Archive for October, 2008

Venetian Red in Berlin

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Graffiti, Liz Hager, Painting, Travel with tags , , on October 20, 2008 by Liz Hager

“Blue Wall Man, Berlin” —painting on section of Berlin Wall. (photo ©2008 EPYork)

This week, Venetian Red devotes itself to Berlin—stay tuned for observations on the art scene, the Wall, places of interest, design items, and ethnographic arts.

Venerating Ancestors: A Fabric Sculpture by Soon-Hee Oh

Posted in Bay Area Art Scene, Female Artists, Fiber Arts, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager with tags , , on October 18, 2008 by Liz Hager

Soon-hee Oh, “Snow Flower,” 2006, ramie and silk (photo courtesy Asian Art Museum, SF)

Soon-hee Oh fashions abstract fiber sculptures using techniques that reference traditional Korean fiber crafts. Somber and elegant, her pieces venerate the human hand in the textile tradition.  In “Snow Flower,” Oh has linked the ramie (fiber made from the Boehmeria nivea, or flowering nettle plant) squares together by using maedeup, the complex three-dimensional knotting technique traditionally used in Korea for passementerie.  The black string against the white fabric suggests calligraphy, an art form Oh studied seriously in the 80s. This subtle reference to human activity reinforces the sense of respect in Oh’s pieces for traditional arts.   

The main element of “Snow Flower,” the accordian-folded drape, is angular and rigid. The vertical drape is “violated” by the smattering of boxy globes, seemingly irregular, but comprised of regular square elements. The folded fabric of “Snow Flower” suggests the drape of an invisible person, and its totemic shape reinforces a spiritual presence. Viewing the piece becomes a meditative act; my thoughts wander from the whole of human culture to specific persons no longer alive. The white ramie evokes purity and thus veneration; it also speaks to the silence and emptiness of snow, which of course is reinforced by the piece’s title. I wonder about the significance of the title: did Oh’s inspiration come from Korean Buddhist iconography? The lotus flower is the ur-symbol of Buddhism, denoting the eternal cycle of birth, suffering, death, and rebirth. After long searching I find precious few references in my sources to either snow flowers or snowflakes, but the transformational nature of flowers has suggested there is more meaning locked in the sculpture. 

Transparency and light are clearly at play in this sculpture. To that point, in reference to the forces that drive her artistically, Oh once remarked: “My ancestors’ eternal spirit remains in me as light.” 

More Soon-hee Oh

Every Rock Tells a Story

Posted in Painting, Photography with tags , on October 15, 2008 by Liz Hager

(above) “Scarred Rock,” unretouched digital photo ©2008 Liz Hager; (below) “Wave Action,” Digital illustration ©2008 Liz Hager  

The excerpt below from Leonardo’s journals gave me pause recently. Although I am obsessively drawn to the patterns and textures on display in the natural world (and have several hundred photos to prove it),  to tell you the truth, I never thought about rock patterns, in the way Leonardo describes, as a means to a wholly different end. Greatly intrigued, I decided to see whether his suggestion had withstood the test of time.  I selected a photo of mine (top), a close up of a boulder, which had perhaps broken off from a section of ancient sedimentary cleving action, for its Cy Twombly-esque pattern. I squinted at it and tried to remain open minded. Within a couple of minutes, I thought I saw water. A little square of an expansive body of water, perhaps a lake or ocean. I started to manipulate the photo.  After an hour and without rotation of the original photo, I had waves lapping at a sliver of beach. Not great art maybe, but I think it proves the point quite well. 

I will not refrain from setting among these precepts a new device for consideration which, although it may appear trivial and almost ludicrous, is nevertheless of great utility in arousing the mind to various inventions. And this is, that if you look at any walls spotted with various stains, or with a mixture of different kinds of stones, if you are about to invent some scene you will be able to see in it a resemblance to various different landscapes adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, wide valleys, and various groups of hills. You will also be able to see divers combats and figures in quick movement, and strange expression of faces, and outlandish costumes, and an infinite number of things which you can then reduce into separate and well-conceived forms. With such walls and blends of different stones it comes about as it does with the sound of bells, in whose clanging you may discover every name and word you can imagine. 

