Weekly Photo Challenge – Corner


This week’s Photo Challenge brought back so many memories of travels to Siem Reap Cambodia where every street corner is jam-packed with so much visual stimulation that it takes a while to digest each one. Layers and layers of texture, color and pattern….and in nearly every photo I, the artist, see an abstract composition. There is usually a path for your eye to follow, a focal point, and places for your eye to rest….in layer upon layer of surface and depth. As with abstract art, if you divide the image into quadrants, each square stands well on its own as a fascinating composition.


Photo Challenge: COLLAGE

via Photo Challenge: Collage

I work primarily with paper collage and found objects, and have since I was a fine art student at CU in Boulder, Colorado during the 60’s when the process was relatively new in university fine art classrooms. Fortunately for me, U. of Colorado had a handful of cutting edge professors whose experimentation epitomized iconic 60’s art. Picasso, Raushenburg and other prominent artists worked in collage in the 20th century and became our inspiration and our guides; often using wood, scraps of metal, nails and other found objects to create compositions with heavy emphasis on color, pattern and texture. In my college art classes we had no special materials available to us and so we used newspaper, kindergarten glue, old tissue, wrapping paper, string and brown manila paper bags. We used rubbish, basically. We loved the process and we were innovative and excited with it. Among other pieces I completed a 3×4 ft canvas collage with powerful color and deep texture, titled Chicago Fire, which I kept for years and then my brother- in-law asked to have it so I gave it away…. sad.

I have also taught collage, and explained my techniques and my passion for the process to eager and imaginative adult students whose eyes were opened to the magical art of cutting, tearing, painting and layering exotic papers from around the world.

“Abandon your pre-conceived notions about traditional fine art and begin a mixed media journey where improvisation, freedom from boundaries, self-discovery and originality are valued higher than any predictable destination.”  – Jo Ann Brown-Scott

Fine art mixed media collage is not decoupage, is not scrap-booking, will not work well using  Elmer’s glue and does not work well with watercolor or oil paints. Since collage has morphed and changed and re-invented itself through the years, even centuries,  there are now available many new products for the sole purpose of creating collage. Acrylic paints are by far the best media to use. Liquitex Matt Medium is your glue. I work on canvas, not paper, because paper buckles and warps under the wet glue. I get my collage papers from fine art stores that sell gorgeous handmade papers from around the world, but I am also constantly on the hunt for unusual and marvelous handmade papers that I discover in all types of shops – wonderful tissue papers, fancy paper shopping bags and  packaging can be found everywhere but especially so in other countries as you travel.

Collage is a re-cycling art where papers, cards, old jewelry, small stones, shells and items you have saved for years simply because you love them can find homes in a fine art creation that not only gives your favorite things new life and purpose but display a creation that is unique to you and your personal experiences.

My collage creations range from small to gigantic and I have sold them in galleries across many western states. There is currently a mixed media collage market out there that will astound you once you know what to look for and ask for as you visit fine art galleries. Art stores carry many instructional books on the subject. You need not have any artistic experience to learn the technique and begin your collage journey – there are no rules – only techniques to understand and materials to acquaint yourself with that work for you. It is a highly serendipitous art form – happy accidents and new discoveries are common. Improvisation is the key. Freedom from any hard and fast rules is the norm. It is all about letting go. Therapeutic it is.

No two collages are ever alike – they are like snowflakes. If you layer the paper and paint and build texture and repeat, tearing your papers rather than cutting them because a torn edge is so beautiful, then over-lapping them again in some areas, painting on each layer as you build texture  – well you can seldom go wrong. It is fun and rewarding!

Jo Ann Brown-Scott – artist and author

http://www.thecreativeepiphany.com      www.acanaryfliesthecanyon.com

Book – The Creative Epiphany, Gifted Minds, Grand Realizations – non-fiction narrative about life-changing epiphanies in creativity

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Highlands Ranch, Colorado

My Brother Ross Rossiter


With life as short as a half-taken breath, don’t plant anything but Love. – Rumi

At this very moment in time I am at home with an  unimaginably agonizing afternoon ahead of me. My dear brother Ross, my baby brother who is now in his fifties, is in ICU on life support after an epic and heroic two year battle with a monster Sarcoma that took over his abdomen and gradually attempted to kill him. He is a fighter, a strong and determined adversary for cancer, and yet after many months of suffering and a successful surgery that filled us with hope he is now on life support. Deadly side effects have been the final determination of his ultimate failing. The decision is to end that support for him this evening.

