Tag Archives: The Lost Pissarro

They went to the Metropolitan and then they bought deli food and sat outdoors at Rockefeller Center. Florence browsed the Japanese bookstore and exclaimed over the cover designs and took notes on elegances she might like to use on her … Continue reading →

She had pulled out the stops, every last one of them: no rules, followed her instinct, taken every last bit of technique she’d ever learned and thrown it in rage at the pretty-pretty stuff that everyone wanted. Nuclear test shots … Continue reading →

She painted. Outside, the sun crossed the sky. Under the unchanging light, she painted and fought the difficulties. The impressionist method meant doing it all at once: light and dark, hue and chroma all balanced at once. Not like the … Continue reading →

The herd-mothers approached as well, and circled around her. She ought to have been frightened (said the city girl in her head) but wasn’t, for all that those deadly horns were flourishing around her, held aloft like lances on festival … Continue reading →