Oil on canvas; 162.6 x 97.8 cm. Andre Derain, (b. June 10, 1880, Chatou, France—d. September 8, 1954, Garches), French painter, sculptor, printmaker, and designer who was one of the principal Fauvists. Derain studied painting in Paris at the Academie Carriere from 1898 to 1899. He developed his early style in association with Maurice de Vlaminck, whom he met in 1900, and with Henri Matisse, who had been Derain’s fellow student at the Academie Carriere. Together with these two painters, Derain was one of the major exponents of Fauvism from 1905 to 1908. Like the other artists who worked in this style, he painted landscapes and figure studies in brilliant, sometimes pure colours and used broken brushstrokes and impulsive lines to define his spontaneous compositions. Derain broke with Fauvism in 1908, when he was temporarily influenced by the works of the Post-Impressionist painter Paul Cezanne. Derain worked for a few years in a stylized form of Cubism, but by the 1920s his paintings of nudes, still lifes, and portraits had become increasingly Neoclassical, and the spontaneity and impulsiveness that had distinguished his earlier work gradually disappeared. His art underwent virtually no change after the 1920s, though his more conservative style brought him financial success. Derain had considerable ability as a decorator and created theatrical designs, notably for the Ballets Russes. He also produced numerous book illustrations, often in woodcut, for works by authors such as Francois Rabelais, Antonin Artaud, and Andre Breton.

I collect feathers from the yard & old white butter pats (i have stacks & stacks). The butter pats hold candles, words snipped from magazines, crystals, broken jewelry, these feathers. Or nothing - standing like small sculptures teetering here & there. The black pottery is Oaxacan - the 2 outer pieces, a gift from my friend Lulu, who travels the world & brings me treasures - and Indian, bought at a flea market somewhere here in Texas. My house is full of neutral colors and peace, gatherings from the yard, bowls of leaves, bowls of words. I am not, however, neat. I like the imperfections of things, of life. That teetering.