How do you spend an afternoon like this?

My other brother and sister and I did not grow up with Ross in our lives…he was born to my father’s second wife and we knew Ross only as an adorable baby boy who fleetingly came and went for a window of time in our lives. Then when Ross’s mother and my father were divorced we lost track of Ross and nobody ever acknowledged that we three had lost the fourth – it was overlooked and sadly neglected, during a ridiculously stupid set of circumstances when no one realized he was still our brother. I always felt the loss – all three of us did. No one made any attempts to hold us all together; almost as if they really did not want to.

I don’t remember the year it happened, exactly, but it was probably mid-1995 or so. I was at work sitting at my marketing job desk with internet access and it was a slow day on the computer. I decided to find him if I could. It took just three phone calls and I had his number. So easy. He was emotionally stunned when I called and told him who I was – he said he had always missed us and wanted to have us in his life but had no idea how to find us. He had been about two years old when I had last seen him. WOW! What followed was a reunion of epic proportions that involved Ross flying to Denver to see me and my brother and then another set of circumstances that took Ross and I on a road trip to Scottsdale so that he could meet his long lost other sister. (Ross had a third sister from his mom’s first marriage.) When all this happened it had been a lifetime since I had last seen baby Ross. He was all grown up with three children and a lovely wife, living on the east coast of Florida in the Ft. Lauderdale area.

After that life-changing phone call Ross sent my sister Vicki and I each a dozen roses that said – “For all the birthdays I have missed. Love you, mean it. Ross”

I admire Ross on all fronts. He is a wonderful, adoring husband and father and the most loyal of friends. He is a fine man, one of the best to walk this earth. Of his many noble attributes and his exemplary character traits I choose here and now to celebrate his…..crazy sense of humor…..Ha!

Ross is one of the funniest people I ever met in my life. The Rossiter clan – well – we are story tellers and we have always had enough stories to last a lifetime because we all seem to attract experiences that are outrageous and scary but hysterical in retrospect. It’s that sad/funny thing. You know – the stories where something goes terribly wrong and you are in tears and then the ending turns out to be that sort of spurting, silent-laughing-cannot-make-a-sound-laughing-so-hard-sooo-funny it hurts laughing.  We all have this character trait. Every single one of us. Our dad, the common tree from which all we nuts have fallen, was a funny accident waiting to happen, all the damn time. He flew off of galloping horses and broke bones right before my eyes as I rode alongside him on my pony, he fell out of trees hitting limbs on the way down fracturing his back as he landed in a rocky dry creek bed, he was bounced out of careening horse-drawn buggies, he tripped over logs and rocks with the perfect body-roll or face plant of a circus clown and eventually he fell right out of my mother’s life. Looking back and recalling some of his more hellacious accidents for which I was present, which now flow through my memory in slow motion involving danger and blood, well, they still seem like slapstick comedy. Laurel and Hardy, Abbot and Costello type stuff. Dad could tell all of his stories to perfection, recounting one after another after another on the back terrace over a BBQ fire around dusk and into the wee hours.

Ross however took this humor in a slightly different direction, although he was definitely the showman that his father was. Ross loved a good costume party. He liked pulling jokes on people. All of that combined nicely with being a trained chef and wine connoisseur. That man could COOK. He can cook lamb chops to perfection, like an angel. He works for Strauss Foods (grass fed lamb, mostly) and he often did food demos at big food shows around the midwest and the south. He would keep a running commentary going as he seared the meat and artfully presented it for tasting, entertaining the crowds with funny quips and stories. A true Rock Star Chef, a good-looking, charismatic show biz performer whose kitchen help sets everything up for him and he breezes in at the last minute and commands his stage, wows and fascinates the crowd for an hour or so and then leaves. He was a different kind of performer – he was Mr Fabulous Foodie/Stand Up Comedian with a wicked sense of humor that was seldom censored who would serve you delicious food.

