Art School on La Jolla Boulevard

Each young hand turns upon the pivot of a brush, moves nervously, hangs back or slashes deep into the oblong space of landscape, grouping as each eye and understanding gropes for truth and splendor, for truth and squalor in the bluish haze of morning. Each one seeking something in a scene that asks nothing from anyone.

. . . faded red tile roofs, a scattered run of cars below, one by one, a row of ragged palms, like turkey-necks against a dull green mass of sea, the cliff edge and the sea itself, clouds, and blurred horizons, and telephone wires paralleling horizons.