Bad Blogger, Bad Bad. Once you get out of the habit it's hard to get back to writing often again, but I will try. OK, long overdue is the georgous postcard for the Paste-Up show at the Ayer Lofts Gallery:
I've been knitting, I've been making dinners for people, I've been working on the renovation plans for the house, and I have been playing with the doggie. It seems I never get a chance to sit and read, or go wandering around the shops or hit the beach. I guess this is what they mean when they say life expands to fit the time frame.
The best thing happened the other day- I accidentally asked the engineer here about digging a hole for a tank of propane so I could ahve a gas stove and he said surre! We just wrote an application for the owners of the property next door, an unbuildable lot, to allow us to bury our tank there. i surre hope it goes through because I hate cooking with electricity, and heating the pool will be probibitive- gas is much better. Fingers are crossed here, and the next visit to the appliance store may take on a whole new dimension.
OK, so I know this isn't a biggie to anyone but me.
So, I am going to get to bed at a decent time tonight- we went to the National Russian Philharmonic today as the last of our series for the season at the Kravis Center and it was amazing. The featured pianist was Olga Korb, the first woman to win the Van Cliberg competition. She blew the audience out of the water, plus she was a stunner to look at in pale green chiffon with spangles all over- imagine against a sea of black clad musicians. You could hear the males in the audience rumble their approval when she came out. I kinda think she could have played chopsticks and they would have left happy.
1 comment :
Hey Sandy . . . your piece Fan Mail in the Paste-Up show is really great. I think Karen is going to put the show up on her website once the reception is over . . . it's a good show, lots of positive comments from people who have been to see it . . . and everyone who has come through has spent a LOT of time with the work . . .
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