame. 20x25 Respectively. For Sale.

Sassy.  White Sass, Scandinavia perhaps but all Canadia - white hot, but not to lose the plot.... no stopping the Tree of Love. 

Current State: "R.M." Work In Progress.

After a few days off... To let the eyes re adjust and the momentum fuss, my movies playing the soundtrack are a lil' bit of Christmas... and TCM orchestras, while flu season shows these tired eyes, I am still Silver and Gold with my pen and all-kid-at-heart while Rudolf carries me to my pillow....

A Thought and A Giggle:

He is not Prince Charming.  He is only a man. - Flaubert, Madame Bovary

A Friend.

What You Do and What You Think You Can Do:

Rhyme when you need to
Edit when you have to
Compose when you are compelled to
Authenticity is not dictated by a box.
You Do NOT Fit in a Box.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

You know when you are ready for a change


Growth Opportunity
Business savvy, not necessarily minded
Wanting to be part of something larger than a Self;
Documenting the world
One manicured emotion at a time
I am a glue to something -
An Artist for the world
A spokesperson in debt to inspiration
A knowledge seeker
A teacher and facilitator
A believer in growth, opportunity and change
Working collaboratively
Art is layering
Inspiration is art