—Leonardo da Vinci—from Irma Richter, The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci

Little Colored Pills: Damien Hirst’s Pharmaceutical Series

Posted in Artists Speak, Contemporary Art, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , on October 14, 2008 by Liz Hager

Damien Hirst, Albumin, Human, Glycated,1992, household paint and polymer on canvas, 7′ x 9’8″ (Collection UBS)

Coming of artist age in the 70s and 80s, it makes sense that Damien Hirst deliberates tests the boundaries between art, science, and popular culture. Often his work is shocking, downright grisly even as is the case with the animals in formaldehyde. Not lacking panache and naturally gifted in the tactics of buzz marketing, the artist ascended to the commanding heights of the elite art world. In the grand tradition of the atelier, the artist employs more than 100 people to meet the demands of the Hirst-brand business.

Hirst burst on the serious art world scene in the early 1990s with his “spot” paintings, which are comprised of rigorous grids of identically-sized painted dots. In this excerpt from his collection of ideas and obsessions, he describes the intent of his Pharmaceutical series.

I believe that after Pollock created a distance between the brush and the canvas by flinging the paint, there was nowhere to go with painting. . .but people still go to St. Ives, still make action paintings. The urge to be a painter is still there even if the process of painting is still there even if the process of painting is meaningless, old-fashioned. Today there are better ways for artists to communicate to an audience raised on television, advertising and information on a global level.

I often get asked about the spot paintings. . . “The paintings are great/better than your other works, but Richter already did it.” They have nothing to do with Richter or Poons or Bridget Riley or Albers or even Op. They’re about the urge or the need to be a painter above and beyond the object of a painting. I’ve often said that they are like sculptures of paintings.

I started them as an endless series like a sculptural idea of a painter (myself). A scientific approach to painting in a similar way to the drug companies’ scientific approach to life. Art doesn’t purport to have all the answers; drug companies do. Hence the title of the series, “The Pharmaceutical Paintings,” and the individual titles themselves: Acetaldehyde (1991), Albumin Human Glycated (1992), Androstanolone (1993), Arabinitol (1994), etc. . . .

. . . I first studied art in Leeds from an emotional, painterly perspective —”paint how you feel”—painting as truth. But lies are a part of life, and painting like life has to take this on board if it’s worth doing. . .

. . . In the spot paintings the grid-like structure creates the beginning of the system. On each painting no two colours are the same. This ends the system; it’s a simple system. No matter how I feel as an artist or painter, the paintings end up looking happy. I can still make all the emotional decisions about colour that I need to as an artist, but in the end they are lost. The end of painting. And I’m still painting; am I a painter? Or a sculptor who paints? Or just an artist? I don’t know. It’s not important. But it is very important that there is an endless series or enough to imply an endless series.

I believe painting and all art should be ultimately uplifting for the viewer. I love colour. I feel it inside of me. It gives me a buzz. I hate taste—it’s acquired. I like the way the paintings look like they could have been made by a big machine—the machine being the artist in the future. .

. . . I once said that the spot paintings could be what art looks like viewed through an imaginary microscope. I love the fact that in the paintings the angst is removed. I have also said that I once took pills when I was a child thinking they were sweets, and several reviewers picked up on this as a reason for the pharmaceutical paintings. If you look closely at any one of these paintings a strange thing happens: because of the lack of repeated colours there is no harmony. We are used to picking out chords of the same colour and balancing them with different chords of other colours to create meaning. This can’t happen. So in every painting there is a subliminal sense of unease; yet the colours project so much joy it’s hard to feel it, but it’s there. The horror underlying everything. The horror that can overwhelm everything at any moment. . .

—Damien Hirst, I Want to Spend the Rest of My Life Everywhere, With Everyone, One to One, Always, Forever, Now, 1997

Want more?

Hirst bio

Gargosian Gallery

Dublin Lost & Found

Posted in Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting, People & Places with tags , , , , on October 12, 2008 by Liz Hager

Caravaggio (Michelangelo da Merisi), “The Taking of Christ,” 1602,  Society of Jesus of Ireland, on loan to the National Gallery of Ireland (©National Gallery of Ireland)

On a Thursday morning in August, 1990,  Sergio Benedetti, chief restorer for the National Gallery of Ireland, and Brian Kennedy, assistant director, met at the St. Ignatius Residence, to discuss restoration of one of the Jesuit’s paintings, which for many years had been hanging in the dining room subjected to the grit and smoke of the coal-burning fireplace.  Benedetti examines the painting and keeps his surprising suspicions to himself. Later that day, he and Kennedy meet with the Director.  Jonathan Harr, in his 1990 book The Lost Painting, recreates the moment:

Raymond was Raymond Keaveney, the Director of the National Gallery of Ireland. . . Keaveney had risen through the gallery’s small ranks to become director a year and a half ago. . . 

