words & art by shé

bookshelf

Tag: female abstract expressionist painter

  • Benevolence

    Three years in México and the language still gets away from me. To be fair, I’ve had huge misunderstandings with people in English; Spanish simply adds spice. Yesterday, slogging back from provisioning, towing the wagon, the gatekeeper at the athletic field asked, “¿Se vende?” The fatigued interpreter in my brain translated this to “What did…

  • Compañera

    Tired from a late night, I eased into the ocean and stroked away from shore after dawn. Several meters out, my eyes snagged on a large fish, same length as me, swimming in the same direction, though below and to the right. Long body, long nose, silvery gray in the gloom. My brain then registered…

  • Surfing Sexism

    “It took me a year, and I’m a man,” said the ovary-deprived human. He’s surprised that I am refinishing Habibi’s hull alone. “Maybe it took you a year because you’re a man,” I don’t say because I am polite. Turns out I’ve just bought a flexible sander from a member of the penis gallery, and I am…

  • Letting in the Wind

    “Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge.” —Audre Lorde. Change can be difficult. And, possible. Emotions are clues, perseverance necessary. Like so many, I struggle with inherited behaviors. In the middle of the night, after hours of hot air currents gusting through the cabin, I closed the hatches. The sound of whistling wind…

  • Pura Vida

    Oh, metallic blue paint at the office supply store! Oh, canvases and silver hue! I hold my sunglasses in my teeth, the better to pile art supplies into my arms. Was hard to leave the quality paints behind on Kaua’i. Back aboard Habibi, these treasures now take up three shoeboxes in a cubby and a half. Satisfaction.…

  • Marina Life

    I’ve given up trying to leave Mazatlán for the nonce. Maybe I’ll head south again after hurricane season. I have settled into a writing rhythm, and am working on the memoir. I’ve rigged an uber-long extension cord to the dock post in order to recharge the devices and run the electric kettle. Now to find…

  • Pity Kiss

    He snaked his arm through my open 4Runner window, snagged my shoulder to pull me closer, and kissed me on the cheek. I was too surprised to resist. I had pulled over when I saw him to find out why he suddenly stopped texting in the middle of negotiating a visit to Habibi with his…

  • Dusk

    A faint path lopes along the top of the isthmus that separates the mooring lagoon from the sea. I didn’t notice it for a month, and trudged the rougher scree that tried to throw me off balance. Imagine my delight one evening, in the slanting rays, to find an easier way. And it was always…

  • Habibi

    Beginning at the Berkeley marina, I drive south for days, seeking out sailboats and surfing when I can: Santa Cruz, Morro Bay, Santa Barbara, Oxnard, Long Beach, Newport, Dana Point, Oceanside, San Diego. Cross the border into México and check out San Felipe, Bahía Tortugas, Santa Rosalia. Spend an afternoon and night at Playa El…

  • Grace

    There are moments of grace and beauty. Blowing bubbles with Antonella was one of them. Let me set the scene: a church group sings nearby of peace and love and liberty; the sun is setting big and orange and low; for the first time in México, the tiny house is unhitched and plugged in; and…