posted February 17 grub day
Development of some drawings can be so very difficult to put into words; the nebulous creative energy funneling through the scritch scritch of the pen, hour after hour of knowing only where the next line needs to be, as the drawing emerges and the idea behind it becomes clear.
Imagine the anguish of realizing as a fully-grown creature that at some time in your early development you were constrained to a shape which is now so unnatural to the form you have taken that it is torture to move, to exist. That you have been shaped to a purpose - not by nature or inclination - but by someone else's design - which now keeps you from the freedom of movement, expression of self that is your birthright.
Imagine the anguish of realizing as a fully-grown creature that at some time in your early development you were constrained to a shape which is now so unnatural to the form you have taken that it is torture to move, to exist. That you have been shaped to a purpose - not by nature or inclination - but by someone else's design - which now keeps you from the freedom of movement, expression of self that is your birthright.
posted February 10 tea divination
Morning, when it arrives, whether on sneaky cat paws or announced by the roar of a garbage truck gearing up, holds by the edges a day still unfolding as we slowly rise to meet it.
Rumble of bubbles forming in its belly before the kettle whistles and finally the teapot is full, coaxing flavour from the tea under the cosy.
What will the day hold? Warmth from the mug of tea between my hands seeps into my fingers, my palms, my bones as I stare unseeing out the window, wisps of scented steam curling through the scene in front of me. I am still in dreams. Steam ribbons float through the scenes where my mind dawdles, flavouring the day to come with warmth. Gazing into the cup I see layers of clarity creating depth, subtlety, discovery... and pause to savour what is.
Rumble of bubbles forming in its belly before the kettle whistles and finally the teapot is full, coaxing flavour from the tea under the cosy.
What will the day hold? Warmth from the mug of tea between my hands seeps into my fingers, my palms, my bones as I stare unseeing out the window, wisps of scented steam curling through the scene in front of me. I am still in dreams. Steam ribbons float through the scenes where my mind dawdles, flavouring the day to come with warmth. Gazing into the cup I see layers of clarity creating depth, subtlety, discovery... and pause to savour what is.
posted February 3 c'mere kid
The adventure always seems to begin with a joyous flutter of anticipation at the words: c'mere kid...
There were a few people who would say that when I was a kid, sometimes only with raised eyebrows and the jerk of a chin that said so much more. Inside my head I heard: :Nobody here would appreciate this opportunity", or: "If they know we are going, they will want to tag along", or worse: "If they remember we exist, they will think of something useful for us to do instead of this interesting possibility I have just arrived at".
The sort of hair-raising things we did don't show up in books these days - (scorched kitchen ceilings probably shouldn't be emulated anyway) but occasionally, around a holiday table with various generations relaxing together and the bounce of stories building, each topping the last, one will come out - the older generation either bemused, or aghast, the younger all accusing: I never heard THAT before - and I wonder if they think we're making it up, or are scurrying to shift mental images they hold of their parents, aunts, uncle...
There were a few people who would say that when I was a kid, sometimes only with raised eyebrows and the jerk of a chin that said so much more. Inside my head I heard: :Nobody here would appreciate this opportunity", or: "If they know we are going, they will want to tag along", or worse: "If they remember we exist, they will think of something useful for us to do instead of this interesting possibility I have just arrived at".
The sort of hair-raising things we did don't show up in books these days - (scorched kitchen ceilings probably shouldn't be emulated anyway) but occasionally, around a holiday table with various generations relaxing together and the bounce of stories building, each topping the last, one will come out - the older generation either bemused, or aghast, the younger all accusing: I never heard THAT before - and I wonder if they think we're making it up, or are scurrying to shift mental images they hold of their parents, aunts, uncle...
posted January 27 distraction
All her breath has been put into these bubbles, it seems, and one more breath could send her floating off after them.
posted January 20 recognition
The merest of glances, and we already know all we want to know about some people. Or we THINK we do.
Somewhere in the psyche we have stored experiences and the expressions or faces with which they are associated - and extrapolate from there (come to think of it, isn't this the way Miss Marple approached all her cases?). As potential food, it's as well to err on the side of caution. As creatures unlikely to end up on someone's dinner menu, perhaps we can take another look.
Somewhere in the psyche we have stored experiences and the expressions or faces with which they are associated - and extrapolate from there (come to think of it, isn't this the way Miss Marple approached all her cases?). As potential food, it's as well to err on the side of caution. As creatures unlikely to end up on someone's dinner menu, perhaps we can take another look.
posted January 13 flame tending
Rising smoke, especially the thin, mysterious kind made by a cigarette set aside, or a cup of truly hot coffee fascinated me in childhood. I'd get lost, staring at them. A quiet candle flame in the dark did the same thing. On very special occasions a Christmas tree would be entirely lit by small beeswax candles and I could pick a flame that danced and watch it quietly, not noticing anything else.