. . . Keaveney was seated at his desk when Benedetti and Kennedy appeared at the door. Kennedy told him about their visit that morning to the Jesuit residence. He wasted no time getting to the point. “Sergio thinks one of the paintings might be by Caravaggio.”

Keaveney looked startled. “Are you serious?” he asked Benedetti. 

“It is either by him, or it is the best copy of his painting,” replied Benedetti. 

Keaveney was deeply skeptical. He had learned to respect Benedetti’s professional judgment, and he could see that Benedetti was agitated, in a state of excitement that Keaveney had rarely seen before. But to stumble across a Caravaggio in your own back yard—in Dublin, of all places—seemed wildly improbable. 

Benedetti described the painting to Keaveney. He said he had immediately recognized the subject—the betrayal of Christ by Judas. Such a painting was known to have been lost for many years, Benedetti explained, although many copies had turned up. There was one in Odessa that some art historians thought might be the original, although most regarded it as a very good copy. The quality of the one in the Jesuit residence appeared equally good. “I think it could be the original,” he told Keaveney. “I want to get it into the studio as soon as possible, to study it more closely.

With considerable detective work from Italian scholar Francesca Cappelletti, Benedetti confirmed his suspicions a year later. The two eventually compiled a dossier that tracks the painting from its execution in Rome in 1602 through the many changes in ownership across four centuries and the continent of Europe. The British National Gallery’s scientific department was delighted to examine the painting and found that it contained the same pigments as known Caravaggio paintings—lead-tin yellow, malachite, red lake, bone black, green earth mixed with walnut oil. 

Why was this such an exciting and important discovery? First, Caravaggio was a controversial figure, the bad boy of the Baroque—a genius and a rogue who was often embroiled in scuffles and brawls.  Second,by the 1960s, the Baroque had come back into style, and its painters were much sought after by dealers and connoisseurs. No artist of that era became more fashionable than Caravaggio. Perhaps that’s because the supply is so limited—only 60-80 authentic Caravaggios are thought to exist. Further, it’s not known how many canvases he painted, and no one can say for certain how many have been lost to time. A true businessman, Caravaggio did not hesitate to copy his own paintings or having them copied, repainted by other painters as was the custom before the advent of engravings and photography. Artists of the Dutch School, in particular Gerrit van Honthorst, were predominant Caravaggio copyists. There are as many as twelve copies of The Taking of Christ, which is why Benedetti was cautious in his attribution. 

The Taking of Christ is on indefinite loan to the National Gallery. Fittingly, it occupies a wall by itself. Understandably, it has become the National Gallery’s biggest draw. 

National Gallery Lost & Found exhibit

Copy Stolen in Odessa

Barnett Newman—”The First Man Was an Artist”

Posted in Artists Speak, Contemporary Art, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , , on October 10, 2008 by Liz Hager


Barnett Newman, Onement III, 1949,
Oil on canvas, 71 7/8 x 33 1/2″
© 2008 Barnett Newman Foundation/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York;
(Photo courtesy MoMA)

Barnett Newman deeply believed in the spiritual content of abstract art.  Superficially, his work appears to focus on issues of form, such as shape and color. However, as the essay below makes clear, those forms carried symbolic meaning weight.

What was the first man, was he a hunter, a toolmaker, a farmer, a worker, a priest, or a politician? Undoubtedly the first man was an artist.

A science of palaeontology that sets forth this proposition can be written if it builds on the postulate the the aesthetic act always precedes the social one. The totemic act of wonder in front of the tiger-ancestor came before the act of murder. It is important to keep in mind that the necessity for dream is stronger than any utilitarian need. In the language of science, the necessity for understanding the unknowable comes before the desire to discover the unknown.

