Talking of Michelangelo

Or, so they say the women do as they come and go. . .
And then there are those mermaids . . .
And, yes, I've heard about them.
So it is said: They sing each to each.
Do they sing to me?
Ah, who cares.
What matters is that Carmella loves to draw.

Since she was 2 she could spend hours drawing, coloring or painting. It is fabulous to have a child that can entertain herself so well and so easily. Maybe she has talent, maybe not. But I think at the least she would make her Lala proud, who, by the way, definitely does have talent:
Here is some of her recent work--and by her, I mean Carmella. Lala is busy in her studio toiling away, not babysitting for me, doing her work--right Lala?
A rendering of Madame Blueberry.

A mermaid and a rainbow:
At dinner last night I mentioned that I use to like to do sketches of dresses. So here is what Carmella came up with :
It is a drawing of her "dream closet."

Okay, so that last one is mine. But I should point out that hers was the inspriation for mine and I think hers is better.
And that brings me to my favorite poem. (Okay, so I should say my second favorite poem. Really, this, is my favorite.)
But the following poem by Frank O'Hara makes the most sense to me and and it explains everything--at least everything about the artistic process:
Why I am not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.