january2005

Possession, January 30 2005

When it came out I saw that film Possession and then went back to that novel. Altogether I have read it several times. I’ve looked over many scenes more than once and read and reread the poetry. It is a story dense and rich, so dense I could scan certain parts and move on and maybe save them for later, which I then made into dessert.

So why was I so possessed by Possession? It did seem to come to that. The time spent in Yorkshire, the grave digging, the coast of Brittany, I grazed on all the visuals. There are many references to French which made me happy, as I can understand it, but want to know more.

The longing is what kept me coming back. The author, A. S. Byatt, calls it "A Romance" and she is right there. A romance is the wanting. This is not such a terrible place to be. In the wanting is the imagination, the expanse of possibility. I need this in my life.

While writing here once about my "fantasy life," I realized that it was very important to me and not this useless, idle passing of time that some claim it is. I need fantasy not so much as a function of love but as art. It is something one doesn't see on the outside, it seems to have no real material purpose--- but life for me is lackluster without it.

To go home and to bed with a Romance is like a private paradise, and the images have always led to other things in my mind.

Jane Austen, in Northanger Abby, once referred to how novels were maligned, how the general gist was: "Well, it is just a novel," as though this was chopped liver, and she was quite contrarian to this disregard. I'm with her. Novels---wish I could write them but since I can't, I'm happy to spend years with them, and will spin tales of my own, in my head, meticulously drawn out, if not reader-ready.

Just because it's only in my head, doesn't make my inner life as less real. Maybe more so in fact, for it is untouchable and all mine. There were a few years, especially when I lived in San Francisco--such a perfect stage for a mysterious, dramatic life! --- that I lived so internally, it was almost a malaise.

But looking back with a bit of perspective, I can now see that some of the best of my life is the part that is not what many people would call "real." Some of it is what I made up in my head, over time, inspired by art and literature. Some of the best stuff, nobody ever knew.

The Act of Drawing, January 28 2005

Someone asked me the other day: “Do you draw, Eva?” This question may have influenced my last entry as regards ‘the record’ when you make art. Because when you draw, you surely have one.

It might not seem all that obvious from the recent group of paintings, but I have been in my life a very active draftsman. It even feels weird to think of it as once upon a time, because that kind of skill or interest, while no doubt getting rusty, never goes away.

But I think most abstract artists can draw or at least once did. Those forms did not come out of nowhere, though the typical Modernist stance of ‘what you see is what you get' (or what you see is what you see) sort of implies that they do. But I know that they don’t. There is a foundation and that foundation is based in observation and then some kind of record of those observations.

You learn how to see when you learn how to draw. That is probably the most important aspect to it and even when you close your eyes, it is still there. I’m referring to an internal vision. Drawing develops those eyes just as much as it might develop your hands.

Plus you’re constantly reminded that you’re not the center of the universe in the act of drawing.

I spent a considerable (how about decades?) portion of my art life in the act of drawing. Obviously the more you do it, the better you get and that whole performance, when done well, is a rush. Plus it could almost feel like a responsibility: I had this gift, I could render and so I stayed in representation longer than I expected. I wanted to have my say in abstraction but that act of drawing was empowering and many other aspects of my life didn’t do that for me.

Since the act of drawing is something for your internal eyes, there is no artist who could not benefit from it. Even a Conceptualist, for you are definitely in a conceptual process when you render.

A Record of a Green Room, January 27 2005

I've been thinking about small vs. big works. Some look forward to making small things. I confess I feel like I can’t do that right now, not even a little bit -- save that one piece (above) I made at 24 inches square, as Augen has one small wall that could use something.

That painting was like a vacation to make. I move my canvases a lot each time I paint: up and down the wall and also round and round, to apply and move paint around. They never are stationary. So a small work is just easier on my arms and back, plus I can make changes much more quickly and don’t have to wait weeks to see them as a whole.

But otherwise I feel like I have to make up for all the years I made small works and works on paper. I am not a big work snob --- far from it --- and made for years what I called a ‘bedroom art,’ as it was all I had. I joked that I could make art out of suitcase, which is especially true of photomontage.

This didn’t get me all far in the art world though. I could make a lot of art but I didn’t really have an art career and sure, there is a big difference.

