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.

 

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ODE to the SKETCHBOOK


She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes     

Ode to the Sketchbook

         ink, Sketchbook and Starlight

The SKETCHBOOK.

Neither diary nor journal, though could be. The bindings as widely varied as snowflakes and often as intriguingly beautiful. Cardboard, leather, plastic, cloth. Industrial, scholarly, swank, artsy, craftsy, cute. The marketplace for sketchbooks has expanded enormously and the styles can barely keep up with demand.

But not so long ago, the sketchbook was singularly the serious art class companion, or the private studio portfolio kept close at hand where intimate challenges were explored: the length of a forearm, the profile of a forehead, the dip of the clavicle, the distance between chin and nipple, the turn of a leg, the form of a foot, an angry hand, an open hand, a thunderhead cloud, a stormy sea, a rained-on blossom….kept and revisited through a day, through a life.BILOXI WINTER, LOW TIDE And 20 or 40 or (if you’re lucky) 80 pages of a time so specific that to pick up and look again is to slam the owner into a time, an immediate turn back to a piece of land, a city block, an infatuation or deepest love, the history of a beloved cat or dog, faces, dishes, chairs, gardens, Pen & Ink Robindson Canyon Rd Spring, Sparhawkthoughts…..all of it the very most personal. Because it is one’s own landscape.

To carry a sketchbook under arm or stuffed in a pocket was the equipment, the sole province, the badge of an artist. And to carry such treasure and not be an artist would have been as much engaged in fraud as publicly parading pink satin ribbon tied ballet slippers over the shoulder of a 2-left-footer never dancer. Sacrilege.
So much to learn about the sketchbook.ink, Angels Dancing in Treetops, Garland Park

Angels, Dancing on Treetops “Angels Dancing on Treetops”, the sketchbook drawing above, the oil painting below that. (**See note below)

There weren’t tutorials, you discovered marvelously obscure art supply stores or school shops and checked out the stock. For one thing, an early find, the paper varied in weight and roughness or smooth surface. There were sketchbooks with pure white papers, or gray, or browns, kraft or even black; useful depending on your medium of ink, pencil, chalks.

Some sketchbooks had a ribbon tie, or three ribbons! Some had spiral bindings, in color! Some cloth bound like books. Some five inches square, some 10 by 15 or 18 by 20. Long, tall, wide, fat, thin.

Now, confronted with a small, bound, blank paged, ready-for-action treasure, with its simple cotton gross-grained ribbon to be used to tie shut your private work and thoughts, is thrilling.

It is a tribute to bright ideas, to learning, to invention, to anything is possible in the human experience. Dr Manxi, Bench closeupIt is also, after all, the central reservoir of Leonardo Da Vinci’s fertile mind, and more recently the place that the father of Indiana Jones drew his maps and figured his findings.

I have a more liberal view these days than when I was a student so jealously guarding what identified me to the world. I would allow, these days, a sketchbook in every hand! In the hope that wonderful thoughts, the bon mot, the botanist’s heart would find fulfilment on the magical pages awaiting their ideas. bonbonI would allow the song writer, the poet, the rocket ship designer a welcome into what was once mine and my fellows alone.

And to all, I suggest, in my more generous and kind older age, go forth and get you a sketchbook. And a pen. Or a pencil. And keep it with you until the one day and moment you see or think something you absolutely cannot afford to forget. DSCF4301And remember with a light heart and total delight that there is a sketchbook in your pocket ready to record it.

To develop it. To hold the fine treasure of your thoughts.

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**(End Note about “Angels Dancing on Treetops”:  This is a perfect example of the benefit of sketchbooks. I was having a rough go, living with friends, and all of us on edge from it. I drove to Garland Park in Carmel Valley, warm sunny day and I wanted to be alone.  I sat in the front seat of my big ancient suburban, relishing the privacy and looking at the view.  The trees in front of me were moving in the wind.  I looked closer.  They were moving vertically, not horizontally swept by breeze but rather in a kind of bounce from the top! What on earth, I thought.  Then I realized, obviously angels dancing on the treetops, pushing the branches up and down!  I did the sketch, shown above, I didn’t ever want to forget it. Four years later after moving to Big Sur I painted it from the sketch, and from the stirred memorty. Thanks, Oopsjohn.)