tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85346172303592776632024-03-17T21:40:21.552-04:00Picture of the WeekDiane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comBlogger828125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-75087883846270901842024-03-17T08:00:00.001-04:002024-03-17T08:00:00.346-04:00Daffodils Along the Fence<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCn4o3_7HgoF3cHUfXZHaxO5j5gVpi79ZEDwN-fHwkIGpoD7ZxyLjApmCV4e-3IiM6c9v1cqalSfiq7jSRCfYvB8CKX6GsdFdIGeS6NUq0kCkg63o_wcf5SMNeegs9LWT8yO9tVD0_3qQR5YiZ73c1F4hLFEhPahyYdC4os61eCsO4aTMHsyhRjodMmlo/s1800/DaffodilsFence.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCn4o3_7HgoF3cHUfXZHaxO5j5gVpi79ZEDwN-fHwkIGpoD7ZxyLjApmCV4e-3IiM6c9v1cqalSfiq7jSRCfYvB8CKX6GsdFdIGeS6NUq0kCkg63o_wcf5SMNeegs9LWT8yO9tVD0_3qQR5YiZ73c1F4hLFEhPahyYdC4os61eCsO4aTMHsyhRjodMmlo/w400-h266/DaffodilsFence.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">A streak of yellow daffodils have bloomed along the edge of the community garden. Some poke their heads through the chain link fence, facing out where dogs and toddlers stop to sniff and examine them. Lit from behind by the late afternoon sunlight, I see the striations radiating along each petal. Bare trees still reach skyward but the daffodils promise that soon all will turn green.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-82348697904619349992024-03-10T08:00:00.001-04:002024-03-10T08:00:00.162-04:00Pair Of Crocuses<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDo-PaGDwabFWNR5fPeRGNYh70BU6x9k73lJ3qPAVT0bq17MeksRx2YGnWodcGQfli42kCAxlzty7qRF1kBotCZ3jM0hi7qmE0AXKI0-0F-yEyD_CtlUOuHT2SUExvJ_BQcNd_ZRmNwHlq1ckx77xexVwzWneAMzoIahXHvMEL5APF2C7Hz4uM9GQNYY/s1800/CrocusPair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDo-PaGDwabFWNR5fPeRGNYh70BU6x9k73lJ3qPAVT0bq17MeksRx2YGnWodcGQfli42kCAxlzty7qRF1kBotCZ3jM0hi7qmE0AXKI0-0F-yEyD_CtlUOuHT2SUExvJ_BQcNd_ZRmNwHlq1ckx77xexVwzWneAMzoIahXHvMEL5APF2C7Hz4uM9GQNYY/w400-h266/CrocusPair.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">A shaft of morning sunlight angled its way through the bare trees and illuminated a clump of leaves. And there they were, two crocus buddies. They are the sturdier, more colorful kind that come after the first wave of delicate "lawn crocuses" have appeared and faded on yellowed front lawns. I marveled at the range of palest lavender tones shading to rich purple at the tips. Those brilliant yellow stamens complete the complementary pairing of colors that signifies spring. Nature teaches us the ins and outs of the color wheel</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-43511268352391084162024-03-03T08:00:00.001-05:002024-03-03T08:00:00.127-05:00Clouds Seen From the National Gallery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6rkKcT-97h5FFhaOpuCt2Tr2x_Aw3S62RbZ16EuZkgon0BT0VMg4ZuBAbenxzjFPDQBzJdCH_TTv7mFeN1rQ4b0-hem5AXnuqFPO3ZfiHvSn5asJ8qBkNJ20AXhGXOKgW2d3kpDSYuq2sz8KTYPLk_vB7aU-inuSWGz6FKh8a7Sxetc_XCX8txgbAys/s1800/CloudsFrmNGA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6rkKcT-97h5FFhaOpuCt2Tr2x_Aw3S62RbZ16EuZkgon0BT0VMg4ZuBAbenxzjFPDQBzJdCH_TTv7mFeN1rQ4b0-hem5AXnuqFPO3ZfiHvSn5asJ8qBkNJ20AXhGXOKgW2d3kpDSYuq2sz8KTYPLk_vB7aU-inuSWGz6FKh8a7Sxetc_XCX8txgbAys/w266-h400/CloudsFrmNGA.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">For half of my life, I've spent a lot of time enjoying the museums, gardens and public buildings along the National Mall. Once in a while the view takes me by surprise, thanks to an angle I never noticed or an unexpected change in the weather. On a late winter day, looking out from the National Gallery's West Wing I watched the sun pierce the roiling clouds. There, beyond the trees, was the silhouette of the Smithsonian Castle. Sunshine came and went. Art was all around me. The sun and clouds continued their dance.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-85492917642656382182024-02-25T08:00:00.001-05:002024-02-25T08:00:00.163-05:00Cracked Crosswalk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KReZvGMAz0WEX-HhMWjxYKIiq139q_Q5SAyAFX0DnrFfvhrPVBmoBL_Ol4JDZiRPCFEv3HDSHy_6vvrgNhA7PZBo2RfZSQTyTLTdvimGBaZTUAM1f1DRq1G2jR_Qsjct7s9RS-nNGBTJp4Y7NkbiS8sQ7QKWcuwu6xEwnCZzkX_SH4c9kX9sorSCHdM/s1800/Crosswalk%20Cracks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6KReZvGMAz0WEX-HhMWjxYKIiq139q_Q5SAyAFX0DnrFfvhrPVBmoBL_Ol4JDZiRPCFEv3HDSHy_6vvrgNhA7PZBo2RfZSQTyTLTdvimGBaZTUAM1f1DRq1G2jR_Qsjct7s9RS-nNGBTJp4Y7NkbiS8sQ7QKWcuwu6xEwnCZzkX_SH4c9kX9sorSCHdM/w400-h266/Crosswalk%20Cracks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Patterns are everywhere all around us. So often they are merely the backgrounds to whatever we are focusing upon. More than once, I have stopped in the middle of a particular crosswalk on a heavily traveled street near the local school. Weather, traffic and temperature changes have transformed the surface into a quixotically irregular set of lines and textures. A grid remains, but my eyes and brain must work to really see it.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-25078046148749040892024-02-18T08:00:00.001-05:002024-02-18T08:00:00.129-05:00Rainbow Stairs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JDpZuQqxEz5n-2-FYVJHowVvj56VSPNs88RylJNN3g_UhpHDZjX53wABYR4S3cGEpX6QFxd8XT0KCpMBQSLJyZefULH3hbaqdRcQ2yQyUbaiufdnyopK-O2GDHDHjcbvyXv4NPckmFiexvbgWlljUxJvHeYKjo6ieZUXyvU48wzbw_eojlUq7qX5wdU/s1800/RainbowSteps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6JDpZuQqxEz5n-2-FYVJHowVvj56VSPNs88RylJNN3g_UhpHDZjX53wABYR4S3cGEpX6QFxd8XT0KCpMBQSLJyZefULH3hbaqdRcQ2yQyUbaiufdnyopK-O2GDHDHjcbvyXv4NPckmFiexvbgWlljUxJvHeYKjo6ieZUXyvU48wzbw_eojlUq7qX5wdU/w266-h400/RainbowSteps.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">No one was around when I came upon the rainbow-painted stairs. Although it was a chilly day, the bright blue sky and white walls made me wonder if I had been transported to some magical version of Greece, that country of brilliant skies and whitewashed villages. Iris was the goddess of the rainbow. She would travel on it to fulfill her duty of carrying messages to the gods. Now I imagine a present-day Iris, traveling up and down those rainbow stairs.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-69691852732909616232024-02-11T08:00:00.001-05:002024-02-11T08:00:00.249-05:00Rothko: Untitled, 1946<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NEFv8ZxK3466-d3Fa0paKX8locQqAPHzXWfF0wu78aW-e7eomDf39HdXwbxHaCVKWHEMSN3UAXP1CFm-arLfjG96uxQ8I6ff_8YrTKZ_BESZutLXYE3y4eEVjG98MatRVH5d8MEq_-dXG3ktry69LJBnJAd-lcV4I1biWS0HrKoANtBpC-bpxHC8J00/s1800/Rothko1946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NEFv8ZxK3466-d3Fa0paKX8locQqAPHzXWfF0wu78aW-e7eomDf39HdXwbxHaCVKWHEMSN3UAXP1CFm-arLfjG96uxQ8I6ff_8YrTKZ_BESZutLXYE3y4eEVjG98MatRVH5d8MEq_-dXG3ktry69LJBnJAd-lcV4I1biWS0HrKoANtBpC-bpxHC8J00/w266-h400/Rothko1946.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">If you have even a passing interest in 20th century art, the name Mark Rothko brings to mind images of large canvases with fuzzy-edged floating rectangles of color. An exhibit at the National Gallery of Art focuses on his works on paper, starting with a few early landscapes that already show signs of becoming more abstract. This painting, mostly washes of watercolor and lines of ink, owes a debt to Picasso's figures and also to the Greek art with mythological themes that Rothko studied at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Walking through the galleries, seeing Rothko's work develop and change, helped me to understand and appreciate those luscious abstracts of his final Classic period.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-66311517976956051612024-02-04T08:00:00.001-05:002024-02-04T08:00:00.152-05:00Cinematography On Ice<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbeAQusp_Z4G50apL5fEVEtKEQveR5ktB8VMW3PnrNhh-R8Jdkl19LkhYPPcLQh1ceEQSvdAyjTpVeTFq5kPatk7GEYHAtnN3yI4NyJBAJsvUvCEIAT35pg553e8OL22OiuhjRRMmc_6RFfjhs3l6hk5ajeLgeozYjLlNlPgtiVf6MnWkYm-FmVAW0Nc/s1800/CameraOnIce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbeAQusp_Z4G50apL5fEVEtKEQveR5ktB8VMW3PnrNhh-R8Jdkl19LkhYPPcLQh1ceEQSvdAyjTpVeTFq5kPatk7GEYHAtnN3yI4NyJBAJsvUvCEIAT35pg553e8OL22OiuhjRRMmc_6RFfjhs3l6hk5ajeLgeozYjLlNlPgtiVf6MnWkYm-FmVAW0Nc/w400-h266/CameraOnIce.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">At the end of the Skating Spectacular that capped off the US Figure Skating Championships, those who performed took a bow. All week, the audience in the arena had watched Jason Cowan, the cameraman on skates dressed like an arctic paratrooper. Unseen by the TV audience, this former ice dancer recorded impressive "you are RIGHT THERE on the ice" views of the competitors. Jason, who had done a remarkable job of staying close to, but not in the way of the performers, had a close call when Amber Glenn, the 2024 Women’s Champion, flew across the ice so fast that he could barely stay out of her way. Recording right on the ice is not for the fainthearted!</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-1142130254495713732024-01-28T08:00:00.001-05:002024-01-28T08:00:00.141-05:00Figure Skating Photo Op<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRba2XM30VLdzthIGj-SfHYvnxlqucuIsXP8v4vJHjDRboNwCSm6OlPyH5euMVtHq-Xa0_xvXa4y2zJtO2s7Z3O8DnwQcEcYt5sAwog7J-4P5Jn_QS_KwaHduMnW6no9aMGGjV941zDFPuAoeZYLMf2ibqhl1WsFPx79ptxDgaKHPOxMb42u09s_Z4n3c/s2000/SkatingPhotoOp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRba2XM30VLdzthIGj-SfHYvnxlqucuIsXP8v4vJHjDRboNwCSm6OlPyH5euMVtHq-Xa0_xvXa4y2zJtO2s7Z3O8DnwQcEcYt5sAwog7J-4P5Jn_QS_KwaHduMnW6no9aMGGjV941zDFPuAoeZYLMf2ibqhl1WsFPx79ptxDgaKHPOxMb42u09s_Z4n3c/w400-h266/SkatingPhotoOp.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Years of practices and regional competitions come before a skater achieves television-worthy status. During the earlier part of Nationals, Novice and Junior skaters perform in front of crowds that are smaller but no less devoted to cheering on each competitor. When it came time for the Junior Pairs to receive medals, flowers and handshakes from officials, they spread out a rug for the photographers, who VERY carefully walk across the ice clutching their expensive lenses. The only photographer wearing ice cleats walked back and forth to adjust a medal or the way a bouquet was clutched so that every skater would look their best at this moment that they will always remember </span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-12495143067361090132024-01-21T08:00:00.003-05:002024-01-21T08:00:00.241-05:00Winter Picnic Tables<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPSCvr-XV8S3lQjFRzM-3bqE7B6P_v9wMekkQFXzRX_k5B0_aNpdpjVF4ljSqjLC3Dz8rYU1mN0zf0ccZ0KIs2jg9NDwY7SqN6eXu4-VZbj2_RIlse3ctiKr6Zhk0eABe9ro3xBhcTctW2SJBbfBXrFM-8izepM_34vEu7dvkkR9kzc_i8uc9JlsNW-A/s1800/SnowPicnicBenches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGPSCvr-XV8S3lQjFRzM-3bqE7B6P_v9wMekkQFXzRX_k5B0_aNpdpjVF4ljSqjLC3Dz8rYU1mN0zf0ccZ0KIs2jg9NDwY7SqN6eXu4-VZbj2_RIlse3ctiKr6Zhk0eABe9ro3xBhcTctW2SJBbfBXrFM-8izepM_34vEu7dvkkR9kzc_i8uc9JlsNW-A/w400-h266/SnowPicnicBenches.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">After almost two years, we've finally had a real snow, enough to cancel school buses and trips to the office. I crunched along the street, tuning into that faint, sparkly-showery sound made by a multitude of flakes sailing down all at once. The trees in the park had transformed themselves into a magical forest. No one came to disturb the fluffy snow-quilt laid upon each picnic table. Everything stopped for a while, including the distractions of colors other than those that were almost black or almost white. Welcome back, Winter.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-75535945806978047362024-01-14T08:00:00.001-05:002024-01-14T08:00:00.125-05:00Bare Branches and Blue Skies<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaxpf86ETgkX7iSOy5pt-uNd8OUy82woDDkwVJ24znUHy4YWovCmUsZa78kL6iiL6Z3fCpWiXiG9TILNDdgLFrCXimGFYwvMUW-5Zf6LcdVmro2c21IcXTyZ6eTaJvNeB7tvrsUnwZgVZ3SJ3DU2tnRq0CdYIy7G-A7D2hmI8dvZ3-sWB04_X6h-OaQc/s1800/BareBranches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDaxpf86ETgkX7iSOy5pt-uNd8OUy82woDDkwVJ24znUHy4YWovCmUsZa78kL6iiL6Z3fCpWiXiG9TILNDdgLFrCXimGFYwvMUW-5Zf6LcdVmro2c21IcXTyZ6eTaJvNeB7tvrsUnwZgVZ3SJ3DU2tnRq0CdYIy7G-A7D2hmI8dvZ3-sWB04_X6h-OaQc/w400-h266/BareBranches.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">On a very breezy day, the clouds glowed as if lit from within by the sunshine. They sailed across the sky swiftly, determined to get from here to there. I looked up at the fanned-out tree tops stretching out from sturdy trunks to solid branches that divided into delicate lace. A big bird's nest interrupts the pattern. But it's a sign of hope, a reminder of the creatures who will inhabit those trees in the spring.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-67536709989727425432024-01-07T08:00:00.001-05:002024-01-07T08:00:00.136-05:00The Crazy Quilt That Was Never Finished<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_fpQYVHUWmdwhpcE3O6bkeTn5_hQFxcQqgQKyKSrli9JKinN8IGDBkEVVo85JkeuXkysnxPNJY5IAw_tL1COEysrBuUoWjrNOVLvcXE_GZAm4xWuQHHN545pTiixkb58GhqwERK0LbvKwQf3vNHlTMz4CJX6RBYci3pyF0QbsJ5sb3yQDzZwpA2AVyw0/s1800/CrazyQltUnfin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1733" data-original-width="1800" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_fpQYVHUWmdwhpcE3O6bkeTn5_hQFxcQqgQKyKSrli9JKinN8IGDBkEVVo85JkeuXkysnxPNJY5IAw_tL1COEysrBuUoWjrNOVLvcXE_GZAm4xWuQHHN545pTiixkb58GhqwERK0LbvKwQf3vNHlTMz4CJX6RBYci3pyF0QbsJ5sb3yQDzZwpA2AVyw0/w400-h385/CrazyQltUnfin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">One block is carefully embroidered with the initials BH but the origin of this top has been lost in the years since it was assembled. The friends or family members had varying levels of embroidery skills. In a time when women knew how to rejuvenate a tired hat with ribbon flowers, someone has added ribbon leaves and buds. Another liked to paint. She contributed velvet patches with geraniums and roses. Two blocks are backed with cut-up sugar sacks printed with the date 1908. I am guessing the quilt top was made around 1914-1920. But many of the fabrics may be much older. I have 40-year-old fabrics in my own stash! Some of the silks are in sad shape, but it is still a beautiful piece of fiber art, representing the colors and needlework techniques of another time.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-79594102784425931082023-12-31T08:00:00.001-05:002023-12-31T08:00:00.124-05:00Donuts & BBQ<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07jXkvIcvHEgMklc3cGjFoMOtlYy5WWKtjLqvND0LSQ_XfxQVZw124c9D-trnWXkyGVOH2mzNt77g8cYe-lgAKdLOmZTISwUj6E-8tkfrmx48WXY4FPGUHl2BE7dDPQMbr-htRJxCbfR1mp-BM_kCnbAZhJPZXlllYvUnZKzP1z5U65_J440Nm8Q9nbw/s1800/Donuts&BBQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07jXkvIcvHEgMklc3cGjFoMOtlYy5WWKtjLqvND0LSQ_XfxQVZw124c9D-trnWXkyGVOH2mzNt77g8cYe-lgAKdLOmZTISwUj6E-8tkfrmx48WXY4FPGUHl2BE7dDPQMbr-htRJxCbfR1mp-BM_kCnbAZhJPZXlllYvUnZKzP1z5U65_J440Nm8Q9nbw/w400-h266/Donuts&BBQ.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">The colorful and aggressively cheerful signage of one particular business in a strip mall would catch my eye as we whizzed on down a busy road on our way to visit family. We were always too early, too late or too scheduled up to stop and check it out. Finally we stopped and pulled into the parking lot so I could admire the carnival-like combination of floating donuts, icing-dripped sandwiches and colorful stripes. I have no desire to try the questionable culinary delight that is the Sticky Pig but I salute the graphic designer who created such alluring advertising.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-60327506850452769032023-12-24T08:00:00.001-05:002023-12-24T08:00:00.135-05:00Nativity Scene<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPJ5L1Luj-p8y-F1MVyLvM3QFttobJQNlFeNNTGaGr9GcAA4QaR8UAf6xKwBcoamp0pvXpWEFYoLN6wgGevgACAdInDT0p_dRIrmaQSdAaUR0Q7sYKJ93XZwxy3dKo6btrUdZREarHCsYmHT81LBXJdwQNDuO93MDPuRYGwC-HtQR1u59mlKKCXhEalk/s1800/NativitySet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1800" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPJ5L1Luj-p8y-F1MVyLvM3QFttobJQNlFeNNTGaGr9GcAA4QaR8UAf6xKwBcoamp0pvXpWEFYoLN6wgGevgACAdInDT0p_dRIrmaQSdAaUR0Q7sYKJ93XZwxy3dKo6btrUdZREarHCsYmHT81LBXJdwQNDuO93MDPuRYGwC-HtQR1u59mlKKCXhEalk/w400-h236/NativitySet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Two battered shoe boxes hold what is left of the family Nativity sets. My grandmother's set is in sad shape, having been set up and rearranged by two children, five grandchildren and many little visitors. The original baby Jesus, a separate ceramic figure with a wooden manger cushioned with bits of real straw, disappeared ages ago. The replacement, still bearing a twenty-nine cent sticker from Woolworth's, is proportionally too large for Mary and Joseph. Grandma replaced some of the broken sheep legs with matchsticks. Two Magi are missing hands. This year Aunt Margaret’s set is out. She had no children and we tried to be good guests, admiring but not touching. Don't look too closely at the cow, which has lost one horn and both of its fabric or leather ears. These old friends have been helping family members celebrate Christmas for eighty-something years.</span></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-48677590023965723202023-12-17T08:00:00.001-05:002023-12-17T08:00:00.164-05:00Bright Lights<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaW4g6He4Opg9zJNOpUR6ZvaJas24ZDiLZiSEYfGqwqA7Ob0ZwrdRxVEQDMEvOkP-PKR7nlhyr4Lfu-QffyyRbe5h6l4zeH5rs6_kDpeHVRcszWI1Ln7Uvzk6y9U9xeoMlL7ng9K8QeUfZen_e6gmvxhzmm_I7NY120vk6-ghI6GGJ4U9VyeFxA7wcvFo/s1800/OaklandSt2023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaW4g6He4Opg9zJNOpUR6ZvaJas24ZDiLZiSEYfGqwqA7Ob0ZwrdRxVEQDMEvOkP-PKR7nlhyr4Lfu-QffyyRbe5h6l4zeH5rs6_kDpeHVRcszWI1Ln7Uvzk6y9U9xeoMlL7ng9K8QeUfZen_e6gmvxhzmm_I7NY120vk6-ghI6GGJ4U9VyeFxA7wcvFo/w400-h266/OaklandSt2023.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">In December, I often delay my walk until later in the day. Birds gather and chatter in the branches. There might be a glorious sunset. As the sky darkens, holiday lights begin to glimmer. A simple wreath and a strand of lights on a porch add cheer to these darker days. I am especially grateful for those creative folks who go all out and use their creativity to decorate their entire yards. They take us to a magical place, full of color and wonder</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-84518507958996230082023-12-10T08:00:00.001-05:002023-12-10T08:00:00.241-05:00Picking Up the Pieces<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoaoHVeMKWzp02aimbxm75P0G-61v1ATKdSS8gfFNWsp5CdrZ7Ilub0yg869ttqPORXpKjtJNX56merC7IWmqcOrdIQ8BIK5ewwCsi1Wtu75hlyPJ0e9BnCttxefNb9IlKVyLkej1N3jQToNnP5Ckixzu1UZHBzDmce2eri592xMyTp-lXlL1krvDrq8/s1800/PickingUpPieces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoaoHVeMKWzp02aimbxm75P0G-61v1ATKdSS8gfFNWsp5CdrZ7Ilub0yg869ttqPORXpKjtJNX56merC7IWmqcOrdIQ8BIK5ewwCsi1Wtu75hlyPJ0e9BnCttxefNb9IlKVyLkej1N3jQToNnP5Ckixzu1UZHBzDmce2eri592xMyTp-lXlL1krvDrq8/w400-h266/PickingUpPieces.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">That is the title of Judy Pfaff's exhibit currently at the Sarasota Art Museum. As a mixed media artist, Judy Pfaff works with found objects and has the skill sets to deal with the, including carpentry and welding. Florida is the focus of her exhibition at the Sarasota Art Museum. It includes a huge installation created from detritus collected after the 2022 hurricane. I thought of the first gallery, shown here, as the "Before" gallery, full of the joy and color of modern tropical life. The aftermath of the hurricane is evident in the second gallery. With a small forest of patio umbrella skeletons and rusted chairs overhead, it's starkly beautiful, reflecting the effect that humans have on the environment. I will never look at paper packing materials, plastic glasses or backyard furniture in the same way, ever again.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-12528686493103963602023-12-03T08:00:00.001-05:002023-12-03T08:00:00.129-05:00Just Add People<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WCebPLxibisAR7vHVrwPRpNsLY36AOoRwcsQEWVViP6U39LhCbczcdXUEe3zT-ak03ke8VEw5Y2Fwy8CV8Gj4dmjjHsihiSE0NQjjHJ6oVzlGFdfNoUVG3tZMMOMWMdDv1nPzp7sjU0fZVb2cavBS45r3KAj-cqw5IX4H8-tjn9MNp2sIuGtkyPIfn4/s1800/ParadeChairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WCebPLxibisAR7vHVrwPRpNsLY36AOoRwcsQEWVViP6U39LhCbczcdXUEe3zT-ak03ke8VEw5Y2Fwy8CV8Gj4dmjjHsihiSE0NQjjHJ6oVzlGFdfNoUVG3tZMMOMWMdDv1nPzp7sjU0fZVb2cavBS45r3KAj-cqw5IX4H8-tjn9MNp2sIuGtkyPIfn4/w400-h266/ParadeChairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Venice, Florida has a parade on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Local businesses and associations build floats and decorate vehicles with non-tropical imagery such as snowmen, penguins and snowflakes. Parade-watchers are allowed to set up their chairs ahead of time. The three or four blocks running through the center of downtown Venice are the most popular area for viewing the parade. Before Thanksgiving, chairs begin to appear on both sides of the street. A couple hours before the parade was due to start, I lingered at this corner and wondered if there would be any disputes over the possession of a particular red or blue chair in this stretch of predominantly red and blue chairs.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-31699573830278391112023-11-26T08:00:00.001-05:002023-11-26T08:00:00.135-05:00Blue Bee<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdQ-ccspnSmPttpV7uWFfDwppHj5VTFWlKb2DyxKdpRNRfImKZ7HB2W7YtI9VijsP9f-9x-BQOya8S2l_r8ZJtIuOLfPV00ya2zZVLlbb6QbRf_cuRa0NJ_Yit-PDQhOEr2Jeube9oUk4MndgXPYYYzejwcgBhLSUSeHAvYHzKlpbrd-DJtCMb8-g5aE/s2000/BlueBee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdQ-ccspnSmPttpV7uWFfDwppHj5VTFWlKb2DyxKdpRNRfImKZ7HB2W7YtI9VijsP9f-9x-BQOya8S2l_r8ZJtIuOLfPV00ya2zZVLlbb6QbRf_cuRa0NJ_Yit-PDQhOEr2Jeube9oUk4MndgXPYYYzejwcgBhLSUSeHAvYHzKlpbrd-DJtCMb8-g5aE/w400-h266/BlueBee.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Did you know there are blue bees? Some are navy blue or a brilliant royal blue. Although he is considered a blue bee, depending on the angle of the light, this particular guy tends to look greenish. He is iridescent, like a glass bead with a "blue iris" finish. Sometimes his fuzzy hind legs look violet. Mr Blue Bee has taken up residence in a decorative bird house. He carefully created a smaller opening and squeezed himself inside, then closed up the opening to seal himself in, away from predators. Each morning he nibbles out the opening just enough to go searching for pollen. The cycle continues each day. Yes, bees are busy, no matter what color they might be.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-9150034642803019752023-11-19T08:00:00.001-05:002023-11-19T08:00:00.138-05:00Fallen Ginkgo Leaves<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZIm5RA_2b8lZs60TEX3Eu0GoffLjzSdpv8bWSICaHMxVviTzDyfM3ytObM-2dUDRAbYP2Dn-vStReix9_OCVzMOPT40eL6Wz2I95N3hI2xSoOve0jOjF2h0vIpkoe9nVqOyZEiOaw1zm6QcanPpbDQAwEhC3baiOht6hwsjRT7OqLuSqT_xjZbjj6hA/s1800/FallenGinkgoLeaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrZIm5RA_2b8lZs60TEX3Eu0GoffLjzSdpv8bWSICaHMxVviTzDyfM3ytObM-2dUDRAbYP2Dn-vStReix9_OCVzMOPT40eL6Wz2I95N3hI2xSoOve0jOjF2h0vIpkoe9nVqOyZEiOaw1zm6QcanPpbDQAwEhC3baiOht6hwsjRT7OqLuSqT_xjZbjj6hA/w266-h400/FallenGinkgoLeaves.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Most of the neighborhood ginkgos have now turned from green to bright, clear yellow. Backlit by the sun, the host of fluttering fans look like pure gold. As much as I love the story that ginkgos lose all their leaves in one day, this is not entirely true. It CAN happen, especially if there is an overnight cold snap. The stems of deciduous trees develop "scars" that encourage leaves to detach from the tree. Ginkgos are more decisive about this, which is why they often drop all their leaves in a short time, as opposed to a red maple releasing leaves over the course of a week or more. The fans here on the sidewalk will soon be joined by their friends who still cling to the branches.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-6799725913174460152023-11-12T08:00:00.001-05:002023-11-12T08:00:00.131-05:00View From the Big Round Window<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2iNYDomALKipjbH2j8HZ2aJw4eR1sGXH1_LNywcppSr2N6gGgWtRR5Xka9x92QYFCANTZhLDfXyM989apNyGugwncfy3si4tQ9XcjZ4ltJhZmdSaJkf2m0DTqBJkOMEmo37bfM9nKE497CPjxl5XImtHsxeG8qTiFdU9dSUOmcw63wP7OwYvDD-6mpE/s1800/BigRoundWindow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2iNYDomALKipjbH2j8HZ2aJw4eR1sGXH1_LNywcppSr2N6gGgWtRR5Xka9x92QYFCANTZhLDfXyM989apNyGugwncfy3si4tQ9XcjZ4ltJhZmdSaJkf2m0DTqBJkOMEmo37bfM9nKE497CPjxl5XImtHsxeG8qTiFdU9dSUOmcw63wP7OwYvDD-6mpE/w400-h266/BigRoundWindow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Many thousands of people converged upon the George R Brown Convention Center last week for the annual Houston International Quilt Festival. Last Sunday, less than an hour before the show ended, I trekked upstairs for one last look through the big round window that looks down on the quilts. All week, those aisles had been as jammed as rush hour traffic in a big city. Now the last attendees had the luxury of unobstructed views of their favorite quilts. It made me a little sad to know that the magical, inspiring displays would disappear within hours. But I'll be back next year.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-20787869878967456592023-11-05T08:00:00.001-05:002023-11-05T08:00:00.148-05:00Lots and Lots Of Stitches<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncIrOpc-pzKjK_o4Cy7IcpVg8wIkFaIWSvuFtgM0vlAlF5S2x1NXoYm6LBeKmmhZFn-lTiGDyH8T0BNOPfPuuziQvH0fZsurSDgpNT2rEK_heYn0bziBu79-1l8VcOZveUtPumYA5tNpyy8XTFz9q-1Ejc8PVyNXbWijS5FMF6L6RWfCAITRSVCaC6b0/s1800/LotsaStitches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncIrOpc-pzKjK_o4Cy7IcpVg8wIkFaIWSvuFtgM0vlAlF5S2x1NXoYm6LBeKmmhZFn-lTiGDyH8T0BNOPfPuuziQvH0fZsurSDgpNT2rEK_heYn0bziBu79-1l8VcOZveUtPumYA5tNpyy8XTFz9q-1Ejc8PVyNXbWijS5FMF6L6RWfCAITRSVCaC6b0/w266-h400/LotsaStitches.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">My friend Christen Brown is a master of the first degree when it comes to wielding an embroidery needle. She has written many books sharing her embroidered and embellished fiber art. This week, during one of my free afternoons at the Houston Quilt Festival. I helped Christen to get her table ready for incoming students. We unrolled and unfolded her many sets of stitch samples, all carefully labeled with the name of each stitch. Such a multitude of stitches in so many beautiful colors! The tableau illustrated a world of creative possibilities, requiring only a needle and thread</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-79112159431190928982023-10-29T08:00:00.001-04:002023-10-29T08:00:00.133-04:00Zombie Dolls<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhPyO3nzcbiVc-DeV2N6-Vmmk9UE8hDhTAlK_eQKdaYWIut55uTdjUAWL1RxmKFbrOY0nH4geILO3nEnrA4MVvqqYD5Z-4eoOEW6WX3OHnJMDMsfaxkdXaV7f1WIBNuU9Ww4LOOi6Rq1gSZdNHn4Fnv-kckgeNNI6l_b_peWOSxTGbmAfpIpYS-BCaDc/s1800/ZombieDolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhPyO3nzcbiVc-DeV2N6-Vmmk9UE8hDhTAlK_eQKdaYWIut55uTdjUAWL1RxmKFbrOY0nH4geILO3nEnrA4MVvqqYD5Z-4eoOEW6WX3OHnJMDMsfaxkdXaV7f1WIBNuU9Ww4LOOi6Rq1gSZdNHn4Fnv-kckgeNNI6l_b_peWOSxTGbmAfpIpYS-BCaDc/w400-h266/ZombieDolls.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">In a suburban neighborhood where friendly blow-up ghosts and happy jack-o-lanterns signify the arrival of Halloween, one house stands out. A teenage girl, tired of her Barbies, Disney Princesses and Monster Highschoolers has transformed them into a zombie army. They march stiffly across the lawn, all with glowing yellow eyes and a deadly pallor. Their faces and clothing are stained with blood. Four Horsewomen of the Zombie Apocalypse ride behind. Neighbors with young children may look askance at this tableau but I salute maker’s the creativity and dark humor.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-32840772002185176582023-10-22T08:00:00.001-04:002023-10-22T08:00:00.147-04:00Tombstone, BonaventureCemetery<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzvCVGJITkRM4e2psao3fEpOfQyb3Fy4tP_h2B6whidK__2MZ77FZQPqD_vwhA3JMt-r_V7IGiPVAHNkcriezZ5CdaTm1Q8aywjRItnF5LKF6eZD_c2IDwD0_d6mA2_0qjH2AH5EFEYNhV_hOKRFP2Yhyphenhyphenm7lPfgVOM3zT8U-ogjYzJL0Jmor4vB9iEtc/s1800/BonaventureTombstone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzvCVGJITkRM4e2psao3fEpOfQyb3Fy4tP_h2B6whidK__2MZ77FZQPqD_vwhA3JMt-r_V7IGiPVAHNkcriezZ5CdaTm1Q8aywjRItnF5LKF6eZD_c2IDwD0_d6mA2_0qjH2AH5EFEYNhV_hOKRFP2Yhyphenhyphenm7lPfgVOM3zT8U-ogjYzJL0Jmor4vB9iEtc/w266-h400/BonaventureTombstone.