Man’s first expression, like his first dream, was an aesthetic one. Speech was a poetic outcry rather than a demand for communication. Original man, shouting his consonants, did so in yells of awe and anger at his tragic state, at his own self-awareness and at his own helplessness before the void. Philologists and semioticians are beginning to accept the concept that if language is to be defined as the ability to communicate by means of signs, be they sounds or gestures, then language is an animal power. Anyone who has watched the common pigeon circle his female knows that she knows what he wants.

The human in language is literature, not communication. Man’s first cry was a song. Man’s first address to a neighbor was a cry of power and solemn weakness, not a request for a drink of water. Even the animal makes a futile attempt at poetry. Ornithologists explain the cock’s crow as an ecstatic outburst of his power. The loon gliding lonesome over the lake, with whom is he communicating? The dog, alone, howls at the moon. Are we to say the the first man called the sun and the stars God as an act of communication and only after he had finished his day’s labor? The myth came before the hunt. The purpose of man’s first speech was to address the unknowable. His behavior had its origin in his artistic nature.

Just as man’s first speech was poetic before it became utilitarian, so man first built an idol of mud before he fashioned the axe. Man’s hand traced the stick through the mud to make a line before he learned to throw the stick as a javelin. Archeologists will tell us that the axehead suggested the axehead idol. . . (A figure can be made out of mud, but an axe cannot.) The God image, not pottery, was the first manual act. It is the materialistic corruption of present-day anthropology that has tried to make men believe that the original man fashioned pottery before he made sculpture. Pottery is the product of civilization. The artistic act is man’s personal birthright.

The earliest written history of human desires proves that the meaning of the world cannot be found in the social act. An examination of the first chapter of Genesis offers a better key to the human dream. It was inconceivable to the archaic writer that original man, that Adam, was put on the earth to be a toiler, to be a social animal. The writer’s creative impulses told him that man’s origin was that of an artist, and he set him up in the Garden of Eden close to the Tree of Knowledge, of right and wrong, in the highest sense of divine revelation. The fall of man was understood by the writer and his audience not as the fall from Utopia to struggle. . . nor, as the religionist would have us believe as a fall from Grace to Sin, but rather that Adam, by eating from the Tree of Knowledge, sought the creative life to be, like God, “a creator of worlds,” to use Rashi’s phrase, and was reduced to the life of toil only as a result of jealous punishment.

In our ability to live the life of a creator can be found the meaning of the fall of man. It was a fall from the good, rather than from the abundant, life. And it is precisely here that the artist today is striving for a closer approach to the truth concerning original man. . . for it is the poet and the artist who are concerned with the function of original man and who are trying to arrive at his creative state. What is the reason d’etre, what is the explanation of the seemingly insane drive of man to be painter and poet if it is not an act of defiance against man’s fall and an assertion that he return to the Adam of the Garden of Eden. For artists are the first men.

—Barnett Newman, “The First Man Was an Artist” (1947)

Wider Connections

The Nation—“Barnett Newman and the Heroic Sublime”
Melissa Ho—Reconsidering Barnett Newman

“A Circle is a Living Wonder”—Wassily Kandinsky

Posted in Artists Speak, Fine & Decorative Arts, Liz Hager, Painting with tags , on October 9, 2008 by Liz Hager

Wassily Kandinsky, Landscape with Red Spots, No. 2, 1913,
oil on canvas, 117.5 x 140 cm
( Peggy Guggenheim collection)

. . . An empty canvas is a living wonder—far lovelier than certain pictures.

What are its basic elements? Straight lines, a straight, narrow surface, hard inflexible, maintained without regard to anything but itself and apparently going on its own gait like a destiny that has already been fulfilled. Thus and not otherwise. Stretched, free, tense, evading and yielding, elastic, and indeterminate in semblance like the fate which awaits us. It could become something different, but abstains from doing so. Hardness and softness at once, and combinations of both that are infinite in their possibilties.

Every line says “Here I am!” Each holds its own, reveals its own eloquent features, and whispers “Listen, listen to my secret!”

A line is a living wonder.

A dot. Lots of little dots which are just a little smaller here and just a little larger there. All of them have their place within its compass, and yet retain their mobility—a host of little tnesions ceaselessly repeating their chorus of “Listen! Listen!” They are little messages which by echoing each other in unison help to build up the one great central affirmation, “Yes.”

A black circle—distinct thunder, a world apart which seems to care for nothing and retires within itself, a conclusion on the spot. A “Here I am!” pronounced slowly, rather coldly.