Tending this flame, with intent gaze and cupped hands, who knows what is seen in the mind's eye? A dance of smoke, a whisper of flickering light - or dinner in an hour?
Tending this flame, with intent gaze and cupped hands, who knows what is seen in the mind's eye? A dance of smoke, a whisper of flickering light - or dinner in an hour?
posted January 6 wave
Well, it may have STARTED just as a trace of pencil, flying across the page, breaking the white and welcoming an image - any image, but when you end up with a flirty wave from a very toothy creature with a quizzical gaze, it definitely leads to wondering about the trustworthiness of smiling strangers, given the size of their smile...
posted December 31 Montreal
Waking at 2:18 in the morning one winter's night, my boyfriend and I agreed it was a wonderful idea to climb in the car and drive to Montreal for breakfast. Well into the 5-hour drive and despite the numbing boredom of the highway between Kitchener and the Quebec border, we managed to stay awake AND avoid the flagrant speeding that would attract undesirable attention and consequences, arriving just as the bagel places on St. Catherine's street opened their doors to customers.
We spent the day tasting neighbourhoods by window-shopping, hunting for brews by local breweries (as one sure way of finding interesting neighbourhoods is to quest for where their population likes to hang out when they have free time on their hands) and ended the day in a small Portugese fish restaurant in by the water in the old part of town.
A health food cafe in the middle of the day provided a quiet place to sit and pull out the familiarity of my sketchbook in the winter sunshine slanting across an upstairs table. Rattling softly in my mind, a dessicated seed pod grew into a drawing on the paper. Each curve and wiggle of the pen another moment to absorb the warmth of the old brick walls, hubbub of conversation around me, the sheer zaniness of being there in the first place.
The only real insanity involved driving home that night. Then REAL effort to stay awake was needed. Hard to say how this simple sketch can hold all the sparkle of that day. But it does.
We spent the day tasting neighbourhoods by window-shopping, hunting for brews by local breweries (as one sure way of finding interesting neighbourhoods is to quest for where their population likes to hang out when they have free time on their hands) and ended the day in a small Portugese fish restaurant in by the water in the old part of town.
A health food cafe in the middle of the day provided a quiet place to sit and pull out the familiarity of my sketchbook in the winter sunshine slanting across an upstairs table. Rattling softly in my mind, a dessicated seed pod grew into a drawing on the paper. Each curve and wiggle of the pen another moment to absorb the warmth of the old brick walls, hubbub of conversation around me, the sheer zaniness of being there in the first place.
The only real insanity involved driving home that night. Then REAL effort to stay awake was needed. Hard to say how this simple sketch can hold all the sparkle of that day. But it does.
posted December 23 family river
Every time I look at this sketchbook page I think of my Grandmother. Can't say why. Somewhere in the swirl of thoughts is the idea that the people under the river are family members - siblings, parents, grandparents, cousins, ancestors and future generations - some that I know, some I couldn't even begin to identify - and that the flow of personality and time across them shapes what is seen from the surface - I am my relatives and they are me, some way, some how. Forging words from ideas doesn't quite work, the image is more fluid in its associations than the words I use to try and to nail it down.
posted December 16 what it says about me
Opening a report, a newspaper, a bulletin, first thing that draws our attention is our own name, our own image - and whatever the context, the first thought: what does it say about me? This occupation with what it says about us says a lot about us, come to think.
posted December 9 hark!
Distracted by all the surfaces and textures, interplay of figures and their outward characteristics while drawing this over the course of a few days, it didn't occur to me to imagine a narrative beyond the frame of the page. It was only when scanning and clearing the image of distracting shadows this week in readiness for posting that I wondered what others might see into it, suggesting possibilities to myself. Made me shake my head in a "well, THAT was interesting" sort of way. Now the strangest thing about it is the realization that it never crossed my mind to wonder before...
posted December 2 cameos
Sometimes what ends up on the page is a cameo, a personality sketch, a bit of something else that isn't on the page - and usually I'd keep adding or erasing until a narrative (however obscure) takes shape. Other times, what's there just works, and I let it stay.
posted November 25 waiting game
Waiting to be released from its responsibility to the potted plant in its care, this greenhouse fairy is a far cry from the petal-wearing blithe spirits in flower fairy books I remember reading as a child. This one is waiting for its charge to take an interest in life - enough to be transplanted outside, releasing the fairy for the season. Meanwhile, someone else is keeping a close eye on developments...
This drawing sat for years, just the fairy and the clay pot, waiting for me to get a sound idea to develop and finish it. When I realized it was the next in line to be scanned and posted, that was kick in the pants enough to set the mind zooming. Now that it's done, I can see traces of inspiration coming from all sorts of directions - many from books I've read. Beverly Nichol's Laughter on the Stairs trilogy comes to mind. A book about bringing life to a garden, a greenhouse, a home, when I first read it, the tone made me laugh out loud - and reminded me of my grandmother, who had died only a few years earlier. I wished I could have shared it with her - and realized, written when it was, and with her keen appreciation of all things gardening, it was unlikely she had missed it in her decades of reading. Whenever I pick up Mr. Nichols' books these days, I guffaw out loud, and imagine the chortle I am hearing in the back of my mind is hers.
This drawing sat for years, just the fairy and the clay pot, waiting for me to get a sound idea to develop and finish it. When I realized it was the next in line to be scanned and posted, that was kick in the pants enough to set the mind zooming. Now that it's done, I can see traces of inspiration coming from all sorts of directions - many from books I've read. Beverly Nichol's Laughter on the Stairs trilogy comes to mind. A book about bringing life to a garden, a greenhouse, a home, when I first read it, the tone made me laugh out loud - and reminded me of my grandmother, who had died only a few years earlier. I wished I could have shared it with her - and realized, written when it was, and with her keen appreciation of all things gardening, it was unlikely she had missed it in her decades of reading. Whenever I pick up Mr. Nichols' books these days, I guffaw out loud, and imagine the chortle I am hearing in the back of my mind is hers.
posted November 18 fit
Like the first day of school, there are occasions when we step into a new environment, a new endeavour, a new culture - and it is obvious to everyone that belonging is going to be an issue.
posted November 11 taking steps
Completely engrossed in the steps of this dance, moving in ways we can't imagine feeling, this dancer is moving to his inner music - mesmerizing and amazing - which comes naturally to the dancer and would be completely impossible for the watcher to imitate. What's your inner dance? Nobody else can hear that music, nor tell you what the steps should be.
posted November 4 curious types
These three cameos resisted becoming a single thought. As they developed, they seemed rather to embody personality limps or hiccups. At right, someone with almost no voice is importing a voice more raucous than he can handle, and midpage, what at first seems one person resolves itself on further examination into two - though not quite distinct - personalities. I think of that one as co-dependence. The figure on the left is still waiting to come fully out of the page and once he decides what he means by that, no doubt he will do so.
posted October 28 who knows
Raised on the precept that the left hand should not know what the right hand was doing, I have often wondered what might happen if they did....
posted October 21 chasing
Starting with the same sweep across the page, it's wonderful, really, how many different places that one gesture with a 2H pencil just skimming the page can take you.
This image developed as I mulled over how we are taught to stretch, to push, to yearn... and it feels the expectation is grafted on to us; book titles admonish, work descriptions expand, and at the end of the year, the term, the quarter, does anyone have the leisure anymore to enjoy the here and now, the sunlight on closed eyelids, the warmth of doing something that satisfies, of being surrounded by loved-ones, of a day well-lived? We mine past experiences for traces of success, it seems, and miss the here and now while reaching for we know not what, only that it is out there, better than where we are now or what we are now, and what we now have... and eyes closed, we're not even certain of that, only that we reach...
This image developed as I mulled over how we are taught to stretch, to push, to yearn... and it feels the expectation is grafted on to us; book titles admonish, work descriptions expand, and at the end of the year, the term, the quarter, does anyone have the leisure anymore to enjoy the here and now, the sunlight on closed eyelids, the warmth of doing something that satisfies, of being surrounded by loved-ones, of a day well-lived? We mine past experiences for traces of success, it seems, and miss the here and now while reaching for we know not what, only that it is out there, better than where we are now or what we are now, and what we now have... and eyes closed, we're not even certain of that, only that we reach...
posted October 14 bean toss
Pencil line appears across the page, barely visible, and suddenly there's a void... a hand stretched to the utmost that bones and ligaments will allow, an arm outflung in rejection.
Jack and the Beanstalk came to mind, as these ink beans flew across the page (though it is usually Jack's poor put-upon mother who tosses them out the window) and I think of the contrast between ejecting something from our lives in furious anger as this gent is doing, and turning around after a long stretch of plodding to notice something we've left behind, forgotten, sitting by the roadside in the distance.
Jack and the Beanstalk came to mind, as these ink beans flew across the page (though it is usually Jack's poor put-upon mother who tosses them out the window) and I think of the contrast between ejecting something from our lives in furious anger as this gent is doing, and turning around after a long stretch of plodding to notice something we've left behind, forgotten, sitting by the roadside in the distance.
posted for September 30 resting place
Perplexed bird wonders how the branch he alighted on became part of this skeleton. Skeleton trying to figure out how to get his arm back. Would be much easier if he had a skull, hopefully containing useful gray matter. Me, I'd be satisfied with some reference material - a photo from this useful angle would do, but I'd prefer access to the real thing - absorbing all the impressions of surfaces of bones is an incredible way to spend time, and the best way to do that is to draw. Rest of the skeleton is pretty wonky - remembered observational drawings are a little shaky at this distance of time.
Bones are, to my mind, one of the most mesmerizing studies and satisfying subjects.
Bones are, to my mind, one of the most mesmerizing studies and satisfying subjects.
posted september 23 scaredy cat
Intent on catching that fleeing cat, every inch of his being focused, straining - and going about it in the way most likely to fail. Catching a cat, I realized as a child, was about coaxing the cat to WANT to be in your lap.
Teaching my son yesterday to catch grasshoppers - I explained it's all about knowing they react to the moving shadow of your hand. Need to get one hand cupped ahead of them, sneaking it in without making a shadow, then bringing up the other hand to cause them to hop into the cupped hands. Don't try to grab a passing leg - they're more hop than leg - and besides, that will leave them limping. Cupped in your hands, you can let light in slowly and wonder at their jewel eyes, the machine-like muscle of their construction, the poky-unlikeliness of them ... until you let in too much light and they are away, a whirring, cheering, sometimes surprising-winged spling of gone, gone, gone - and another patient chase.
Teaching my son yesterday to catch grasshoppers - I explained it's all about knowing they react to the moving shadow of your hand. Need to get one hand cupped ahead of them, sneaking it in without making a shadow, then bringing up the other hand to cause them to hop into the cupped hands. Don't try to grab a passing leg - they're more hop than leg - and besides, that will leave them limping. Cupped in your hands, you can let light in slowly and wonder at their jewel eyes, the machine-like muscle of their construction, the poky-unlikeliness of them ... until you let in too much light and they are away, a whirring, cheering, sometimes surprising-winged spling of gone, gone, gone - and another patient chase.
posted September 16 trudge
Curved line sweeping across the page, a whisper of graphite took me somewhere completely unexpected. And once begun, I knew exactly how the wind sounded as it blew through the grasses leaving them dry-whispering all around her. Not sure she hears or sees anything other than the stony path ahead, feels anything other than the miles already trudged growing longer behind her with every step.
posted September 9 wisdom conversation
When wisdom appears, do we recognize it? When we are looking, does it speak with a voice we can hear?
We can turn away from what is helpful because it comes from a location we do not expect, from a source we might otherwise ignore, or see only in one dimension.
I had originally intended to colour this image in the sketchbook, and realized that colour would simplify it to the point where discovery would be instantaneous, and not wanting that, I left it as it is.
We can turn away from what is helpful because it comes from a location we do not expect, from a source we might otherwise ignore, or see only in one dimension.
I had originally intended to colour this image in the sketchbook, and realized that colour would simplify it to the point where discovery would be instantaneous, and not wanting that, I left it as it is.
posted September 2 Speak your mind
Finding words to aptly describe what thoughts accompanied the development of this drawing would be a little like making air itself gel. I was mulling over being honest, where that honesty might come from, how perception is connected to communication, and how faulty that can be - both in communication and reception, nevermind intent, result, opportunity.
The life of the mind can be unconnected to outward expression, either denied, or unnecessary for routine - who knows? But remain unconnected for too long, and life itself becomes inauthentic. And yet the authentic must be tempered, or be too brutal for consumption, too rough to live by, or possibly too insubstantial, itself rooted in fantasy - unlivable.
The life of the mind can be unconnected to outward expression, either denied, or unnecessary for routine - who knows? But remain unconnected for too long, and life itself becomes inauthentic. And yet the authentic must be tempered, or be too brutal for consumption, too rough to live by, or possibly too insubstantial, itself rooted in fantasy - unlivable.
posted August 26 Sirius
A large black dog can leave quite an impression, and when he is absent, even more so. I find myself drawing Brandon, or doggy friends of his at the oddest times. Here, his most distant friend, Sirius, bounds along up to all sorts of dog fun unregarded, in the daylight, when he is not visible from our side of the earth.
posted August 19 developed
I developed this drawing absently, bringing out one element here, changing another, doodling while my mind wandered and then when it seemed to be finished telling its story, I looked down and wondered WHAT I had been thinking!... The leetle leetle body... the shoes... the hangdog expression...
There had been a lot of sports coverage around me while this drawing was growing, and I wondered just how much of that had influenced the image. Mind wandered to make connections between the focused, prepared athletes and the drawing. I thought, at a mental skip, of my Great Uncle's words one summer when I stayed with him, in my late teens: "You have to stop doing so MANY things, or you will never be truly excellent at any of them! Put away your violin, you know you will never be a concert violinist, put down the camera, forget about your painting - focus on your writing, there you have something. Let me hear what you wrote last night." Encouragement in his best manner - and yet, the violin reached back to my family home, far away at the time, and connected me to that, creating new melodies in a strange place. The camera encouraged me to inspect, explore, shape my vision (and then play in his darkroom in the basement by the hour) the paints - well I'd never be as good as his wife, dear woman, now gone, so that was that. As to words... they are almost TOO malleable to trust at times.
My Great Uncle was encouraging me in the only way he knew, to focus, as the athletes all over the media had done, training their bodies to support their aims, their minds to reach for one goal: The Gold. And some bodies indeed, did display awkward emphasis on one strength above all others - thought not as much as my drawing, I am glad to say.
So here is one hangdog athlete, clinging to a passion that has no bearing on his development OR his goal and yet... who knows? It may round him out as a person, make him more likely to explore the world and participate in the mad dance outside his closed sports facility.
posted August 12 Sysiphus
In the legend, Sysiphus was fated to roll a boulder up a hill, toiling all day long, only to see the boulder roll down the hill again after achieving the summit. Knowing he must repeat his task until the boulder stays at the crest of the hill, one wonders what it would take to break the cycle, and if he is still somewhere in a mythical world repeating this frustrating effort?
This fellow's burden - his boulder - is his own mindset, and as it impedes his progress, so it will roll back down the hill and bring him down with it. Perhaps the effort - or the view from up there - will one day cause a change in the mindset and shift the burden enough to roll down the other side of the hill...
This fellow's burden - his boulder - is his own mindset, and as it impedes his progress, so it will roll back down the hill and bring him down with it. Perhaps the effort - or the view from up there - will one day cause a change in the mindset and shift the burden enough to roll down the other side of the hill...
posted August 5 ogre mood
Angry. Oh, very. We rather expect ogres to act on their anger, behaving brutishly, destructively. That is, after all, what makes one an ogre. This fellow is so angry his hair is flying off.
I drew this, thinking about how we express and use our anger - sometimes to effect change, perhaps to justify the anger itself, and if we are thoughtful, to dig deeper and find the source of it, inside, underneath the apparent reason. This fellow hasn't got to that point, so he is just making a lot of noise - possibly a stink - and losing his hair. Adding colour to the page helped solidify his bulk, so for once I felt colour improved the experience of seeing what was on the page. So often colour rather simplifies the image, makes us feel we 'get it' and so less likely to linger, absorb.
I drew this, thinking about how we express and use our anger - sometimes to effect change, perhaps to justify the anger itself, and if we are thoughtful, to dig deeper and find the source of it, inside, underneath the apparent reason. This fellow hasn't got to that point, so he is just making a lot of noise - possibly a stink - and losing his hair. Adding colour to the page helped solidify his bulk, so for once I felt colour improved the experience of seeing what was on the page. So often colour rather simplifies the image, makes us feel we 'get it' and so less likely to linger, absorb.
posted July 29 conductor
Imagine what a conductor sees in his mind as the music flowes around him - changing shape as he gestures, sways, exhorts with his baton, his hands, his whole being.
posted July 22 night city
The city dances with colour at night, colour I never dreamed of for years when putting kids to bed at night and watering my garden in the quiet of evening, or shoveling snow off the driveway and greeting neighbours. Only when my eldest began pushing for more freedom - freedom which required me to show up downtown at a designated time and place (cellphones? BEFORE everyone had a cellphone) in the wee hours, to drive her and any friends also needing a ride home from their explorations. I began to see the city not as a place behind my shut front door at night, but as alive, and vibrant, in unexpected ways. Not necessarily the city of glossy advertisements and places to see or be seen, but sounds and lives and ideas intertwined in noisy, crazy, challenging and wonky ways.
This quilt I call night butterflies is slowly growing - making it for my daughter who is no longer at home. Whenever I miss her in a big way, out it comes, all the fabrics, threads, machines and memories it takes to make another part.
It grew out of a sketcbook page - one still unfinished, but there are many such pages. I will get back to it, when there's more I know how to say with ink.
Something very much alive in the page for me, as it has also been the basis of an illustration for an article about diminishing true public spaces in the city - in the illustration the floating sidewalks - that tie together our neighbourhoods and our experiences, places you meet folks who aren't selling you something, places you can just BE, places you ARE the city - WE are the city - to one-another, ourselves, and passers-by.
The images and ideas are still growing - as is my appreciation of all that makes up this night city of ours.
This quilt I call night butterflies is slowly growing - making it for my daughter who is no longer at home. Whenever I miss her in a big way, out it comes, all the fabrics, threads, machines and memories it takes to make another part.
It grew out of a sketcbook page - one still unfinished, but there are many such pages. I will get back to it, when there's more I know how to say with ink.
Something very much alive in the page for me, as it has also been the basis of an illustration for an article about diminishing true public spaces in the city - in the illustration the floating sidewalks - that tie together our neighbourhoods and our experiences, places you meet folks who aren't selling you something, places you can just BE, places you ARE the city - WE are the city - to one-another, ourselves, and passers-by.
The images and ideas are still growing - as is my appreciation of all that makes up this night city of ours.
posted July 15 night bloom
This image grew from a stroke across the page, and that stroke tugged at memory, skipped, hopped and traced story through a dozen years or more... and back to a shot-glass on the kitchen window sill with two wisp-rooted cuttings transparent in the sunlight.
All the way back to a phone call asking me what I had planned for all the evenings of the week ahead - the caller was not sure which evening yet, but was I free? Very mysterious. I kept my evenings free, and received the call on Tuesday: "It will be tonight. Come at nine. Bring a bottle of wine." Met at the door, I was ushered through the dark main floor to a two-story sunroom at the back of the house. Glasses were on the low table, my hosts disappeared to uncork the wine and I was left alone in the dusk among the shadows and a heady scent I could not identify.
Ah, there it was. A spindly viny thing climbing the wall, leaves like elongated Christmas cactus leaves, a fat moon-like white buds hanging at eye level and higher. One looked almost ready to open.
"Ah, I see you found it." My hosts returned and poured wine, offered cheese and suggested I settle in a comfortable chair. We'll be here a while. And then they told this story:
"we were on an island." (somewhere tropical, I can't recall which island or even which ocean) "staying at a little inn. Didn't see anyone but the innkeeper, she bustled us to our rooms as we arrived late. We had just settled in for the night when there was a knocking at the door. After midnight. My husband opened the door a crack and there was the stout innkeeper, hair escaping from its bun, barefoot, wrapped in a striped man's housecoat. "Come", she said. "You have to come now" and she grabbed my husband by the elbow, when he would have shut the door. "Never mind locking the door. There is no time. You must hurry". So we followed her down the corridor outside our rooms, a long balcony outside all the guest rooms and down stairs still warm from the day's heat. Around the inn to the back gate in a high wall and through - into a sanctum of dark leaves and night birds, warm flagstones under our bare feet and stars above our heads - and three glasses on a table beside a bottle of wine. Here, open, open!" she handed my husband the bottle and ushered me to a chair. "It is almost time!" and then I was wrapped in scent. Looking around, I saw the tree was supporting a vine, and the vine was heavy with buds. White globe-like buds with odd, fronded bases. One was just opening. The wine poured, the innkeeper settled her feet under her chair and raised it to a corner of the dark yard before sipping. "My husband planted this. I did not want to celebrate its beauty alone. Thank you for coming."
So we enjoyed the opening blooms and heady scent, the rich wine and quiet conversation as the bud opened and flooded the room with its rich perfume. I came home with three cuttings in a glass, similar to those my host had carried away from the innkeeper's garden more than ten years earlier - my host said he couldn't bear to throw them away. They rooted on my windowsill until I had time to pot them and find homes for them where there would be room and light to grow.
Jean got one. Quiet gray Jean up the street who tended her garden on hot summer days and came out to share when she saw us bent over her peonies or soaking up the scent of her lavender. She opened her garden gate and pulled me in one day I was passing. "Come, you have to see how well it's doing". And indeed, the vine was already a metre high, climbing over a long piece of driftwood. "I can't wait for it to bloom," she said, and patted it, quietly standing beside her back door. But last winter the door stood open and people carried things out. A younger man with Jean's face among them. The houseplants had all gone to Jean's granddaughter. I hope she wonders what it is long enough for the vine to bud, and wrap her in its wonder, the scent too rich to leave unshared; that she will call friends to bring wine and sit somewhere in the dark savouring friendship and wine and beauty.
Night Blooming Cirrus.
