Barbara Sparhawk

Carmel Valley, United States

Professional Expressionist, portrait painter, writer, children’s book illustrator, entrepreneur, and adventuress.

Journal

The Big Bang

Dear RedBubble buddies, good friends, and acquintances. I had a major heart attack about five months ago. Clearly I survived. I just wrote it up on my blog, and for those interested, please go to www.thehawksperch.wordpress.com.
I don’t know how to make a connect you just tap on, if anyone does, please add it for me.
I’m recovering nicely from the quadruple bypass. I have little advice for anyone really, just keep on going. It seems to be something that hits even the most careful vegetarian, Triathlon athletes, and perfectly fit. Who knows. Take those photographs, write those books, paint them pictures and do it NOW!! My love to all…………
Barbara

The Rescue Dogs of 9-11

I put up a post on my blog today to remember and honor the remarkable Search and Rescue Dogs of the World Trade Center disaster on September 11, 2001 in New York City.
I met one of those dogs, Porkchop, when I moved to Yosemite in 2002. Porkchop’s home was Yosemite. He recently passed away, he was only a year old when he started his first mission in NYC, and lived a long and wonderful life. Porkchop was the last survivor of the 9-11 Search and Rescue Dogs.
If you’d like to go for a look, it’s on
www.thehawksperch.wordpress.com.

I know RedBubble to be a wonderful international site, and take this opportunity to also honor the outpouring of care during America’s crisis which included people coming from far away to help, coming from all over the world. Thank you all.

The Rescue Dogs of 9-11

I put up a post on my blog today to remember and honor the remarkable Search and Rescue Dogs of the World Trade Center disaster on September 11, 2001 in New York City.
I met one of those dogs, Porkchop, when I moved to Yosemite in 2002. Porkchop’s home was Yosemite. He recently passed away, he was only a year old when he started his first mission in NYC, and lived a long and wonderful life. Porkchop was the last survivor of the 9-11 Search and Rescue Dogs.
If you’d like to go for a look, it’s on
www.thehawksperch.wordpress.com.

I know RedBubble to be a wonderful international site, and take this opportunity to also honor the outpouring of care during America’s crisis which included people coming from far away to help, coming from all over the world. Thank you all.

Trouble With Paradise

(Written originally on my blog, www.holycowgirl.wordpress.com, which has other things readers here may enjoy).…

TROUBLE WITH PARADISE

Several years ago I was madly in love with a remarkable man. Dashing fellow, handsome, in the espionage business. Bright as a penny, linguist extraordinaire, and unparalleled lover. Our relationship brought to mind, finally, long after it’s ending, the devastating description of Lord Byron’s famously scattered affections toward one of his amours. His biographer wrote: “She was in love with him to the point of near insanity. He liked her a lot.”

Oh dear. Which then, as now, set me to thinking about the actual content of Paradise. It’s one thing to hold the amorphous dream, pink and goldy glowing up there in unfettered space. But how does it actually play out.

Hemingway's Picnic

Hemingway’s Picnic…

I never liked Ernest Hemingway much, though I have read what he wrote and watched the movies of his stories throughout my life.

Hemingway seemed a stark, empty creature to me. Doing derring do for effect not feeling, a life requiring an enormous support system of followers and gear and excess and ruthless killing. I believe he knew that failing in himself, that desperate alienation from life, and did half of what he did in order to feel anything at all.

That opinion transitioned slightly for me when I came across and read cover to cover a biography by A E Hotchner, called Papa Hemingway: A Personal Memoir. It’s a good book. Hotchner, an author of considerable exploits himself, was Hemingway’s good buddy for about fourteen years up until Hemingway’s death.

Possibly I’d

Ray Bradbury, RIP

io9.com has got one of the most beautiful obituaries in tribute to a writer that may ever exist, written to Ray Bradbury who has just passed away.…

The author is Kip Russell, (worth looking up) and these stunning words say it all. Except that I loved him too, and learned from Ray Bradbury, a remarkable writer of science fiction, the finest proponent of ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE, a national treasure for America. And I’m making sure to copy it here especially for Billy Boy, and for all the grownups whose childhoods launched them into the thrill of the exquisite future.

This, from Kip Russell…….

“Somewhere in America, a boy tap-dances on a tuned segment of discarded wooden sidewalk, calling his friends to run over the hills by moonlight…

Out on the Veldt, the animals pause for a moment, as though

What's for din din

A few years ago I accidentally became the part-time chef for a rock and roll family. It changed my habits.
I used to go for a walk in the garden or sit in front of a fire at dinner time with the frying pan made meal on my lap and a good large spoon.
Now I actually go into grocery raptures and keep inventing what tastes good. I’m no fanatic, don’t give much credit to organic though sometimes it’s just rare.…

Last night I made a meal so totally divine I thought I’d share it. It’s incredibly simple, cheap, a fast toss together, just takes some bringing of ingredients into the home. This was enough for two days feasting for one, or one meal for two.
After two nibbles, my large cat abandoned me for the bed, so I got to eat it alone. This is what I’d made:

Salmon steak, about 1/2 lb or less, fresh
o

Thanks to the buyers!

I don’t know who’s been up to it but I’ve had a lovely bunch of sales recently, many thanks to whomever.
12 of the Rolling Stones World Tour Billboard cards, stickers of Wm F Buckley, Jr, and the Wilderness Kid, T-shirts of West Fourth Street Courts, and Don’t Fence Me In (the cowpoke’s lament), and a framed print of Pfeiffer Beach.
Almost enough to spring for lunch if I ever reach the totals required. More than enough to cheer the heart and send a nice tremble of accomplishment into these old brush-clenching fingers.
Thanks.

My Fabulous Gallery

My little Big Sur painting gallery, The Hawks Perch, is flying into new territory. It was a sudden decision, not entirely my own, and somewhat terrifying: Oh my God what will become of me?
Yep, did the impossible again. pulled a sweet fat rabbit out of a hat in ten days, in an area famous for either no housing at all or really appalling expensive housing.…

Just signed two new leases and the move is on.
In a few weeks I’m settling into new house, studio, and gallery, everything incredibly beautiful.

I’ve had a fantastic two year run in Big Sur….I heartily recommend this to every artist OPEN YOUR OWN GALLERY! But it’s time for me to move on and ahead.
I now have a wonderfully big garden, backed with stone walls and spectacular trees. I face a huge wide meadow famous for it’s high grasses and s

Andy Rooney & My Culottes

Andy Rooney & My Culottes. RIP, You Sweetheart…

Andy Rooney, everybody’s favorite curmudgeon and sardonic wit died yesterday at the impossibly young age of 92. If anybody should live into their mid-hundreds, he was the guy.

The first time I met Andy Rooney was 1980, in the basement of the old CBS Broadcast Center on West 57th. There used to be little candy, cigar, cigarette and newspaper stand on the ground floor, and the shoe-shine man who worked miracles on any kind of leather. The building had once been a dairy including cows, and had metal ramps, concrete floors, an industrial kind of interior. In fact in Murrow’s day, they used to develop their 35mm negatives in the leftover water troughs. But back to Mr. Rooney. We bumped into each other, literally.

Andy was a perpetual motion whirl

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