A red circle—it stands fast, holds its ground is immersed in itself. Yet it also moves because it covets each other place as well as its own. Its radiance overcomes every obstacle and penetrates into the remotest corners. Thunder and lightning together. A passionate “Here I am!”

A circle is a living wonder.

But the most wonderful thing of all is this: to combine all these voices with still others, lots and lots of them (for besides the simple basic forms and colors already mentioned, there are plenty more really), in one picture—a picture which thus becomes a simple and integral “H E R E   I   A M !”

Limitation, a grudging economy, wild richness, prodigality, thunderclaps, the buzzing of mosquitoes; and everything that lies between them. Milenaries would be only just time enough to get to the bottom of it all, to the utmost limits of these possibilities. And then, after all, finality does not exist.

For close on twenty-five years I have been communing with these “abstract” things. Even before the war I loved the thunder-clap and the buzzing of mosquitoes and turned them to account. But their diapason was the “dramatic” note: explosions, patches violently impacting on one another, lines without hope, eruptions, rumblings, outbursts, catastrophies. The elements—the line-colours, the structure, the brush-work, the very technique, the general ensemble—were, as they ought to be, “dramatic” and subordinated to that aim. Balance was lost, but there was no destruction—only an informing presage of resurrection carried to the pitch of cold serenity. . .

—Wassily Kandinsky, The Painter’s Object (1937)

Wider Connections

Kandinsky in museums

The Chess Theory Visual Art Museum—Pictorial essay on the development of Kandinsky

Kandinsky—Concerning the Spiritual in Art

A Day at CAMP: Thoughts on the Fisher Collection

Posted in Architecture, Bay Area Art Scene, Fine & Decorative Arts, Painting, Paper with tags , , , , , , on October 6, 2008 by Liz Hager

One of the 1,000+ pieces in the Fisher collection: Chuck Close, “Phyllis,” 1984, pulp paper on canvas

Don Fisher’s proposal for a Contemporary Art Museum at the Presidio (CAMP) has generated substantial uproar since its unveiling last summer.  At the root of the controversy are the 100,000 square-foot building—designed by the Gluckman Mayner Architects to house Fisher’s extensive collection of contemporary art—and its placement on the parade grounds of the Presidio.  

Since the details of the proposal became public, many have weighed in on the value of the collection to the community and the aesthetic costs of the current proposal.  Other than a video of art critic Kenneth Baker touring the collection with Don Fisher, however, there aren’t many details available on the collection itself.

In a move to drum up support for his proposal, Don Fisher hired Ground Floor Public Affairs. In September, the group was conducting guided lunchtime tours of the collection for members of the public. As it turned out, the tour did not cover the whole collection, although there was certainly on view to form an opinion about the value of the collection within a greater art historical context.

The tour congregated in the lobby around Richard Serra’s sky-scraping sculpture “Charlie Brown.” So-named because it was installed on the day Charles Schultz died, the piece has an internal space (characteristic of some Serra works) created by the placement of massively vertical steel slabs. The resulting acoustics make for a wild and child-like experience, as tour members whispered and sometimes felt compelled to shout while inside. Unfortunately, “Charlie Brown” will not be part of the CAMP collection, as it was purchase by the Gap, not by Fisher.  

Six large rooms (and one or two hallways) on the bottom floor of the Gap’s headquarters house the artworks on public view. Overall, it was hard to detect a particular curatorial hand in the collection (and the reason may be because there hasn’t ever been a curator of the collection). American artists figure prominently, although a few of the artists, such as Sean Scully, were born elsewhere and live here, and some—including Richard Long and Gerhard Richter—aren’t American and don’t live here. Not visible were Damien Hirst or Anselm Kiefer, arguably necessary components in any collection of contemporary art. To be fair, however, these artists might be represented in the collection, just not on public view. 

Works are presented in loose chronological order—i.e. Lichtenstein and Stella in the first rooms through Jeff Wall and Sam Taylor in the last room. This organizing principal isn’t so strict as to prevent a meditative pairing of Agnes Martin’s organically-inspired 1950/60 paintings with Richard Long‘s reverent natural stone “Autumn Circle” (1990) on the gallery floor. 

