Bobby Lee Brown (1944-2023)

These images represent the orientation of an individual and his viewpoint in space.

Each of these paintings was created to represent a nonspecific place. The places have a foreground, a middle ground, and a background. This is mainly achieved by color and atmospheric perspective.

All paintings in this collection rely heavily on the contrast between warm and cool color, and between saturated color and duller, grayed-down tone of similar value for the sensation of volume.

By painting very flat areas of color contrasted with areas of complicated textures, the attempt is to draw the viewer’s attention to the surface of the painting itself, and to pull the drama back into its own two dimensional existence.

Paintings by Bobby L. Brown (American Artist)

The White Birds (W. B. Yeats)

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam

of the sea!

We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;

And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim

of the sky,

Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not

die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily

and rose;

Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor

that goes,

Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall

of the dew:

For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering

foam: I and you!

I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan

shore,

Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come

near us no more;

Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would

we be,

Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed on the foam

of the sea!

He hears the Cry of the Sedge (W. B. Yeats)

I wander by the edge

Of this desolate lake

Where wind cries in the sedge:

Until the axle break

That keeps the stars in their round,

And hands hurl in the deep

The banners of East and West,

And the girdle of light is unbound,

Your breast will not lie by the breast

Of your beloved in sleep.

The Withering of the Boughs (W. B. Yeats)

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds:

‘Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,

I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,

For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my

mind.’

The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,

And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;

The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the leafy paths that the witches take

Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles

of wool,

And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;

I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind

Wind and unwind dancing when the light grows cool

On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;

The bough have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round

Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.

A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound

Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so

blind

With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;

I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.

No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;

The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.