(Artist Profile) The GREAT Mr. Winslow

Winslow Homer was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1836.

When Winslow turned 19 he started his career as an illustrator at the J.H. Bufford lithographic firm. It was there he decided to become a freelance illustrator. After receiving a job in 1859 at Harpers Weekly, he moved to New York. It was there he served as an artist-correspondent for the magazine during the Civil War.

From there he began taking some classes at the National Academy of Design focusing on oil painting. For that he gained international recognition as a painter and his career took flight.

A few paintings:

In the news (Papers)

Ghost Town:

Not a soul in sight.

Not a whisper in the night.

The eerie street lights glisten.

The silence, is deafening can you hear it?

Listen.

Not a peep, not a shuffle, or a whistle or a cry.

Not a heartbeat or a breathe, Not a body or a single animal to pass by.

The streets sat bare, the people had vanished the question was to where?

The question would never have an answer because…

There wasn’t a whisper in the night.

Not even a soul in sight.

 

Frozen in Time:

Can we go back? Can we have a do-over? A second chance to start again?

No.  But we can warn the future generations. We can teach them to learn from our mistakes and to not make the same ones as we did. They will learn and they will be safe.

It’s up to them to change the future now, the capsule is secure. Everything is in place. When it is time for the capsule to open it will. All the information they will need to understand our efforts is inside.

Let us pray this works, they are our last shot. They are our second chance.

Only they can save us..

(Pillow Talk) Toil and Blood

Children always hungry

Sorrow filled women weep

Camps cramped and cold

 

Shudders racked Elieas body as the lay curled up in the fetal position on her cot. Her body was exhausted and cried out for just a tiny bit of sleep for all the effort she put into her work today. It did little good; the soldiers would never let her sleep. They cared nothing about what happened to her or any of the other prisoners for that matter. That is why Eliea loved sleep, she worshiped it even. It allowed her brief reprieve from her suffering and it gave her the only gift that had saved and preserved her sanity thus far; her ability to dream.  She could be anywhere, do anything. She didn’t have to worry about feeling hungry or tired or sore.  She could do the impossible, anything at all! As far as her mind could fly her dreams were sure able to follow. Eliea dreamt of her family together and whole again around the dinner able in their old cottage at thanksgiving time. The smell of the oven roasted turkey filled the air intertwining with the potent smell of sweet potato casserole. Sometimes she had dreams of what flying would be like, feeling the wind caress her skin. Anything would beat being stuck behind the double row of chain fences. Any freedom would be better than this life, trapped and hopeless.



Through the Window



The winter white window sill displayed it view as proudly as a picture from any at home magazine.

The Warm cloudy sun set crept down over the horizon, a flock of birds basked with open wings at the last light.

A cow pasture sat silently, filled with patches of yellow flowers and overgrown weeds.

Today, all the cows slept tucked away sleeping. Only a mother dear and her fawn filled the space the cows normally stood.

The open space was always for peaceful, quiet and comforting.

Autumn leaves began to fall from their branches.

Thunder clouds rolling in the distance, rumbled in warning. A signal of the coming rains.

(Edward Hopper Inspired) The Employee

Looking up from my book I watch as guests begin to flutter into the room from the seating area of the patio bar. Leaning casually against the podium, warn as the end of my shift nears. My senses have dulled by now from the hours and hours of food smells coating the inside of my nose. Somehow I managed to inhale a big whiff of roasted chicken and let out a content sigh. Plastering a wide smile on my face I politely greeted the new customers happily.

The rest of the shift went by rather quickly as I moved customers in and out as quickly as possible. Back aching, and exhausted I made my way slowly through the kitchen to the back door hanging my crisp white apron up on the hook as I slid through the door. “ERICA.” A voice hollered through the closing door. Letting out an aspirated sigh I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment and plastered a very fake smile on my face as I turned to face the voice of my boss waddling after me. “Yes, Luca? What can I do for you?” His chubby face scowled at my sarcasm but he continued. “Jay called in sick for tomorrow mornings shift so I need you to come in and cover it.” I offered a nod but no words as I turned on my heels. Yay for me. Another day bright and early. Welcome to the working Lower class.



(Caged Bird) I Sing For Hope

I watch the world speed by from my perch inside this cage

The Sun rises and falls from the sky and the moon sings it lullaby to the stars

Still I sing.

I watched the seasons come and go and my wings grow stiff without freedom to sore through the changing air.

Still I sing.

I watch the ones grow to adults and form nests of their own, knowing that will never be me. I am destined for the metal home that I am enslaved to.

Yet I still sing.

I grow weak now, my old age a thief of my energy but not of my hope.

For that I still sing.

A young little bird visited my window today and asked how I could sing of such beautiful things locked away from the sky and the trees in such a cruel way.

I responded simply in the most honest and truthful way.

I sing for the trees the grow through the night, I sing for the flowers that curl up at night.

I sing for the animals the run in fear; I sing for all the cries that no one hears.

I sing for the little girl who feels all alone, I sing for the mothers whose son fights in the war and hasn’t come home.

I sing for the old man with no place to call his own, I sing for the woman whose husband hung up the phone.

I sing for the baby lying mistreated in her crib, whose parents can’t put down the needle long enough to see what they are doing is not only harmful but lethal

I sing for the daughter who ran away from her pain, the one whose demons could not be slain so she turned instead to cocaine.

I sing for the day I will feel the freedom on my wings perhaps not in this lifetime but maybe another we will see what death brings.

Hope

That is what I sing for and so should you. A hope that one day you can start over, and have a try at something new.

In The Place I Call Home (Art/Walk)

Silence. The silence is calming and sweet. Even after a storm the warm air blankets around her like a soft blanket and a kind friend. The freedom of the open space is vast and breathing is easy. The smell of maple, pine and a hint of hay swirl through the damp air like dancers in a ballet. Being here is easy, her future here easier to imagine than ever before as she tastes a hint of honeysuckle on the tip of her tongue from the little flowers that litter the earthy floor around her. Tilting her face towards the sun, she closes her eyes soaking the little rays as the trickle through the clouds letting the breeze ruffle her hair hanging down her back. Her eyelids flutter open and she glance back down to the pool of tears the clouds shed on her peace of sanctuary. The rippling surface reflects the peaceful smile she wears and the sky that no longer cry’s for her in happiness. She is home, she is at peace.