About Holycowgirl

Painter, writer in glorious hills and canyons of sweet, raw, dangerous, thrilling Big Sur and environs. Decades in Brooklyn, left for my wilderness experience in the Blue Ridge, then west to coast. Reverence for animals, all growing things, flowers, and humans who've let themselves be touched by the above. CONTACT: THE HAWKS PERCH BARBARA SPARHAWK PO BOX 1695 CARMEL VALLEY, CALIFORNIA 93924 emails: thehawksperch@outlook.com bdsparhawk@gmail.com


I AM SEARCHING FOR the former WCBS TV ANCHORMAN FROM NYC,  WHEE I CAN FIND HIS FAMILY?\

WE WORKED TOGETHER AT THE CBG  HEADQUARTERS IN NYC IN THE 70.S ABD 80’S.  GREAT GUY, AN ATHLETE (SOFTBALL, SAILING) CHARMING HANDSOME MAN. I’VE CARRIED THE PAINTING OF JIM IN MY BIG SUR GALLERY, AND CARMEL VALEY GALLLERY, EVERYONE HAS LOVED IT SO MCH.

 

I PAINTED AN OIL PORTRAIT OF MR JENSENS  INTENDING TO SEND IT TO HIM IT;S A VERY LIVELY, WONDERFUL OIL PORTRAIT I, FULL OF STRONG COLOR AND EMOTION.

IPAINTED JIM JENSEN

I’VE BEEN UNABLE TO FIND A FAMILY MEMEMBER BUT WOULD SO MUCH LIKE TO CONNECTHE PAINTING WITH HIS FAMILY.

 

ANYONE KOWING A GOOD ADDRESS, PLESE LET ME KNOW.  OR PUT THEM IN TOUCH WITH ME.

bdsparhawk@gmail.com.

MANY THANS,

BARBARA SPARHAWK

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JIM JENSEN JIM JENSENN JIM JENSEN JIM JENSEN JIM JENSEN JIM JENSEN ………………………………………………. DO YOU KNOW SOMEONE WHO MIGHT HELP FIND THEM???? IN THE LATE 80’S I PAINTED A PORTAUR IN OILS OF MY OLD FRIEND , NYC CBS TV NEWS ANCHORMAN, JIM JENSEN. BY THE 90’S WE’D LOST TOUH, AND THEN HE WAS TRAGICALLY GONE, TOO SOON. TERRIFIC MAN, ATHLETE, CHARMER, SAILOR, GOOD KIND ……….. TRYING TO FIND HIM LATER PROVED IMPOSSIBLE THE FAMILY GUARDING PRIVACY I COULDN’T PENETRATE. IF YOU KNOW ANY OF THE JENSENS, FRIENDS OR CHILDREN OR WIFE, PLEASE CONTACT ME, bdsparhawk@gmail.com. I WOULD LOVE TO CONNECT THE FAMILY WITH HIS PORTRTRAT IF THEY’RE INTERESTED, JIM NEVER GOT TO SEE IT. IT SHOWS HIM IN CLOSE-UP, LIFE SIZE, GOOD COLOR AND EMOTION, RUGGED SAILING AT NIGHT, SEA- SPLASHED, ENCHANTED BY THE ROUGH DARK SKY MANY THANKS. EARLIER BLOG…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… HOW COULD YOU HAVE MISSED THAT?

Aside


Salvador DALI  stopped by.
NEW   PROLOGUE,   
APRIL 8, 2018
 DEAR FOLLOWERS   &   FRIENDS OF Barbara Sparhawk, my friend:
For the past 2 month she has  been battling the sudden appearance of brain tumors,  out of the blue and devastating, crippling a diagnosis connected to blindness which has radically affected her  entire life.  The tumors are being successfully  shrunken, a miracle in every way, (and in one of the most  beautiful places on earth) near her home.
Before long  she will be back to her  creative life which has governed who she has been since birth. 

 

FROM SPARHAWK:   My art work on many forms such as cards and posters and clothing and all things is available from   REDBUBBLE
Please continue to visit, observe, and enjoy my  work, and comment.  You are all very important to me and I am so happy for your presence in my life.
Bless you one and all, I’m winning this battle but didn’t dream it possible, rounding the bend, the little Engine who Could.
salvador-dali-studio
I have dozens of stories, novels, screenplays, children’s books, illustrations, and paintings and who knows what else left in me. Stand by!

 

 

 

HOW COULD YOU HAVE MISSED THAT!!

 

 

Angels, Dancing on Treetops (2)

 

 

 

 

and St PETER SAID  :“HOW COULD YOU HAVE MISSED THAT?”

When I get up to the Pearly Gates, if that indeed might be where I’m headed, I will walk briskly (with a sinner’s confidence) to the Saintly vision of Peter, my arms extended in my fresh unearthly joy, and the Saint, who will know me, rising, flushed of face (and seriously annoyed) will, in exasperation, ask:
“How could you have missed THAT?”

I will be stopped in my tracks.
                           “The other day…with your friend… I heard you, and I find you did not know. You did not know? We pointed!”   he will continue.

 “We placed you in front of it, we moved you there, we poked and prodded!  Why, we even cast sunbeams and danced moonbeams on it. ”   Saint Peter turns for corroboration, hands spread wide palms up for emphasis to a cherub at his side–who nods emphatically, excitedly– “We had you live beside them. See them daily. Sleep by them nightly. We had you feed the horses there, right where they were, miles of them!”.   He will stop just short of shouting:  “In a line!”

“And here again just this brief while ago, bringing you into a new place to live so you could look down your hill into your valley below and see all the beauty, all the color…..HOW can you have missed that!”

Oh dear.

All this inspired by one of my last conversations, being told by an observant girl whose young  heart swells at the sight of the woody places, streams and trees….

“I love the Sycamore for that,” she’d said to me, “you can always trace a river or streams hidden in a forest by the Sycamores growing alongside it. Look down there, see?  Now the leaves all orange and gold; you will find the river at its roots, you will always find water….beside the Sycamore.”

It was mid December, we’d had two frosts, we’d passed the shortest day.
Honestly I was shocked.  With these  truths Saint Peter addressed to me, that everything at heaven’s command had been done to put me in the path of woodland habits, and it had all indeed overwhelmed me, an emotional feast I’d never finish, and sure I’d seen every particle…. yet I had missed this most ordinary truth.
“Oh! Of course. You’re right, you’re right!”   Hot tears leapt from my eyes.   “HOW did I miss that?”

And left me wondering how much else I’ve missed. Would the heavens be an endless scold from here through eternity. Well no, no that’s not very nice, and improbable. But what ELSE have I missed.  I thought I’d seen so much.  I’d boasted to myself of all I’d seen in my long years.

But if I failed to know the Sycamore and what they mark, and  I had lived among, then…..
…..What colors have I failed to observe. What minute’s turning to me of a friendly face, a smile I abandoned too soon. What bright light from a baby’s eyes sent to me like a piercing message I must never forget — yet did not let register. What music, what delight, what pain, what love. What gentle brush of a wagging tail. What barely felt breezes stirring from the crow’s wings. The kindness of the bus driver who stopped at the patter of my running feet. The twice-warmed coffee, the special dish, the hearty greeting. The rising sun’s heroics….. from which I had driven west.
How could I have missed that.

I think we can experience everything, you know, have it all.  We have so many receptors, unused, untried, even unknown. So that walking forward with assurance that every nuance be seized, filtered in by hair and smell and dangerously opportunistic raw flesh…..open to all of it, because knowing is living.

I’ll try.

I mean to say, the thought itself  must be a poke from heaven, must it not?

Wouldn’t it be marvelous to surprise the Saints and ourselves simply by paying attention a bit more.

Happy New Year.  Here comes 2018.

 

ANDY KAUFMAN’S ELVIS


ANDY KAUFMAN’S   ELVIS

This could never be done today, the risk of too many offended in a world that forbids laughter.

But from long ago and far away Andy Kaufman, here in his prime, on Johnny Carson’s TV show, returns to clear our minds of short fat dictators, the latest drug and porn saturated celebrity popping up naked on the news, or Stalinist show trials in DC.

Sit back, do your heart good.

>>ANDY ON JOHNNY CARSON<<

FRISKY, CHARMING MEN


TWO  VERY  FRISKY  CHARMING  MEN PETER USTINOV AND LUCIANNO PAVAROTTI

Once upon a time and last century, actor and author Sir Peter Ustinov himself (5/16/21  –  3/38/04)   ustinov    (or someone equally delightful) had the brilliant idea of Ustinov’s going to Italy to interview opera sensation Luciano Pavarotti  (10/12/35 – 9/16/07)       Pavorotti

in his backyard ~~and swimming pool .

The link below is a filmed account of their time together.  I don’t know where we might have more fun watching people we may not know personally while away an afternoon in the most endearing, funny, clever, masculine, exchange between two accomplished human beings who are enjoying one another.  This took place in 1994, via BBC.  There is no mention of the politics of either men.

EXQUISITE SOPRANO  JOAN  SUTHERLAND  (11/7/26 to 10/11/2010)  sotherland  (I’m about 95% sure it was she),  Luciano Pavarotti’s frequent and beloved singing partner, once said in an interview (when she could stop laughing) that the tenor was famous for his on-stage tricks, you never knew what he was going to do except that you could not fail to sing through it, not let the audience in on the audaciousness.  Pavarotti, she said, would walk up behind her and slip a warm sausage (likely Italian) into her hand.

New York was insane inlove with Luciano Pavarotti in his prime and regularly at the very fine Metropolitan Opera House. I was working for ABC TV, evening news writer, in 1981, and got sent with a camera crew to get some “B” Roll background footage, no talking, just the bows, too fabuloso when he appeared with Frank Sinatra at Carnegie Hall. I remember the red peep-toe leather heels I refused to change from and my blue wet feet from the ice-slush streets. Sigh.  Some moments are worth sacrificing terrific shoes for. I never forgot a second of it.

There is such a thing a sexual fun between the genders, if we may still recognize and appreciate what genders are…..and enjoy each other for our differences, remember happiness, a love of life, and each other, and be assured…remember…that not all humankind is cut from the same sadistic cloth on display in the daily news.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, MY FRIENDS.

>Take it away, Peter and Luciano<<.

>>And more Peter and Luciano…..<<

peter us.

>PETER USTINOV, Briefly<<

POOL PAV

>>LUCIANO PAVOROTI, Briefly<<

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FREDERICK L. GREGORY, Granite Sculptor, R.I.P.


JULY 19,1938  ~  JULY 23, 2017

FREDERICK  (Rick) L.  GREGORY,  Gone too soon.

We (I mean the country, the world, the mortal universe) just lost Rick Gregory who held on through a rough year and made it by 5 days past his 79th birthday.  This was some singular, remarkable guy.

I did this oil portrait of Rick around 1999.  I wanted to give him a kind of Apollo look, unlimited skyward eyes, and blueprints clutched in his powerful, workman’s hands.  The only thing I left out was one of his famous bandannas, never without one.

One of his early jobs was in a huge laundry, hauling wet washes through and around machines in Fresno,…..same thing Jack London did half a century earlier in roughly the same neighborhood (Valley of the Moon describes it, Oakland).  Rick called himself a “hod-carrier, the sonofabitch who takes huge wood trowels of cement up ladders”  to the construction crews.  What he loved most was picturing what a landscape needed then making its dreams come true…..water and stone and water and stone and plant life.

Rick was an American granite sculptor, from up Fresno way, who found himself racing sailboats and being on the winning Americas Cup team to  Brazil, some years back, staying awhile in Rio to learn from the famed sculptor Noguchi, falling in love with a gorgeous Rio beauty and marrying her, fathering a spectacular daughter (Alexandra) who came to California to be with him, and in his long fabulous lifetime Rick was building gardens and water works all over the world, represented by Big Sur, Rio, Carmel galleries and in fabulous homes, estates, industries.  His religion, he said, was Landscape.

Rick Gregory in front of his Sculpture Garden in Carmel Valley, Central Coast, California                           Pen & Ink by BD Sparhawk

 

Rick’s  daughter  hosted a spectacular and touching memorial for all his friends this last Sunday, and I gave her the portrait of Rick, which she’d seen and loves, bless her heart. So many friends wanted a picture or poster or card, I’ve put it on my Redbubble Sparhawk Site so you can order things with the image, for those of you who’d like to do so.  I hope I’m not embarrassing you good buddy.  Rick.  You always had a very healthy ego but you were never vain.  Wonder if you know how much you were loved.