All the way back to a phone call asking me what I had planned for all the evenings of the week ahead - the caller was not sure which evening yet, but was I free? Very mysterious. I kept my evenings free, and received the call on Tuesday: "It will be tonight. Come at nine. Bring a bottle of wine." Met at the door, I was ushered through the dark main floor to a two-story sunroom at the back of the house. Glasses were on the low table, my hosts disappeared to uncork the wine and I was left alone in the dusk among the shadows and a heady scent I could not identify.
Ah, there it was. A spindly viny thing climbing the wall, leaves like elongated Christmas cactus leaves, a fat moon-like white buds hanging at eye level and higher. One looked almost ready to open.
"Ah, I see you found it." My hosts returned and poured wine, offered cheese and suggested I settle in a comfortable chair. We'll be here a while. And then they told this story:
"we were on an island." (somewhere tropical, I can't recall which island or even which ocean) "staying at a little inn. Didn't see anyone but the innkeeper, she bustled us to our rooms as we arrived late. We had just settled in for the night when there was a knocking at the door. After midnight. My husband opened the door a crack and there was the stout innkeeper, hair escaping from its bun, barefoot, wrapped in a striped man's housecoat. "Come", she said. "You have to come now" and she grabbed my husband by the elbow, when he would have shut the door. "Never mind locking the door. There is no time. You must hurry". So we followed her down the corridor outside our rooms, a long balcony outside all the guest rooms and down stairs still warm from the day's heat. Around the inn to the back gate in a high wall and through - into a sanctum of dark leaves and night birds, warm flagstones under our bare feet and stars above our heads - and three glasses on a table beside a bottle of wine. Here, open, open!" she handed my husband the bottle and ushered me to a chair. "It is almost time!" and then I was wrapped in scent. Looking around, I saw the tree was supporting a vine, and the vine was heavy with buds. White globe-like buds with odd, fronded bases. One was just opening. The wine poured, the innkeeper settled her feet under her chair and raised it to a corner of the dark yard before sipping. "My husband planted this. I did not want to celebrate its beauty alone. Thank you for coming."
So we enjoyed the opening blooms and heady scent, the rich wine and quiet conversation as the bud opened and flooded the room with its rich perfume. I came home with three cuttings in a glass, similar to those my host had carried away from the innkeeper's garden more than ten years earlier - my host said he couldn't bear to throw them away. They rooted on my windowsill until I had time to pot them and find homes for them where there would be room and light to grow.
Jean got one. Quiet gray Jean up the street who tended her garden on hot summer days and came out to share when she saw us bent over her peonies or soaking up the scent of her lavender. She opened her garden gate and pulled me in one day I was passing. "Come, you have to see how well it's doing". And indeed, the vine was already a metre high, climbing over a long piece of driftwood. "I can't wait for it to bloom," she said, and patted it, quietly standing beside her back door. But last winter the door stood open and people carried things out. A younger man with Jean's face among them. The houseplants had all gone to Jean's granddaughter. I hope she wonders what it is long enough for the vine to bud, and wrap her in its wonder, the scent too rich to leave unshared; that she will call friends to bring wine and sit somewhere in the dark savouring friendship and wine and beauty.
Night Blooming Cirrus.
posted July 9 Have boots, will wrangle
It all began with the boots. One boot. In my mind, and on the page. And once it was there, the other appeared...then their owner. And obviously, once you are possessed of giddy footgear, you need an excuse to wear them. So apparently our diminutive cowboy needed a ride. It is unfortunate indeed that though he could find boots to fit him, there was no adjusting evolution in enough of a hurry to provide him with a mount he could handle - or indeed, that would even fit the page. He is having an "Aaaak" moment, and that's that.
It's not uncommon, I imagine, to find ourselves somewhere similar, advancing step by manageable step until we arrive somewhere we can't handle - or back away from.
It's not uncommon, I imagine, to find ourselves somewhere similar, advancing step by manageable step until we arrive somewhere we can't handle - or back away from.
posted July 1 coy damsel
What, I wondered, when she appeared on the page, was this trollish damsel listening in on? And WHO does her hair?!?? When I start a page with a sweep of line, I have no idea where I will end up.
Every time I open the book to this page I wonder just where she came from - and what she is up to when the book is closed.
Every time I open the book to this page I wonder just where she came from - and what she is up to when the book is closed.
posted June 24 Musicsweep
Music heard invites us to step into the landscape it creates as it unwinds, unrolls, explodes...
Making music takes the mind on a wander, half our senses involved in the technical, adding to the waterfall of sounds. The other half responds, the conscious suggesting new directions, the unconscious making connections to memory and imagination, opening doors and windows to a sweep of fresh experience in the mind.