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">The first people were laid to rest in Savannah's Bonaventure Cemetery in 1850. Spread out on land that was part of plantation, it has all the required southern features: brooding rows of live oaks, heavy drapes of moss that sometimes brush your shoulders, rusty fences bordering family plots and a host of carved angels. John Muir slept on top of graves here in 1867, on his Thousand Mile Walk. Nowadays, people tend to think of Bonaventure as the "Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil" cemetery. This is the perfect time of year to visit such a peaceful but also possibly spooky site.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-51007445991267141882023-10-15T08:00:00.001-04:002023-10-15T08:00:00.140-04:00Dogs, Dogs, Dogs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeRJ-2v0eBzixHFPHUHK9ZELA409hu2HqmVskoPp_35zk6ANbi0rIIYMcAxe2rIi5V0_3z4rxDB3Duava323nYg5eIL3hGybfjjeG2JPrjVBzVLbtoScyhFMYeWZxiH3Sv7pWtWMox2RZWS3v88x8VQb304bMfzISxstKyMriVRFcmYUodMeylVWs-XY/s1800/WalkingOlive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqeRJ-2v0eBzixHFPHUHK9ZELA409hu2HqmVskoPp_35zk6ANbi0rIIYMcAxe2rIi5V0_3z4rxDB3Duava323nYg5eIL3hGybfjjeG2JPrjVBzVLbtoScyhFMYeWZxiH3Sv7pWtWMox2RZWS3v88x8VQb304bMfzISxstKyMriVRFcmYUodMeylVWs-XY/w400-h266/WalkingOlive.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">One of my favorite stops at an annual street fair is the booth presenting needle-felted dogs. Tracy Shue is a fiber artist who really knows her dogs. Corgis, terriers, beagles, pugs, labradoodles---you will find puppies and adults of every possible breed. Her business, Walking Olive, delights everyone. Somehow she captures the essence of each dog, right down to the stance and expression on those fuzzy little lifelike faces. Best of all, everyone who stops to look walks away smiling.</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-75562604289243329752023-10-08T08:00:00.001-04:002023-10-08T08:00:00.139-04:00Spotty Leaves<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDrJt_UJ7dd8KoYNsaAGTcLrE9K0relxLyRsTS19aEqWfr6w3FZDtky8Zuk5JR2kqeO7poO7_GXppRIIeDqlC1h7wZifchwLaYT1nUycLlSnBKNezndae9A6NRWbyg1ib_BH4l1GBumvynCAHRzPO22kQXziRFDU36romW9ALn-tz1gELI-1vohzMKz4/s1800/SpottyLeaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNDrJt_UJ7dd8KoYNsaAGTcLrE9K0relxLyRsTS19aEqWfr6w3FZDtky8Zuk5JR2kqeO7poO7_GXppRIIeDqlC1h7wZifchwLaYT1nUycLlSnBKNezndae9A6NRWbyg1ib_BH4l1GBumvynCAHRzPO22kQXziRFDU36romW9ALn-tz1gELI-1vohzMKz4/w400-h266/SpottyLeaves.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">Is this strange? Is this ugly? The brilliant glowing yellow was what first caught my eye. But society tends to connect irregular patterns like these spots to the idea of blemishes. The conventional idea of beauty leans towards smooth, balanced, somewhat unsurprising shapes and patterns. These leaves are intriguing. The blotches have edges with hints of purples and blues. The speckled pattern bubbles up into tiny surprising beads of texture. Each leaf has contorted itself into odd shapes, like potato chips tumbling from a deep fryer. Beautiful? Fascinating? Does it matter?</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8534617230359277663.post-6757916465885274152023-10-01T08:00:00.001-04:002023-10-01T08:00:00.167-04:00Romanesco<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTlIhcQcHPcLmVaQAQE8PfsLwkq5sDy2UODXu3MKr7W9zFeKvNVB_96y9jSL5I92AMLzy-KqLvO31sI2ePYJyIOupq_krAeB_Nmgtrk9hwLWN-YQcXCQ1GjQpjNwk-o3l4Qy6uTXbsYA8PfFhfPgElXEz9lAMCvpHSSbo-XQRW85qeiA990VozpNoq6U/s1800/Romanesco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTlIhcQcHPcLmVaQAQE8PfsLwkq5sDy2UODXu3MKr7W9zFeKvNVB_96y9jSL5I92AMLzy-KqLvO31sI2ePYJyIOupq_krAeB_Nmgtrk9hwLWN-YQcXCQ1GjQpjNwk-o3l4Qy6uTXbsYA8PfFhfPgElXEz9lAMCvpHSSbo-XQRW85qeiA990VozpNoq6U/w400-h266/Romanesco.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-family: arial;">There is an odd-looking vegetable that is rarely found at the grocery store. Romanesco is a brassica, the same family that gave us broccoli and cauliflower. With a texture like an alien from outer space and bright chartreuse color, it remains a novelty. Romanesco's spiky protrusions are perfect examples of fractals, repeating patterns found in nature. Is it just me, or does anyone else also see a group of wildly creative but very bumpy crocheted hats??</span><p></p>Diane Herborthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09144668992772306250noreply@blogger.com