A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself. That is how I hold your voice. – Rumi

I loved it whenever he called me, because I knew that I was going to hear some brilliant and memorable stuff about something or another that was happening to him, and then he would always want to hear what crazy stuff was happening to me. Ask me what is happening to me and you will get a narration complete with sound effects and details and song as if I am the color commentator at a sporting event of some kind. We talked well together. I felt that he truly “got me” and I certainly got him. I spent some of my most hilarious “moments in time” on Planet Earth with my brother Ross. We had a long and winding 24 hour caper together one time when I just flat ran away from a guy I had been seeing for several years, leaving Denver in the darkness of early morning, to move to Arizona where our sister Vicki and her husband Tom lived, awaiting my arrival with a soft place for me to land. Since Ross had just flown into Denver for Part One of our long awaited reunion with my other brother Fred and me, Ross offered to drive the truck for me, full of all my furniture and most cherished possessions, while I led the way in my red Acura to Arizona. Sounded like a great plan to me, a very generous offer, plus Ross wanted to meet his sister Vicki again and use it as an opportunity to see the scenery of the southwest.

Our couple nights in Denver before we left was spent with Fred and his wife Susan mostly in the kitchen watching Ross cook as we all told, and compared, stories of our illustrious family. Ross had arrived lugging a large cooler of all varieties of exotic meats packed in dry ice. As I recall we tasted alligator, lamb, beef, pork and it was all beautifully prepared by our personal chef. We bonded in the stories of our lives and our laughter and our tears. Nothing was sacred – we covered it all. We were all well aware that it was inexcusable to have been apart all the years since Ross was so young. We had been given little information about each other that might have led us to any kind of reunion.

We left under cover of darkness the next morning with a 14+ hour trip ahead of us. Directly south to Albuquerque, hang a right and take it straight into Scottsdale. If you see anything weird, swerve to avoid it. I had made the drive dozens of times. So we set out with me in the lead, but we switched off sometimes so that my new baby brother could be ahead. OH! I forget to mention one detail. Ross had only one good eye – his other eye had been shot out by a kid with a pop gun when he was two years old or less. The other three of us were informed when that accident happened and we could not believe it and were extremely upset by it. Ross grew up with a beautiful convincing glass eye and no one would ever have know if he had chosen not to tell them.

We had no cell phones of course so we had to resort to hand signals out the window or flashing headlights to communicate with each other. That was how we rolled as we leap-frogged our way south and west. By the time we were in New Mexico my snack jar of M&M’s (what was I thinking?) were melted in to a colorful gooey blob of fondue chocolate. Ross was sunburned and and unshaven, hair stiff and spiked straight up from the strong dusty wind coming in the truck window. Ross was a riot – screaming and pointing for me to notice certain bluffs and rock formations – wanting to stop at every roadside stand that displayed coyotes baying at the moon, rubber snakes and lizards for the kids, silver jewelry for Pam and strings of bright red chili peppers. I would see him in my rearview mirror gesturing wildly at me and mouthing “pull over!” “pull over!” “pull over!” as we barreled along at 85 miles per hour. Sometimes I could and sometimes I could not…and if I could not he would go rogue on me and pull over anyway, swerving impulsively off road in this big tilting truck, at the  last possible minute into some Indian souvenir stand so I had to make a fast u-turn and head back to him. We laughed so hard at each other. When we stopped at some greasy dump for lunch we talked frankly and long, and I told him my life history with men in a not-so-brief salty and sarcastic nutshell. He told me that he thought the guy – the reason for my escape from Denver – was crazy to let me get away and did not deserve me. I agreed. And I was so gone. A little sad, but funny.

I asked him at one stop how his one good eye was doing, cause both of mine were tired and crusted with red dirt dust, with still a long stretch to go.

“Need a siesta?” I asked.

“Hell no. I’m great! I love this shit! I may only have one eye honey but it’s a muthah fuckah of an eye! It never gets tired! I do better than most two-eyed people do!” And so we continued racing along like bats out of hell.

We arrived in Scottsdale well after dark, not even resembling our former selves. We were red-faced, wind-whipped and sweaty, beat from the incessant heat, stiff and sore but Vicki and Tom revived us and my daughter Kelly was there too. Of course we partied most of the night away as Ross became acquainted with his sister again. That 14-16 hour roadtrip was a great crash course in knowing Ross.


