Black Iris and Certain Dark Things: Finding The Neruda and O'Keeffe Within.

Georgia O'Keeffe is one of my absolute favorite artists. Actually she's tied with Frida Kahlo; I love them both for being raw and laying things bare, in very different ways.

Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings of large flowers, and some of her abstracts are very sensual.


To me, this painting is like that one lover who remains under my skin, long after I've last scratched my nails down her back, long after our last intimate moments, and our last kiss is nothing more than an ache.

Her work resonates with me. It is like my most secret desires, that I can only whisper, in the dark, after a year of laughing and loving, and desiring. Seeing her paintings is like voicing those desires that make me blush long after I've spoken them; long after a lover's reassuring kiss and compliance.

In the words of Pablo Neruda...

...as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.



The first time I read Neruda's poem, XVII, I felt that he understood something that is universal about passion and love. That sometimes passion is so very deep that it is kept safe, beneath the surface. It is not common, this love he knows. It is not some cute 'eye candy', it is something that I would keep safely hidden deep in my soul. It is not something discussed, yet shows as bright as a full moon on a clear night.


Neruda's words and O'Keeffe's paintings stir something within me. I love intense art. Neither of these artists offer the sunny, easy view. Neither of them travel the easy road. Everything is so intense that it threatens to overwhelm. It resonates in me. I love reading things and seeing art that reflects a tiny mirror back to me. It seems that nothing for me is simple or easy.

I have a running joke with a couple of co-workers: I am not for the weak or uninitiated. No, this is not the bunny slope. This territory I offer is for the road warriors, the battle-scarred. And yet, there is this moment when all the hills level off, the thorns have fallen, all of the overgrown brush is gone and all that remains is...

a tender heart, my rich love, a vast and powerful sea. all that remains is me.

peace