In the aggregate the Fisher collection does a fine job offering up the eminent artists of the last four decades—including Philip Guston, Sol LeWitt, Elizabeth Murray, Bryce Marden, Bill Viola—a solid starter course on contemporary art. What’s more, with many of the artists represented by multiple pieces the depth of the collection provides important glimpses of individual leitmotifs, as well as an overview of the march of artistic movements. Three Sean Scully paintings hanging together brings out the lyrical quality in his structured “bricks” of color technique; a single painting could not do this. Almost an entire room of Chuck Close works clearly demonstrates the artist’s prowess manipulating media in service of “portraiture, redefined.”  The two copies of “Phyllis” hanging side by side illustrate this point well.  The larger (above) is constructed from quarter-sized disks of reconstituted paper pulp; a smaller study has been executed purely with his fingerprints. Both from a distance read with photographic-like clarity. 

There is no doubt that San Francisco would be immeasurably enhanced by a public venue for this collection. But how to deal with its container?

There are loads of fantastic contemporary buildings that fit in, even augment, their surroundings. One need look no farther than to the de Young Museum and California Academy of Sciences for examples of successful parkland museums.  Herzog + de Meuron and Renzo Piano  have managed to conjoin two buildings of radically different design with a neo-classical bandshell in a graceful embrace of their shared plaza. Perhaps we’ve grown accustomed to edifices on those sites, as buildings had been there previously for nearly a century.

By contrast, the Gluckman Mayner big square white glass box plopped on the wide-open (rehabilitated) green of the Presidio parade grounds is austere.  The CAMP building feels self-conscious and alone, like a singleton in desperate need of a sibling.

Fisher’s proposal may ultimately pass the public review process, but this is not a fore-gone conclusion. Under National Park rules, the Presidio Trust must publicly vet the proposal.  As a result it finds itself embroiled in the community agitation; the July BOD meeting is a painful reflection of that. For his part, Don Fisher has threatened to keep the collection private.

One hopes that the benefactor will be persuaded to move the building to one of the less prominent, though no less agreeable, sites suggested. One hopes the historic preservation, YMCA and various other groups fighting the proposal will see that the right modernist design will augment the beauty of the Presidio.  IIf a compromise cannot be reached, we all lose. 

Want to dig deeper?

July 2008 BOD transcript

Tyler Green on the proposal

Corrections & Amplifications—10/25/08

* The Trust does not operate under the National Park’s Organic Act, but under the Presidio Trust Act. All federal agencies must comply with the National Environmental Protection Act and the National Historic Preservation Act, which determine the public process. Neither the state nor the city have any decision-making authority, but clearly it is better to have their support than not. 

* The Y does not oppose the project. 

* The Fisher collection has more than 1,000 pieces, many of which are in the Gap executive offices and various other locations without public access. 



Don’t Cry for Me, America

Posted in Liz Hager, Music & Dance, Politics with tags , , , , , on October 1, 2008 by Liz Hager

Naomi Wolf’s Battle Plan II in the Huffington Post today, which dissects the Rove-Cheney use of Sarah Palin, reminded me of the road “little Eva” Perón travelled to fascist infamy.  InEVITAbly, not far behind in my thoughts were Andrew Lloyd Webber’s eponymous musical and the words to its signature song.  I think you’ll find that substituting “America” for “Argentina” lends a creepy resonance to the Wolf thesis. 

Don’t Cry for Me Argentina

It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange
When I try to explain how I feel
that I still need your love after all that I’ve done

You won’t believe me
All you will see is a girl you once knew
Although she’s dressed up to the nines
At sixes and sevens with you

I had to let it happen, I had to change
Couldn’t stay all my life down at heel
Looking out of the window, staying out of the sun

So I chose freedom
Running around, trying everything new
But nothing impressed me at all
I never expected it to


Don’t cry for me Argentina
The truth is I never left you
All through my wild days
My mad existence
I kept my promise
Don’t keep your distance

And as for fortune, and as for fame
I never invited them in
Though it seemed to the world they were all I desired

They are illusions
They are not the solutions they promised to be
The answer was here all the time
I love you and hope you love me

Don’t cry for me Argentina


Have I said too much?
There’s nothing more I can think of to say to you.
But all you have to do is look at me to know

That every word is true. 

If you have a hankering to sing along, try



%d bloggers like this: