My friend and I saw the movie Big Eyes tonight, and though both of us remember those kitchy waifs and all the press they earned, the back story escaped me entirely. I'm not sure that Margaret Keane cared what art critic John Canaday said about her paintings. She said, or the actress playing her said, several times in the film that the paintings come from inside the artist.
I tried photographing some big eyes today, not very successfully. A 90mm macro is no match to a Fragile Forktail's three-quarters of an inch to one inch. I kept creeping closer and closer and more and more plant material kept getting in the way. In fact, I finally gave up and grabbed the superzoom.
What you see isn't always what you get: a lesson from my frustrating photowalk this afternoon and the movie tonight.
Fridays my elderly friend offers ice cream; I bring the movie, more often than not foreign. What's new? she asks before; what was it about? she now asks after. Behind her, Chinese figures parade, swirling celebration in the still room.