One thing you miss however when you stop making small works or works on paper is the record. Small works you can easily keep, carry around. I have sketchbooks of trips but nowadays I don’t really sketch like that anymore. There are some years where I made over 100 collages and they are a record of the times, not just my art. It all fits into about 15 portfolios of various sizes, a lifetime of visuals.

But in the past 2 years that it has taken to create this upcoming exhibition, I am only on my eleventh painting. That is all, eleven. Not that there isn’t a record of a life --- this diary is part of it in a way, as is Artstar and other activities, but it is not really a visual record in the same way I had.

In the case of the above painting, it does provide a record for me personally, a record of a gallery, of a small room known as Lovelake which I closed last year.

In Art Media I noticed that Gamblin had a whole line of what they called “Radiant Colors.” Not all of the colors interested me, but the Radiant Green was very close to the shade I chose for the walls of Lovelake (and for the record, I use about 90% Gamblin, a paint made right here in Portland).

I noticed that those walls changed all of the time and photographed differently too. Sometimes they were bluer but other times, more chartreuse. The light outside had a lot to do with it, but so did the crowd, the art and my own mind. The idea of one color, this color especially, being many things and varying, was one I could investigate .

With absolutely ever single exhibition, someone said: “Did you paint the walls this color for this show?” This shade of green just worked with all the art I showed. It made every show special.

D.K. Row once wrote that the color choice was characteristic of the quirky gallerist. I never thought of it that way, like I was making some kind of statement. The walls got painted like that because they were awful walls, studio walls, never made for exhibition or business in general. They needed something and white was not going to do it.

Also, green came to my mind after watching all those Regency and Jane Austen films, where the people lived in rooms painted varying shades of green. It seemed to dress up their repressed lives. Plus I know the Met had rooms of green walls -- and so I learned from the best.

More about Living Artists, January 24 2005

I am in a class which discusses contemporary art. Today we saw a film called 6 painters.

At first I see a man painting, in that expressive, gestural way that we tend to associate with a more distant past. Then I see another male, same thing. Then another.

6 painters, 6 painters from the 80s. It’s so funny how they all took this stance that they are so new and so different but it just looks so familiar. David Salle, Schnabel, I don’t think I’ll detail the rest of them.

Most of them smoked big cigars and had big dogs. And this is indeed a case where a cigar is not just a cigar.

As I viewed this film, I was thinking that this is all still with us in many ways. But when the film is done, one young woman shudders and says: “So that was the 80s. I'm so glad that's all over and I wasn't there.” --- like it was many centuries ago. She implied it wasn't her reality at all.

It was only then that I could see how much it was still mine, that it was still in the picture somehow.

No wonder I get so angry from time to time and inexplicably. And much angrier than I ever was in the 80s, which I tend to regard as sort of fun. It’s like I have some kind of delayed response.

The Prof asks us why it’s so much easier to deal with dead artists as opposed to those still alive, something the text goes into in detail. There were many reasons given by various students, including the idea that art is packaged and the story is set in a museum, whereas this is not the case with contemporary art.

However I think if you are an artist, especially a painter, it is much more complicated than that.

First of all, I don’t see art history as all packaged. It’s a changing thing all the time, especially these days.

But me, I don’t go in for packaging and taking everything at someone else’s value. I go in for food, for sustenance. I go to love and to hate freely and form a personal relationship. I can embrace Goya with a freedom I cannot a living artist (for the most part). I am, believe it or not, not in competition with him (which Schnabel seemed very much to be).

The case with living artists is different and not just that they are still alive, writing their story. So am I, and that is the real complication. I don’t care where you are on the food chain, you still want your work seen, you want ink, you want collectors and even if you deny all of that, you still want to occupy some kind of space in the universe which art gets to occupy.

the Monochrome, January 23 2005

In the current Art Forum is a reproduction of a Joseph Albers painting, done in purple and green. This is the palette of a work I have in the studio right now.

I fought the desire for months to go out into green and purple. My plan for this show at Augen (in April) was to present my way with the monochrome as much as possible. Hence, an all red painting or works all in blue. And so this purple/green number is veering off just a wee bit.

In 2003 I had my first show with these squares. Some were of extreme variations and a few were monochromes. Right away I saw how easy it was to make a picture plane vibrate if it was made in opposites, like red and green or blue and orange. It was much more of a challenge to create the same kind of feeling but stay within certain restrictions. As soon as I went off into the monochrome, I started learning about color in a way I never did before.