 

footnote:

THE PORTRAIT IS POSTED ON REDBUBBLE!!!

NOW AVAILABLE IN CARDS AND POSTERS, STICKERS AND T SHIRTS, MINISKIRTS, JOURNALS, SCARVES, AND IPAD COVERS AND CLOCKS!!  INCREDIBLE.  Now I’m sure Rick’s embarassed.

You can email me at  bdsparhawk@gmail.com

Thanks,

BD Sparhawk

 

 

RUMER GODDEN, the one and only


 

The Golden Cat on Silk

 

RUMER GODDENRumer Godden1

Definitely one of my favorites, the endearing Brit authored children’s books, novels, fiction and non, and gave us movies her writing inspired. The images she creates!  I am swept into a rare ship at sea by her, only to be kept in sight of shore, not to be released from her spell of lulling waves or violent shipwreck passages when I might close her books and tear free –until I collapse in reluctant hallucinatory exhaustion.

Rumer (also a professional dancer, and dance teacher; named after a beloved relation) and her sisters were raised in India and this rich banquet she kept exploring (not leaving for England til 12 years old then back and forth, raising her infant daughters in Kashmir before and during WWII) is the setting of her many stories, including, most especially, the miraculous “BLACK NARCISSUS”.  Indescribable. An order of Nuns are gifted a former Indian General’s brothel perched 10,000 feet up on a cliff in the Himalayas, where they intend to heal the sick and tutor the unschooled; the view and ceaseless winds of this oddly beautiful castle prove a stunning unsettlement to all who dare take it on.  The movie, (made by the Archer’s team Powell and Pressburger”  is extraordinary, worth seeing a dozen times, potent in color and form and acting, very rare in every way with a superb cast, delightful; frightening; brilliant.

But it is this RUMER GODDEN  passage I want to bring to you, and it is from her memoir, A TIME TO DANCE, NO TIME TO WEEP”, which is bloody marvelous and full of fearless originality, independence; courage and joy.  She speaks so honestly and directly, describing the sheltered child’s ritual expectance of palatial indulgence —and then wrenching poverty, surviving in strange and dangerous, hostile worlds. She has an endless curiosity for life, people, and how to survive. She knows early she will be a writer, comes late to success.

What I loved about this small Rumer Godden inserted mid-book is the kind of thinking we, the reader, are invited to take on as our own.  It’s all full of  knowing that any and all things are, after all, possible.  There is here a life to lead, apush out of complacency,  start and do things we never dreamt before.

This, page 164 from Godden’s “A Time to Dance, No Time to Weep”, is it:

Pfeiffer Beach, Crashing Boulders

THUS FAR AND NO FURTHER

“Once upon a time, perhaps when Noah lived and perhaps this flood was Noah’s flood too, in another time when the earth was filled with violence, the waters of Teesta river in North Bengal, India, began to rise int he valleys of the Himalayas, whose ranges are higher and more terrible than the Andes.  The water rose higher and higher, past the foothills and the lower hills, past the villages of Riyang and Teesta and the people began to be seriously afraid that their retreat would be cut off by the sky.  Only the spines of the ridges showed in the water, spines of monsters and dragons petrified, with their colours hidden in the Teesta that today, after the rains, is that same milky blue.  The prayer flags were snatched and carried to the to the ridge, horns blew and the drums sounded, while behind and inaccessible, the line of snows that not even a flood could reach, reared themselves into the sky.

Down below them the consternation continued and the water spread and rose and spread.

In a temple at the top of one of these ridges, a Lama was saying his prayers.  The people went in and disturbed him, but they disturbed him quietly; the horns stopped blowing, the drums were not beaten, and the people stood still as their headman went to him.

‘Well, what is it?’ said the Lama.

‘The water — the water is coming up.’  It was.  The people were standing in it; it was lapping the temple steps.,

‘Tell it to go down,’ said the Lama.

‘Tell it?’ 

‘Yes.  Give it a positive order.’

‘But it won’t pay attention.’

‘Won’t it?’ said the Lama. ‘Then I must tell it myself.’   And he came out from his prayers and put out his hand.