Fast forward to one particular day about a year and a half ago when Ross was in the hospital on one of his 3-day mega doses of chemo, passing time there as it dripped into his system. He called me. We would talk about many things, cabbages and kings, as the walrus said. There was nothing we would shy away from discussing if the mood took us. His illness gave him a burning need, an urgency to discuss life, death, religion, sex, our kids, art, food, jokes, our mom and dad, spirituality and of course the event of dying.

He told me that he would be so fucking bored, with the drip drip dripping and he was supposed to get some exercise every day so he would walk down the hallway, dragging his medical paraphernalia along with him, to the sunny waiting room that looked down on a highway. He would then proceed to press his entire body, nose to ankles, arms widespread and legs apart, a tangle of tubes hanging off of him, against the huge window looking down on the speeding traffic and mouth the words, “HELP ME!” He did it frequently, daily I do believe, and no one ever acknowledged him by honking or altering their direction in even one small waiver from their lane. He thought that was sad. He also thought it was extremely funny. Sad/funny….

And so now we are here. There is nothing to do with a day like this, waiting for the end. It is the most profoundly sad experience I have ever had.

Jo Ann Brown-Scott, Artist and Author

In my second book titled THE CREATIVE EPIPHANY, published in 2008, Ross and I wrote Chapter 14 together titled “Harleys and Old Lace” which touched upon the experience of all of us finding each other again.

http://www.thecreativeepiphany.com, www.acanaryfliesthecanyon.com

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. – Rumi



Looking for America



Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together
I’ve got some real estate here in my bag
So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner’s pies
And we walked off to look for America
Cathy, I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh
Michigan seems like a dream to me now
It took me four days to hitchhike from Saginaw
I’ve gone to look for America

Laughing on the bus, playing games with the faces
She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said, be careful, his bowtie is really a camera
Toss me a cigarette, I think there’s one in my raincoat
We smoked the last one an hour ago
So I looked at the scenery
She read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

Cathy, I’m lost, I said though I knew she was sleeping
And I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
They’ve all come to look for America
All come to look for America
All come to look for America


Read more: Simon And Garfunkel – America Lyrics | MetroLyrics

It feels to me like we have lost America. Come on. You know the one – the America we know and love. Of the people, by the people and for the people. What happened to that one?

I believe we have not only let ourselves down but the entire world, as we fumble around for the country we used to know – the one that was a shining example of what might be possible if we all worked together toward the honorable goals we had taken centuries to set.

We seem to have lost our collective minds.

I thought, we all thought, that we knew where we were going. We seemed to be headed, for a minute there, in a positive direction. I thought it was going to be better than it had ever been before – the economy, the environmental issues, the education we could provide to every child, the end of hunger, the improvements in medical research bringing cures and hope….I even thought we were making progress in enlightening people about tolerance of others who are not exactly cookie cutter copies of our supposedly fine selves. There were clues we were making some headway, I swear.

I don’t know what the hell happened, for a second there, when we blinked and became distracted, because it only takes a second, apparently, to lose our grip on what we all wanted to become. We lost our direction and our bearings. We lost our balance and our moral compass. Look what has happened to us. Look what we have settled for in our exhausting struggle to  keep our heads above water and not drown under the weight of doing what is right for all Americans. We are on life support. We seem to have lost our passion.

While our heads were turned, some of our neighbors and friends, people we elected to represent us and advocate for us, have grabbed the reins and taken us careening full speed down a wavering path not of our own choosing. They all know who they are, we are learning who they are and yet they continue to smile…and lie, as if…..

As if we would never figure it out. And I do wonder what has taken us so long. Poor judges of character are we, Yoda would say. Gullible. Easily fooled. AMAZED that someone’s agenda might not be honorable. Unwilling to do our research. Too busy to read excerpts from 6 -10 respectable newspapers and journalists a day to uncover the ugly truths about those we so willingly threw our votes toward. I have been guilty of not being as informed as I should be – but recently I have learned the hard way that I need to grow up and inform myself about such things. It takes time. REAL NEWS happens at lightening speed now and if you miss a day you miss volumes of information. I can no longer express my opinions based upon hope. I have to hold myself to a higher standard of knowledge so that I can limit my discussions about what is actually happening to America to those discussions where my fellow conversationalists are actually informed about the issues and not basing their shallow pronouncements on what they thought they knew 2 months ago.




