Bird Power by Carrie Marill

Happy Tuesday-after-a-holiday-weekend, collector friends. It's Sara—today, I have the distinct pleasure of kicking things off on the bright side with all of you.

Our eleventh edition from Arizona-based artist Carrie Marill, Bird Power, is a kaleidoscopic, slightly-psychedelic, kinetic promise of what's to come. Carrie's spun ten (count 'em!) different species together, all radiating color and bursting like spring bulbs from the ground. Dew drops are sprinkled across the surface, leaving winter in the wake for spring's showers and May flowers.

Over the years, we've come along way with Carrie. She's represented by JBG and has had not one but two solo shows at the gallery. If you're in NYC, or will be next weekend, you'll be able to see some of her original works, along with photographs by other 20x200 faves Christian Chaize and Gregory Krum. In art-for-everyone style, we'll have goodies to give away from our booth and all over the fairs. Stay tuned for more details! To be sure you catch us in action, say hi here:

PULSE NEW YORK
125 W 18th Street, New York, NY
Booth #b-4
Thursday, March 3: 1 p.m.–8 p.m.
Friday, March 4 + Saturday, March 5: noon–8 p.m.
Sunday, March 6: noon–5 p.m.

Jen and I have penned fountains about Carrie and her interest and investment in the environment, the natural world and extinction. But, Bird Power is decidedly fun—as Carrie herself said, sometimes you need stuff that just makes you feel good. So, I'll depart with a poem apt at describing what this painting might be about, in case you weren't instantly smitten with it. Like the hope that Ms. Dickinson writes of, for all the happiness and seasonal signs they bring us, with their songs and flight and migrations, birds ask very little of us humans—this celebratory pinwheel seems just the thing to say thanks.

Hope is the thing with feathers
by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.