I do an awful lot of thinking and dreaming about things in the past and the future - the timelessness of the rocks and the hills - all the people who have existed there. 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.
|backyard thicket of redwoods, pines, firs and surprisingly--- holly!|
Landscapes have been on my mind. There are the landscapes one finds in Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth and Ivan Doig's English Creek (and recently read, Hannah Kent's Burial Rites)---harsh, brutal reality of living with the land and how its raw beauty seeps into one's heart---giving it a meaning and memory worth fighting to keep. Of sorrow, of place and yes, even desire and want. There are the measured and layered urban landscapes of Wayne Thiebaud's paintings, the contrasts of light and shadow in Ansel Adam's photographs and even the contemporary, visually delight of David Hockney's IPad sketches. Then there are the more private landscapes of one's own thoughts and hearth.
|big green mat for visiting grand-dog, Flynn, who is having a grand time outside|
|my brave and oldest son trimmed a holly tree for us|
|and made a beautiful wreath|
My son wanted to add more holly to my wreath, but I liked the wonky twiggy look. He made a fuller one for his own house and family. I thought every one was outside when I took these photos, but I spied a pair of zorii at the foot of the loft ladder. My oldest grandson, who towers over me, was up in the loft. He peeked over the railing and in his quiet way said that he liked this house very much.
In the meanwhile, 100 cups have sold through, as well as a few wall pieces and two sculptural pieces---large blackbirds. I am finishing up some wall boxes---just for fun and the Tiny Show opening in January. The above is #2: Soaking Shore Birds.