Plus every single monochrome sold. I wondered just what that meant.

Understand this was not just a question of economics in my mind, though selling work thrilled me. I am an artist who has had shows, quite a few in fact, where nothing sold. But mind, when you made collages back in the initial time of punk, nobody thought anything about selling. And to make photomontages back then didn’t cost me nearly what painting is costing me now.

But the success was not just about showing me the money. What is it about the monochrome which was different, or better? Is it better on the eyes and the mind too?

These things are on my mind right now for two reasons, beyond my own show. There was a review about a show on monochromes which Barbara Rose put together somewhere in Europe in Art in America in the January issue. Something about the monochrome being the ultimate statement of the 20^th century.

Rhone Pony, January 16 2005

Recently I tried watching that film I shot Andy Warhol. Unfortunately it couldn't hold my attention for long.

It had one of those 60s parties scenes and that is when I drifted off. Every movie about the 60s seems obliged to have one. But none of them seem to really capture the time, save maybe Blow Up, which was made during the era anyway, and even it seemed a little forced.

But I suppose any film connected to The Factory would have to include a scenario based on the Velvet Underground playing and people grouped around pills, when they not screwing someone they don't know, and of course Andy is off on a couch somewhere, watching.

As to Valerie Solanas, the woman who shot Warhol, she was a minor player really, but her book could have had more of its’ own impact if she hadn’t become famous for something else.

I had a copy, hot pink and black, ripped up. My friend Rhone Pony found it in a dumpster in the 70s, in Eugene, Oregon. He knew what he had. But Rhone couldn't keep ahold of anything, he was so irresponsible. What they called a free spirit. So I got to keep it.

with Rhone Pony in 1977

Rhone was a small man, very eccentric, wild dresser, Eno fan, and when he visited London in '78 he stayed with me. He came from some kind of money (but never quite enough) and so he never held a job. I think he thought it was supposed to be a lot easier, life. Somehow he always found a dollar to get to somewhere else though.

By the mid-80s he crashed wherever he could. Colorful but no longer essential, he knew he was dying. I had very confused feelings the last time I saw him. Part of me felt I should hug him and show the love and that I wasn't afraid of AIDS. But the other part of me was very, very angry at him. Not for being sick but for being a fuck-up, for tossing away his opportunities and talent, for taking them for granted and in the end, for tossing away his life. 'Cause I don't think he fought one damn bit for it.

But anyway, that book of Valerie Solanas --- the S.C.U.M. Manifesto --- Society for Cutting Up Men --- had an intense style of its own which I appreciated. The cutting up part I never bought but she said some very illuminating things about women. She had a very brash way of sizing up things, an original in this way. The term "freewheeling female," which I have used from time to time, I adopted from her.

Unfortunately I no longer have the book. Now who the hell did I loan it to? I no longer loan any books for this reason, they are simply given and that it that. All the important books I loaned are the ones which never seem to come back.

Ego, January 15 2005

I’m just going to continue with ‘objectivity’ for a moment so we can all move on.

Case in point: a year or two ago I met up with a woman who was to have a talk show on a commercial radio station here. She was looking for people to help her out. Maybe she wants just a little too much help, that's the first thing I was thinking, but if anything, you keep learning what is not for you and that alone can be very clarifying.

Moderation, first of all. It's not for me. She wants to present all sides and take no sides and have guests on a similar wavelength. No intensity, no exaggerations, all objective, you see.

No thanks! Moderation is nowhere in my bones and so boring! I had Isaka Shamsud-Din one time on my show and he started in on reparations. Was he there to do that? Maybe not. But am I gonna shut him up? Not on your life.

John Callahan came on my show and started in on feminism. Do you think I agree with him? Who cares? Artists are thankfully maniacs!

Then she goes on about how her show is not about the ego. She's not pressing her point and she's not into others who do the same. As I listened to her I realized that my radio show was all about ego --- and that is OK. You can't get around it in the arts and we wouldn't survive without it. And when I say ego, I don’t just mean the artists --- I’ve got one too.

Why would I give up every Sunday, away from my mate at some cold sub-basement, to drift in a world not of my own making? It's a crock of shit to imply we give up all that we do for altruistic reasons alone.

---That actually does imply ego to me, if you think you can change the world without it, or make any difference.

