Beckmann, Caravaggio and Me, as listed aphabetically

Here is the next installment in the drama known as "Waitress #5 (Reclining)."

Before we get to the pics, however, this would be a good time to introduce the fact that there is a growing school of critical art thinking that lumps Caravaggio, Max Beckmann and me together as the three finest proponents of black in the history of painting.

Modesty prevents me from commenting, but the argument does put into perspective the following sequence. This is the canvas re-taped after the 7th Inning Stretch and with the next set of boxes executed:



Followed, moving quickly now, by this--the final set of boxes executed:



Which brings us, inexorably, to this:



Honestly, who would have thought?

Given that whole black thing we were talking about earlier, I might have made the area under the neck a little darker, but this is where we stand as of this moment, tape off, miscellaneous tweeks having been implemented, feeling pretty good.

Interesting. Reminds me a little of Liz Taylor in National Velvet (a little young, I might add, for taking her shirt off, but really, I'm talking about the blues and purples near her eyes)

This might also be instructional...





I can't decide whether it's done or not. You can't mess too much with these obscured box paintings, as my previous painting of Waitress #5 has taught us. Still, I might do a little of this and a little of that. Certainly the right eye could be rethought. Likewise the right side of the mouth.

Or I might just leave well enough alone (other than to slap about five coats of varnish on the thing, which is my new way of conducting my affairs, at least when it comes to small paintings). I think I like it.

What I have done, I should tell you, is take the damned thing home with me. It's sitting on my dresser and I'm sitting in my chair, sipping a bit of red wine, staring at it. Or at least I will be, once I stop typing.