Without Lifting A Finger

According to Wiki, the actual title is Sculpture of the Muse of Music, Dance, and Drama . Saw it as we debarked the bus at the Bowl. I told my wife I didn't remember the bus pulling in on that side before; she claimed it always did. Perhaps I just hadn't been paying attention. According to the inscription (I didn't get a good shot of that) the work was another product of the WPA (1940).             

What can I say? A small piece of incidental music. Combing through the "archives" (looking for cats and horned prophets), I found HER: an anonymous muse from the fall and winter of 1992/93. Back then it seemed she followed me everywhere (from Germany to Italy to Austria). 

Before I attend to a few images suggesting a poem, I'll jot down a few impressive (to me) bullets from Emily's Hundreds : Ghost flowers grow in the woods -- beauties. I shall take a big clump home. They are mystery flowers Yet, as I was mounting sketches today I felt so many shortcomings and I believe more and more that one's only real critic, the one that counts, is one's own soul The educated look for technique and pattern, colour quality, composition. Spirit touches them little and it's the only thing that counts It's my own awful longing to possess a dog and of course it's very real to me [ Emily is most certainly talking about artistic "possession"--nothing dark or perverted here ] She was really interested in my work. She said that it appealed to her like religion. Art and religion you can't separate, for real art is religion, a search for the beauty of God deep in all things living above paint, above colour, above design, even ab...