Nobody Does it Better, January 13 2005

Recently I’ve heard how artists shouldn’t write about certain other artists (or their own projects) because it is “a conflict of interest” and not “objective.”

Indeed, if artists can’t write about each other effectively, who can? Who will get out that interesting, informed story with a bit of spark?

Who could have told the story of abstract art better than Kandinsky himself, or Malevich? Personally I’ve yet to read anything which tells it better than those who developed it. And to this day, if you want to know about Dada, nothing says it better than the manifestoes themselves, save maybe Dada Painters and Poets, which is by Robert Motherwell --- an artist.

As I thought it over, I realized that nearly all of my favorite art writing was written by the ultimate subjective insider, the artist. Even that recent Art Forum issue with that disparate group of artists waxing on Warhol --- it was so much better than what the typical PHD in Mind Fuck might have in there.

Why do writers think they have some inside scoop that an artist could not? Does this somehow get back to that “stupid like a painter” thing that Duchamp talked about? I couldn’t agree less.

Having interviewed over one hundred artists in the nearly three years I've done Artstar, I’d say they are the first to know best about art (their own and others), not the last. Often they say it in the best way, in a pure way and one that comes from some essential place.

Also, why the hell would we want something objective anyway? How is art objective at all? Who came up with that? Art is made by maniacs and is for maniacs (and everyone has one in them somewhere) and there is nothing objective about it.

More on the War. January 7 2005

A subject I visit from time to time is the war between men and women. I imagine it is tiresome for those who think it doesn’t really exist.

But every single day I see new evidence that it is stronger than ever. A little more tipped though, dangerously tipped, against women in general. Men aren’t alone in their hatred of women ---- women are happy to do in each other too.

Just yesterday I was telling my mate how bad I felt for Martha and how strange it all turned out. He said right away that men couldn’t stand her success, power and confidence. He saw it so clearly and I am grateful to have such a mate.

While channel-surfing I came across Elimidate, a ‘reality’ show where 4 or 5 young females compete for one male. They all get together and put each other down, attacking each others’ breasts, clothes and so on.

No doubt they are paid to do this but whose benefit is this for? Do you know one female that is on the attack in this way for a man whose only recommendation is that he’s employed?

It’s not my reality, no, but put it out there enough and it is normal for someone. These messages are not subtle and with time, they can become truths. Look at how stupid girls are.

My godchild said that none of the girls on this show were the sharpest. That kind of casting is also manipulated for effect. No matter how much of a loser the guy is, the girls are worse.

No doubt someone will say that it’s empowering for females to say what they feel sexually, to expose themselves, to exploit their own self and be paid for it. I’ve heard this about stripping (excuse me, exotic dancing!), porn and various other sex work.

I’ll grant it that women have changed. 30 years has made huge differences. I will not grant that men have changed so much though.

I’ve spoken with performers who claim their sex work as art and empowering. But I’ve been at the club and I felt the huge and silent rise in the hush of the audience when the girl took off her clothes. I don’t care what kind of fucking revolution she may be experiencing, that audience is still very much back in the 50s.

You know what bugs me most about this? The way it’s so all-out against women in times when Political Correctness --- otherwise --- is necessary in so many ways if you want to be a really cool modern person.

Television is not broadcasting blackface entertainers. Everyone loves Indians (oops, Native Americans). I could go on and all of this I am for. But when it comes to women, take off your clothes and shut up. Unless you have something really stupid to say.

Blue Jay Way, January 6 2005

Last year we bought a little 1940s house – first time I’ve been in a house at all since I left home really, in 1973, unless you include that punk house I lived in with ten other people in 1979.

Since then the backyard can become my world. I wake up and in my sleepiness, I am thinking who is back there? What is going on?

Nature is the cruelest though. Most birds don’t die of old age. My band of brothers --- I must have had at least 6 blue jays back there --- seemed to have taken a downslide for a while. And then one of them had this big injury.

I saw it go from a scrape to a big blown-up ball. All red, like a red potato, attached to his breast. He could still get around though, hopping in his adamant blue jay way.

From what I have read, animals hide their illness. To reveal illness makes you a target, and so a hurting bird will bop around like all is well until they just keel over. Everyday when he still shows up I am thankful. His name is Victor because that is just what he is. He'll always bear that scar.