Life Interrupted by LIFE

dscn0469 Photo taken in Cuba, 2016

Have you ever heard the expression, “Life teaches us about LIFE” – ?

Have you ever observed an incident, or a long unfolding story happening to another person, watched it play out, been shocked by it and learned from it and become sympathetic to it, only to have nearly the same thing happen to yourself?

Well…life opened a door for you (maybe more than one door…) and gave you a glimpse inside. You were fore-warned. Perhaps in having a preview it helped you know what to do and how to cope.

Since I have been absent, MIA, not writing this blog for nearly five months or more (which was far more difficult than writing it, by the way), a handful of incidents have happened to me that you might lump under some eye-catching heading such as The 10 Life-Changing Events That Bring The Most Stress. Stereotypical yes, but true.

I have been on a proverbial roller coaster ride, experiencing days when almost hourly I flew, hanging on for dear life and hair flying,  from the top to the bottom and back up again….then down. Of course I wanted to write about it, but there was no time. I was frantically coping, white knuckled, traveling emotionally fast and loose by the seat of my pants in my own little world bubble, hoping to land somewhere safe in one piece and just stay there for a while. They say that bad things happen in three’s; I seem to have been on a streak of five or six. Sometimes seven or eight, coming and going, up and downing me every day, 24/7. This personal sampling, in no particular order because it was pure chaos, as I re-read it now still seems staggering.

The  challenges ran the proverbial gamut from soup to nuts, hitting all the bullet points and covering all the chapters from all those self-help books that try to get you to calm down, compartmentalize and focus. It was a gourmet buffet of difficult, nuanced issues that began to arrive early last fall. The months rolled by and the roller coaster ride never slowed. Everything influenced and effected everything else, of course. The domino affect.  Throw the holiday season into the middle of it all, just for extra intrigue.

First, surprising relationship issues came roaring out of the blue (whhhaaatt? Are you kidding me?), coupled with serious illnesses within my core family, all of which left me feeling angry, vulnerable and scared. Those uneasy, sleep-depriving feelings were echoed metaphorically and enhanced by a community-wide infestation of RATS as big as racoons in the neighborhood where I was living, seriously impacting my personal freedoms of having windows open during the day and walking to and from from my car at night. Then technical impossibilities (just when you need those tech devices most, they all crash and burn and turn on you, because they are alive and they know things about you). When I got the dreaded blue-screen and the PC crashed in the middle of making the big decision to change my residence once and for all….well I screamed at it. I was already anticipating the inherent, enduring pain of “the search” in Denver’s science fiction-ish otherworldly, surreal real estate market, and my Geek managed to capture most of my data but I decided not to get a new computer until after I moved…which was still months away. Trying to purchase a home without a computer is next to impossible here in the 21st century when everything happens at break-neck speed. All of your initial searching is done online and bidding wars are the norm. You need to be nose to the PC all the damn time – you snooze for a couple hours (as in night time) and you totally loose. You stop to eat a sandwich and you have missed a dozen new listings. Slow Laptops just do not cut it. Long 20 page documents to survey, teeny dot-sized boxes to initial and e-sign signatures and Yahoo fading in and out of internet connective-ness were minute to minute problems.

Then, of course, a ridiculous and expensive fender bender with my car which was entirely the result of my own stupidity. I knew that tree by the side of the driveway in the mountain home where I went every weekend like the back of my hand but I became temporarily unaware of its presence (it is huge – a tall pine tree – not unnoticeable) in a hasty exit of blind rage/frustration over all the other bullet points, and CRUNCH. Also a mysterious hot pink fungal infection on my arm that would not go away, a twenty year friend who disappeared from my life without explanation or even thanks for the Ipad I gave her…. you know. It all adds up quite nicely to a rotten string of events. I was a moving target, bobbing and weaving. Super stressed. I canceled my customary winter trip to Hawaii.

I know these spells of misfortune have a way of turning themselves around after a period of time but this one was showing no signs of dwindling. I began to doubt that it would dwindle off in my lifetime, but I am surfacing now to tell the tale. I cannot tell the entire tale in detail but I can certainly talk about what I have learned. The events I experienced are the plots and subplots of a universal tale – more like a mini-series of universal tales – all told in Cliff Notes now to prevent your boredom or mine. You can fill in the blanks for yourself. The stories have elements familiar to all, they are not new, except they were happening in rapid fire like balls out of a pitching machine, to me.

