The Work of Love

The Work of Love by Dori Hartley

The Work of Love by Dori Hartley

pencil drawing
DHartley 2014

Mads Mikkelsen’s hands.

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Filed under Art, Dori Hartley Art, Inspiration-Entertainment, Mads Mikkelsen, Men

Mads pencil drawing

pencil drawing by Dori Hartley

pencil drawing by Dori Hartley

2014, graphite

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Filed under Art, Dori Hartley Art, handmade, Mads Mikkelsen, Men

Vegas

VEGAS ART 1

Vegas

Hannibal: Will, are you really into this?
Will: Um, yeah. Sure. I, I just need a – a minute here. I guess.
Hannibal: Really? Because you look a little queasy.
Will: Wha- what? No, no, I’m fine. Just, uh…different, that’s all.
Hannibal: But I mean, Will, are you really into it?
Will: I’m adjusting, Hannibal. I’ll get used to it, I will.
Hannibal: I know you will. I know you will.

Vegas, by Dori Hartley
2014

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Filed under Hannibal

Will Graham 2015

Will Graham 2015

Will Graham 2015

I have to talk about this piece.

I was not satisfied with the original. The face was off. Handsome, yes, but off and that kind of off didn’t sit well with me. Also, he had no horrendous scar in the first version – unacceptable.

Will Graham is a bitch. Why? Because his face is near to impossible to draw or paint. He’s so asymmetrical that you reach pure insanity trying to get him done. And he’s not easy. You’d think all that pretty would be willing, but he’s not. I can never get predict him, or how my strokes are going to render him. I’ve painted him so many times before that you’d think I could do it with my eyes closed, but, no.

But here’s the thing – I don’t just paint him because he’s good looking or interesting to me – I paint him for the same reason I paint Mads – these faces are impossible to understand, and as an artist, I want to understand.

I want to break the code that is Will Graham’s face. And I know I never can, which is the greatest thrill I can imagine.

Anyway, here we have a man who is the phoenix risen. That’s no pretty scar, that’s a reminder of a vulgar wound and the surgical staples it took to hold it together. This piece is all about intensity. Will Graham, 2015.

Oh, and bigger than Will Graham in bitch world is Corel, which is a bitch like none other. This is no easy program. But I’m going to understand it too.

DHartley, 2014

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Filed under Art, Dori Hartley Art, Hannibal, Hugh Dancy

Sibilant Bow

sibilant bow

Sibilant Bow


POETRY

 

soft brush
of the hardened skin
swivelled balance
poised and angeled
keep you alive
keep you alive
toes tendons heels and sole
ankles boney
knock my own
know you’re there

45 degrees or less
acute obtuse
your bended knee between my thighs
ride the cusp and climb high
and split the difference
for you and I
are just the same
just the same

Hips yours
somehow slide
sand colored shaded hinted
tinted
golden godly
prying prodding
mystic machinations
wordless explanations
though words I hear
like the shuddering of shy stars
in their giggling prediction of novas
hissing whispers
lisping hisses
overbitten necessity
need

I hesitate to listen
your sibilant bow
your esses and wetness
would take me too soon

Belly heave
mine soft
yours furry
deep flutter, butterfly tease
the little hairs electrical
pulse, repel and attract
like magnetic velvet shifts
of warmth, heat, hotter, scorching
iron melt
surrender

Hands, fingers
yours covered, ribbed and twined
veins filled
mine art-broken
busted and searching, quickened, scented
open plain, terrain, prairie
you
upwards, arms tan, golden, strong, long
lanky
aromatic platinum anatomy
student of the book
your neck
god
your neck and the vanilla
the toasted marshmallow amber caramello
laced in liquor
essence and indulgence
chin and stubble

Hair wheat, wild like fire
ablaze in a cloud
drab of hue, straw of the tao
lashes simple sparse of brow
cheekbones diorite, onyx, bronze

eyes
yours
honey and blood
unhinged expression in silent set stone
soul taker, soul giver
scent of me whiffed in
exhaled
molecular inception
you take me in breaths
long nose up, long nose down

and then
the inevitable
sounds of flowered dreamscapes
escape
in murals of running color
let them flow
for here
it is not the mystery of the runaway dreams
that keeps me floating
in your shiver-tinged spell
it is the door, the threshold
from which they seep
the door itself, the sibilant bow

the sibilant bow
where it all ends
and it all starts
where bodies cease
in the crease of your burgundy lips
where nightmares fade
it the shade of your
perfectly odd
bite

on this evening
I fall
and all is yours
and all is mine
a shed of secrets
a twist of vine
the curve of your mouth
blinds like night

restore my sight
restore my sight

 


 

dhartley2014

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Filed under Poetry