Improvisation multiplies the inrush of experience, and improvisation in collaboration with others makes for an exponential explosion in which musician as creator and listener is danced away to places he might otherwise never reach.
Making music takes the mind on a wander, half our senses involved in the technical, adding to the waterfall of sounds. The other half responds, the conscious suggesting new directions, the unconscious making connections to memory and imagination, opening doors and windows to a sweep of fresh experience in the mind.
Improvisation multiplies the inrush of experience, and improvisation in collaboration with others makes for an exponential explosion in which musician as creator and listener is danced away to places he might otherwise never reach.
posted June 17 shame
First lines on the page seemed inward-facing, reminded me of how much sometimes as a teen one just wants to be invisible, to pull one's being inside the shell and disappear from view.
This girl is wishing it so hard she's beginning to disappear at the edges.
This girl is wishing it so hard she's beginning to disappear at the edges.
posted June 10 hammer head
You know you're in a rut when the saying fits:
Whatever it is you're doing is great - because it feels so good when you stop.
Whatever it is you're doing is great - because it feels so good when you stop.
(posted June 4) a sea of eyes
When I draw without a preset theme, the drawing comes out of an inner space and brings something of that with it - but I have found over the years that the reverse is true also: while drawing, the surrounding scene with its noises and energies is somehow captured intensely in memory, and each sketchpage and doodle, when opened, opens those snapshots as well - here what is visible is an ocean of impressions and observations - a question: what will fit? What will become? and memory fills in a sunny afternoon on a neighbour's back porch, children coming and going, the sun searing the blank page a blinding white.
I have doodles on lined paper squeezed into the margins of notes taken years ago. They bring to mind the dim upstairs feel of Mr. Baxter's gr. 12 French class. The colourless tiled floor. Joe on one side, Wayne on the other. Good friends. Worth remembering.
I have doodles on lined paper squeezed into the margins of notes taken years ago. They bring to mind the dim upstairs feel of Mr. Baxter's gr. 12 French class. The colourless tiled floor. Joe on one side, Wayne on the other. Good friends. Worth remembering.
...a habit renewed... Now what?
I had kept a sketchbook, lugging it from class to class in high school but the habit had lapsed when I acquired other duties and things to carry and ran out of hands for the sketchbook. It dawned on me that I missed the process. So a few years ago I picked up the technical pens and pen and ink I had used for the earlier sketchbooks and creaked open the cover of a new book - not knowing what direction it would take.
I decided only one thing, to begin with: that I would continue working on each spread until it expressed a unified thought or theme - no matter how obscure. New pages were unnerving, at first. A sweep of line would break the page and then - ? I began to approach each page with the same general thought: Now let's see... and I was hooked.
I began to feel pulled by a work in progress, left on the table, pen beside the open book. Whatever the mind was chewing over, seems that was somehow being digested on paper. I began to savour the way a drawing developed slowly, dragging thoughts with it, developing a mental space internally as the drawing emerged on paper over days and weeks. Some drawings didn't seem worthy of further work - a doodle, the moment, not needing digesting or developing. Others were left unfinished for days or months - I had no idea what to do next with them - and may be in that state today, still waiting. Others, when I flipped open a page, suddenly I could see just what was needed next - and the pull returned.
I'll post them in the order that they appear in the sketchbooks, but undated - as they have grown over a hopscotch of timelines, some images surging to the page in a rush of hours drawn from a busy life in the course of a few days, others developing almost despite me, across years.
I enjoy comments and questions and look forward to hearing from you - please use the contact form on the Contact and Information page. A
I decided only one thing, to begin with: that I would continue working on each spread until it expressed a unified thought or theme - no matter how obscure. New pages were unnerving, at first. A sweep of line would break the page and then - ? I began to approach each page with the same general thought: Now let's see... and I was hooked.
I began to feel pulled by a work in progress, left on the table, pen beside the open book. Whatever the mind was chewing over, seems that was somehow being digested on paper. I began to savour the way a drawing developed slowly, dragging thoughts with it, developing a mental space internally as the drawing emerged on paper over days and weeks. Some drawings didn't seem worthy of further work - a doodle, the moment, not needing digesting or developing. Others were left unfinished for days or months - I had no idea what to do next with them - and may be in that state today, still waiting. Others, when I flipped open a page, suddenly I could see just what was needed next - and the pull returned.
I'll post them in the order that they appear in the sketchbooks, but undated - as they have grown over a hopscotch of timelines, some images surging to the page in a rush of hours drawn from a busy life in the course of a few days, others developing almost despite me, across years.
I enjoy comments and questions and look forward to hearing from you - please use the contact form on the Contact and Information page. A