I think of him as looking Chinese in a stiff robe, with a Chinese absorbed and peaceful face. He looked at the spines of the hills and the water swirling round them and the jumbled colours of the people and their frightened faces and silent horns and agitated flags; he looked up at the sky and the unmoving snows and back at the water, and he put out his hand and said, ‘Rungli-Rungliot. Thus far and no further.’

The flood immediately stopped; the water went down and the Lama went back to his prayers.

The words that he said stayed there in the place, as its name.”                                            (End of passage)

 Rumer  Godden adds:   (“Rungli-Rungliot is a real place on the spur of Himalays, facing south above the plains and the gorge of the little Runglee river that they say was left behind by accident when the Teesta water fell.”)

======================================            ===========================

Original oil painting above is by Sparhawk. “Pfeiffer Beach, Crashing Boulders’, it was sold to a family visiting my Big Sur gallery from Japan;  the photograph of author Rumer Godden is from the internet unattributed;the golden tabby cat on top is the marvelously beautiful Tommy Jefferson.

 

CHARLOTTE, or: Girl With Apple


DSCF8491

Charlotte:  Girl With Apple  (oil on canvas, c. 12X12 inches. Portrait by B Sparhawk)

DSCF8496Detail 1, Portrait of Charlotte

And whom, you may well ask is this heavenly Charlotte?

She is the love of the sister of a friend of me the portrait painter.

DSCF8504Detail 2, Portrait of Charlotte

And you may well wonder too what is the apple doing next to the beautiful dog.

There is an explanation of sorts for that.

DSCF8502Detail 3, Portrait of Charotte

It arises from a painting of a boy, (not (so you know) by Czech master Johannes Van Hoytl the Younger ~~who does not exist~~ but by the lovely English painter, Michael Taylor, who is alive.  With an apple) known and feverishly described all over the internet as “Boy With Apple”.

DSCF8497Portrait of Charlotte, in the Studio

Has any painting we may wonder had such an effect on the public since the spark of life between Adam and God, or that interesting Dutch fellow’s sunflowers.

I was amazed, when I looked at some point, that it was definitely not just me taking note but a chunk of the universe.  Do you know this work?

OR IS IT POSSIBLE  that some one or 2 among you may not have seen the marvelous “GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL”  movie.

A Wes Anderson film with a fabulous cast (listed below in tags) and thrillingly delish story acted out in a kind of Chaplin-marionette brilliance of unreal people borrowing randomly from history and human behavior, an emphasis equally on: purity, rough fellows, innocence, crippled shoe-shine boy, attentive clever lobby boy and servants, a funicula, politics, soldiers, and wicked gangsterism.

And luxurious settings but also a harsh prison.

And money coming and going.

Of course a nicely done painting.

And pastry to die for (plus the recipe).

The movie’s underlying roundabout goes dashing in and out of the inheriting in, thieving of, related murdering related to, loss and gain of loves and lives and property and most especially…focused on a portrait done in fine Renaissance style  by a modern artist, called:  “BOY WITH APPLE”.

At first blush I  fell in love with the movie and the painting.  I have checked it out of the local library DVD collection to keep watching it,  about 25 times so far.

That painting effected (subconsciously and quite out loud) any number of canvases I painted afterward for months, but none so especially or delightfully or movingly or filled with pleasure for me as this ~~suddenly (in real-time and real life) by surprise commissioned portrait of Charlotte.  Who is, as said earlier, the love of the life of the sister of a dear friend.

I was struck at once by Charlotte’s medieval cathedral palazzo civilized wavy elegant good looks.  I knew that there would appear stone walls and columns and breezed-up draperies and lace hankies and dragonflies in profusion and twilight glow and small romantic freshly plucked bouquets and an offering on a Merano hand blown glass thingy which turned (very nearly of its own accord) from a toy ball to an apple.

Here is a bit more on the portrait & principals.   Click here

And about the film.  Click here.

And about Michael Taylor, painter:  Click here

FURTHERMORE….

…If anyone is interested in a storytale portrait of their animals or offspring or loved ones or something fancied, do let me know.  

It’s what I do.

INQUIRIES:  PLEASE EMAIL     bdsparhawk@gmail.com

will do the trick nicely. As with Charlotte I work chiefly or entirely with photographs.

I promise to respond.

Tickled pink you’ve stopped by.

Toujours,

BARBARA SPARHAWK