Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
I caught the last minute of the last day of the annual San Francisco East Bay Open Studios on June 9. I didn’t go there intending to shop. My plan was to stop by painter Salma Arastu’s studio in the funky Sawtooth Building on Eighth Street in Berkeley to talk about my book. Read more.
My trusty point and shoot goes with me everywhere these days. But for my son’s wedding I resolved to Be In The Moment and resist the temptation to digitize every last detail of my son’s big day. Read more.
The wedding ceremony was going to be a simple one, so there was no need for an actual rehearsal. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t have ourselves a rehearsal dinner. Read more.
In a little more than twenty-four hours our son Peter would be a married man. But first, he and Jon had to pick up their wedding duds. My outfit was already hanging in the closet. Read more.
They pulled it off. They got married. They said their vows. They were pronounced husband and wife in Minneapolis on May 25.
The fine artist wannabe in me asserts that, as a rule of thumb, flowers are just too nice, too darned pretty to be the subject of Real Art. Real Art needs grit. It needs to be problematic. It needs tension. Something has to be askew. Flowers, on the other hand, never seem troubled to me, or even ruffled. Read more.