Something I’ve noticed about them: they bounce. They are so inspired in every single movement. The more I looked at birds, the more I saw that I was a Blue Jay. Indians see themselves as animals sometimes. I am one eighth Cherokee and Choctaw, so to see myself as a bird is not all that out of line.

For me the Jay was so lively and had such a good time --- of course this was what I wanted to be. But I also see how he lives dangerously and often gets into trouble.

You pass this grove of pines on the street where I live, as you make your way to town. I began to notice how every single time I went by, whether on foot or in car, I heard squawking. After awhile I figured they were saying “Hi Eva! We’ll see you back home!” I’m pretty sure of it. You know there is that Beatle song (George Harrison) called Blue Jay Way. It is actually a kind of scary song, twisted and doesn’t remind me of Jay birds at all, but I have named this grove after the song.

I would like to make a bunch of collages once I get these paintings out for my April show, working with birds. I know they’ve been done a lot and after Ernst and Cornell, you’ve got to watch it. But I think I’ve got my own thing to say with them, emphasis on the humor. Most of all, I would just be doing it for myself. Just the eyes alone of hawks, eagles and owls would be fodder for so many pieces.

Speaking of hawks, here is a collage by Melody Owen who just showed at the Elizabeth Leach Gallery. Isolated birds making eye contact via thread. I thought the pieces were pretty successful.

Starry NIght

the Sky, January 5 2005

One thing my neck of the woods has down is the scent in the air. There's never a time I don't go outside and feel blessed about it. When I used to visit Oregon from New York, it was always the first thing I noticed. It would actually startle me. I would walk out of the airport and start hyperventilating. My lungs were so used to that heavy New York air and Oregon would shock the hell out of them.

The other thing that still gets me going is the expanse of the sky. I lived without one for a long time. All you see is buildings in the big city, up up up. When I first moved back here, the drive into town blew my mind: look in one direction and see all this sky --- and then look in the opposite direction and the same thing was there.

Sky, lots of it. I realized I had been robbed of something very important and now it was back with me.

Everyone has something they could look at forever. For most people it seems to be the ocean, or dear God the television, but for me it is the sky. My dad was into astronomy and had a telescope. He would show me the stars often. During the summer I slept under the stars, but mostly not sleeping, mostly gazing, seeing shapes and all kinds of possibilities in the expanse. When my mate expressed a desire to have a telescope, I knew my Christmas shopping was done.

One time I was visiting Switzerland and hung out with someone who worked for the dealers Turske and Turske. In his off hours, he spent time with Marie-Louis Wirth, who owned a big sculpture garden outside Zurich. It was really out in the country and we slept above horses in their stables.

One night we ended up at this remote pub with all these volunteer firemen, who were celebrating after their practice sessions. I remember I was the only woman in this pub and we had quite a raucous time and then leaving, walking out into the open, high as a kite -- and I never saw such a sky in my life. Especially after my New York life. Stars and clusters so vivid it was hardly dark.

I like the skies of El Greco. Many, many times I have checked out his painting, View of Toledo. The sky rushes to the earth. What an orchestration. The skies of Maxfield Parrish I also love. He may have made such romantic images they border on kitsch, but he also surrounded them in the most perfect skies.

But most of all the sky to me is Yves Klein with his perfect blue and understanding of the infinite.

It may not be all that obvious but that is what I am painting now, over and over again in this body of work. I love that openness --- it's possible I may never leave it and be happy to be lost.

Old Diaries, January 4 2005

Sometime in 2000 I pulled out my first book of diaries to check on a date. One thing led to another --- it just seemed the right time to take it all in, warts and all. It took me over two years to get through it and it was really this long glance backward, getting to the center, which led me to move forward and to the birth of Lovelake and Artstar Radio.

Having started the diary at age twelve, I expected some real atrocities of the English language. And sad stories. I took a deep breath. What I found instead, for the most part, was me laughing my head off in bed as I read.

Sure, times are tough. But I become the basic effervescent 14 year old. Sometimes kids have an amazing clarity, just as an old person might. There are some one-liners which bear out the truth so well. I felt terrible about my abilities for years, always comparing myself to Anne Frank, but now that I have read loads of diaries by teens (online), I don't feel so bad anymore about my own.

