Marie Bortolotto 2016 

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016



I love this poem:

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford, American Poet, 1914 - 1993

Drawing by Marie Bortolotto

Drawing by Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016



“When the mind is exhausted of images, it invents its own.”
- Gary Snyder,  American Poet , Essayist b. 1930 -

Abstract Ink Painting, Marie Bortolotto 2016

Abstract Ink Painting, Marie Bortolotto 2016

Abstract Ink Painting, Marie Bortolotto 2016

Abstract Ink Painting, Marie Bortolotto 2016


I am walking
It cannot be otherwise.

Freestyle Haiku by Santoka Taneda 1882 - 1940

Marie Bortolotto 2016

"Red Sky, White Cloud", Marie Bortolotto

"Untitled", by Marie Bortolotto 2016


Going deeper

And still deeper—


Into the green mountains.

Haiku by Santoka Taneda 1882 - 1940

Marie Bortolotto 

"Untitled", Artist Marie Bortolotto 2016

Artist Marie Bortolotto 2016

Art by Marie Bortolotto 2016

Abstract Mixed Media Collage

Art by Marie Bortolotto 2016

Artist Marie Bortolotto 2016




Black Earth Red Earth - Poem by Cesare Pavese

Black earth red earth,
you come from the sea,
from the arid green,
where there are ancient
words and bloody toil
and geranium among rocks—
you don't know how much you bring
of toil and words from the sea,
you're rich like a memory,
like the barren countryside,
you hard and sweetest word,
ancient because of the blood
gathered in the eyes;
young, like a fruit
that is a memory and a season—
your breath rests
under the sky of August,
the olives of your look
sweeten the sea,
and you live and live again
without amazement, certain
like the earth, dark
like the earth, a grinder
of seasons and dreams
that reveals itself under the moon
to be so old, just like
the hands of your mother,
the bowl of the brazier.

- Cesare Pavese, Italian Poet, Novelist 1908 - 1950

Marie Bortolotto 2016

My line is childlike but not childish. It is very difficult to fake...
to get that quality you need to project yourself into the child's line.
It has to be felt.  - Cy Twombly American Painter, Sculptor,
Photographer 1928 - 2011

Marie Bortolotto 2016

There is a language older by far and deeper than words.
It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow,
rain on trees, wave on stone.  It is the language of dream, gesture,
symbol, memory.  We have forgotten this language.
We do not even remember that it exists. ~ Derrick Jensen, Author & Environmentalist

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

I prefer winter and fall, when you feel

 the bone structure of the landscape - 

the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. 

Something waits beneath it, the whole story 

doesn't show.  - Andrew Wyeth

Marie Bortolotto

Why are You Unhappy?

Why are you unhappy?
Because 99.9 percent of everything you think, 

and of everything you do, is for yourself—and there isn’t one. 

- Wei Wu Wei 

(Terence James Stannus Gray, 
better known by the pen name 
Wei Wu Wei, was a 20th-century Taoist 
philosopher and writer.)

Marie Bortolotto

Empty-handed I entered the world

Barefoot I leave it.

My coming, my going — 

Two simple happenings

That got entangled. 

- Zen Master Kozan Ichikyo

Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Artwork by Marie Bortolotto

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016

Marie Bortolotto 2016


“In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine
orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit
for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and
swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to
writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making
it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times
when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit,
or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain
victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has
never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind
and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service
of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance
by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its
unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art
of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.”

― Matsuo Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches

Marie Bortolotto 2016