I lost four or five condos that I thought I desperately wanted during my months of searching – several were in construction litigation for faulty parts like balconies nearly falling off, one had not passed the interior inspection, I was out-bid on another even though it did not appraise at the asking price…only to realize that all this inconvenience and agonizing was leading me to the one that was meant for me – the one that out-showed and out-classed all the others. The one that had the  WOW factor in spades plus every one of the items on my wish list. The one that reminded me, in its interior finishes, of a former house that I absolutely adored in California which I had had lost seven years ago. The new home enfolded me like a blanket and with the purchase of it I turned a corner for the better.

Life is like a mosaic; a puzzle; almost like a labyrinth. You might not know for years why things have happened to you, when suddenly they flash through your mind, coming to you in realizations that dovetail with what is currently happening. Hinting at the order of things. Reminding you that there is a rhyme and a rhythm to life. Reaffirming Karma.

So I am back, better than before, with a new PC, car fixed, windows open and quite happy in my new home. Hope you are all still out there reading this and that maybe you missed me just a bit.

Photos of mosaic walls from the Royal Palace complex in Bangkok, Thailand

Waiting on the World to Change


The lyrics of this John Mayer song ( from his 2 CD album titled “Where the Light Is” ) keep monopolizing my mind space, underlying every daily routine, haunting my thoughts like a benevolent ghost reciting a mantra. Other lyrics included in this selection of songs are also meaningful to me and play significantly in my mind – “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” for instance. I doubt Mayer, in 2008, could have foreseen the state of the world and its rapid dissent into the chaos in which we now find ourselves, but you never know. The artists, the musicians, the writers, the poets, the dancers, the dreamers and the writers of songs are often the canaries in the gold mines of our minds and our world, are they not?

It is difficult to sustain creativity under and against the weight of such difficult times as these, but we must. It takes more work but we must express our recognition of current events whether that means being a brilliant light in the darkness or recording your misery from your unique place inside the darkness. If you prefer to paint in direct denial of the times, then by all means do that, and your enlightened, uplifting  images will offer people refuge in the storm. If you prefer to paint in direct opposition to what is happening in the world, screaming and capturing the chaos and the mayhem then by all means do that as well. You might feel one way on Monday and a totally different way by Friday morning. There is room for white or black and all points in between. Life is way more than 50 shades of gray, by the way. Whether you are a painter, a writer or a photographer – express yourself in the authentic voice of who you are at any given moment in time. You just have to do that, even if it shocks and stuns. You are the barometer of the weather you are experiencing;  what you record is a journal of your personal progress and your ability to cope in the complex world surrounding you. Express it; just bleed it out. It is all a part of the universal picture.

http://www.thecreativeepiphany.com    acanaryfliesthecanyon.com

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The Faces of Cuba

This selection of people (including one shot of the rooftop across from our room, which I could not stop watching as the days unfolded) reveal Cuba – and yet of course, they only scratch the surface. The people are genuine, generous, resourceful and inventive, sad below and funny on top, hopeful yet discouraged but always determined, forever musical and artistic as you might find (almost) anywhere in the world under a dictatorship. Whatever is squashed in people will find its way out, somehow and some way. Spirit and energy seize the day because everywhere people are always people. But Cubans are heartbreakingly suppressed, crushed and pounded into obedience, held captive on an island 100 miles from our coast, where every boat owner is under constant surveillance. Whatever your beliefs are in regard to immigration, anywhere in the world, on any shore and in any border town, you should visit Cuba. It is a country with an old soul that is dying to be set free. The people will enchant and surprise you with their indomitable spirit. You need to go to Cuba. Stay in Casa Particulars with Cuban families who are trying to make an extra buck by opening their homes to tourists and  where you can eat a home-cooked meal in their immaculate kitchen and you are able to have a real conversation. You do need to go to Cuba.

My next post will be about Ernest Hemingway; his home and his legend, and his love affair with Cuba.

Jo Ann Brown-Scott – Author, Artist, Photographer

New novel – A Canary Flies the Canyon, Amazon & Kindle

Non-Fiction – The Creative Epiphany, Amazon & Kindle