Boys, school, the usual. Wanting to be a poet or an actress or an artist. Mostly an airhead but duly tired of Vietnam. I had never known a time without it playing out. Throughout junior high I had a crush on a boy who eventually went over there and came back a vegetable.

I drew fashion better then than I can now. A million versions of 1930’s moviestar outfits, hot pants, laced-up boots, vests with long fringe.

My favorite band at age 14 was Credence Clearwater Revival. I think that band still stands on its own too.

No dad. But also, amazingly no smoking, no drugs, no sex. I wonder how things may have played out differently had my mother not handed me my first dope at 16, my first acid and so on. Perhaps it was just inevitable.

By book 10 I am 16 years old, 1973 and now my drawings are of marijuana leaves and they are damn good!

One thing that strikes me is how much we are essentially us by twelve, we are ourselves by that time. Then we stray in teen years, just trying to sort things out. I'm further away from myself at 16 than I am at 12 in many ways.

You've got this new, full set of equipment and there's so much emphasis on it.

And sometimes you try, uselessly, to hold on to that old girl. You strike out in strange ways and it looks like you're being an immature child when all you're really trying to do is just go back to what made sense. Things were much more black and white, things seem secure, you think you know what is right and wrong. By sixteen, you don't.

Sixteen is full of confusing situations and just plain luck at surviving it all. I was hitch-hiking all over, had access to any drug; I became partners in survival with a girl who seemed better suited to such a life. I still know her today, though she has barely survived, and I’m going to tell her story here sometime.

A Body of Work, January 4 2004

A body of work. These are magic words in the art business. So observed David Chelsea, great illustrator and acquaintance of mine.

He said he had shown his ‘fine art’ endeavors to a local gallerist who said “This is all fine and well but it is not A Body Of Work.” He wanted to know what it exactly meant.

I actually used the same words with an artist Lovelake showed last Spring. When we got into the issue of what to show, he said he had all this old work that had never been shown and he wanted to pull that out alongside other bits and pieces.

Whoa Boy, it’s too soon for the retrospective. And also, we don’t care about the groovy watercolor or whatever that you made a few years ago. What are you doing NOW? We want to see you committed before we can commit.

In his case, he had to step up to the plate and make a solid statement, a cohesive Body of Work. (Which he did.)

These words rang in my ears when Bob Kochs of Augen Gallery saw the recent paintings and decided to show me. He didn’t say things like: “This piece is gorgeous” or “I really like that.” He said right away: “This is a Body of Work.” Like it was the Holy Grail.

Then a little later on: “It is quite a Body of Work.” Eventually it was “Get these all in the gallery and it will be quite an impressive Body of Work.” Having heard it so much I wondered if it might be the actual name of the show. But it would be just an inside joke --- that every artist, no matter how varied their interests or talent, must get.

Taking the History out of Art History, January 3 2005

I told you about that one very dry art history Prof, who was like a German Commandant. Tough as nails but you knew what she wanted --- the facts. It was about history as far as she was concerned and she was not wild about theorizing. It was the boot camp of art history.

Then last year I had a Prof the complete opposite. Dates and facts didn’t matter so much as theories and ways of seeing, or “models of vision.” This class was the history of photography and we learned more about how to look at a photograph, via various philosophers, than who did what when.

The only dates required at the midterms were down to the decade and even then, I heard some complain. The Prof observed that we tend to empty our heads of dates right after an exam and to a certain extent this is true. But to say that comprehension of this particular art is not reliant on dates is absurd.

I recall one teacher very upset that few of us knew a certain Pope’s doings on a test. He said I’m sorry, but if you don’t know about this event you can’t understand what truly happened with art at this time. As we are so disconnected with the Renaissance these days, it was hard to see the magnitude of his statement.

But in the history of photography it is easier to make the connections. How can we look at a photograph from the Civil war and disregard events and the time they happen in? Some might say 1860s, 1880s, what does it matter?

It was when I looked at my own personal history that I saw how art and history were inseparable. The photography Prof opened the first day of class with a series of pictures and one of them was from Kent State, 1970. I remember this time well --- I was just entering high school. Why is this photograph important anyway? Why is it in an art history class at all – because it is such great art? Or is history important? How to disconnect this document from the exact time and place it was made is impossible, at least for me.

I opened my mouth way too often though and she rode my ass for my differences, as you can imagine.

More recent entries: December 2004

For information about the diary, read here

Lovelake