Granary Gallery 2021
Month: August 2021
The Shirt Off My Back
This is a pairing down of what’s left of the original Camp Sunrise.
But it’s by no means the end of her story.
Merely the beginning of the next chapter.
The family endures and they are carrying on the legacy of that magical place.
They have built a new house out back beyond the meadow
and were able to move the original old garage along side.
The old sleeping cottage is there too and the essence of that humble anchor
will live on for the making of new memories for generations to come.
I visited the new site just after the construction was complete.
On the day I drove down the long lane there was a wild and wicked wind storm.
It was honestly touch and go as to whether or not it was safe to get out of the car.
But I did.
I watched from behind the new camp house
as the wind whipped around the newly knotted clothesline
and what did I do…
I ripped the shirt off my back and pinned it in place.
It held.
The new house held.
The legacy holds.
From the new front porch
you can see the white stones clearly in the distance.
They are still keeping us all safe.
I took artistic license to move the clothesline back up to the edge of the bluff.
I didn’t ask
but I think the muses approved.
Chilmark Ceide
This painting
is by way of walking backwards
in a circle.
Retracing steps along my path
to here.
I have it in mind to make my way back
to the beginning.
When I first met the island.
Which was by way of
the gift of Lynn.
You can find most of the breadcrumbs I’ve been leaving
sprinkled throughout my paintings.
It’s all there
if you know where to look.
Some of the signposts I’ve left
are bolder than others.
This one is positively screaming
at the top of her joyful lungs…
I was here.
Reduced slowly and with a wild patience
like the simmering of a fine balsamic glaze
the essence of camp, for me,
will always be Lynn’s spirit.
And like the foundation of the island itself
the embodiment of her soul, for me,
is that Chilmark wall.
She was its tender caretaker.
It was her mission and her meditation
to clear it every year
of the entwining vegetation.
Whose mission it was every year
to further obscure
those rugged faces.
Those ancient maplines of New England.
So as I work my way back
I’ve begun to reach out
and to play around the edges.
I’ve been dancing around this idea
that in order to tell the story
to do justice to the monumental opening
in the fabric of my time
which was her introducing me
to the Vineyard
I would need to paint her wall.
I want it to be big
bigger than life
like Lynn’s life always was.
But the muses seem to want me
to come in sideways.
Gently gently.
So this year I made a start.
The wall in Jane’s Crow is a little sliver.
And this one the next
only a little bit more substantial
and with a sidestep
which the Muses threw in my path
by way of Krista Tippet and an episode of OnBeing.
She was interviewing the nature writer Robert MacFarlane
primarily about his new book, Underland, A deep time journey,
and the conversation wound its way to the image of
“the ghost hand”.
I knew instantly when I heard his description
that I had my way into this painting.
Actually, until that moment
I had no idea that this WAS going to be a painting.
It literally sprang onto the easel.
When it happens like that
I jump right the way over and let it flow.
I’m still circling
but this is an important pebble on that road.
The oft painted line of white rocks
has been fortified
with one single stone left
to keep us safe on that bluff.
The sea still rises beyond
but viewed only through the lacy openings
like those of the ancient laid Celtic Ceide.
I’m going to transcribe the original quoted conversation here
and let you sit with it for a spell
A hand …
reaching across time…
and into the future.
OnBeing – ep. 962 Recorded in 2019
Robert MacFarlane
“There is one image at the heart as it were of Underland, and OF THE Underland, which is the hand.
The open palm, the stretched fingers, and that we know first, is in a way the first mark of art.
The maker would place their hand on the cave wall and then take a mouthful of ochre, red ochre often,
and then spit the dust against the hand and then pull the hand away and so you leave the ghost print.
And, for me, (it is) that hand, that open hand, that is reaching across time, that is pressing against rock,
but leaning also into the future, but also the hand of help and collaboration…and I found it everywhere.”
Over and Under
All of the knots
over all of the years
the lobsterman’s hands remember.
All of the waves
the tides and the drifting
beat in the fisherman’s veins.
Setting the bait
and lunging the gaffe
the muscles can do when their sleeping.
But never a gale
‘er blew out at sea
could wither her salty remains.
Rigged
Witness
timeless beauty
and grace in those lines.
Wonder
at the hands
who rigged them.
Transport me
to the village
where fishermen sail.
Weathered hearts
gearing up
for each season.
Tangled Up and Blues
Menemsha
paired down
to its essence.
Brilliant
raking sunlight
on a longline.
Pitted
pockets of rust
chipping through the years.
And all the elements of color
dripping their way
back to the sea.
Pointing the Way
If I had it to do over again
I’d probably be on board.
Mornin’ Glories
Oh my little bunnies.
Each spring I begin the watch.
Eager for the whisper of a whisker.
Sitting at my easel I have two birdfeeders.
And underneath them
where the seed hulls collect
grows a thick matte of clover.
This is where I usually see the first babies hop into view.
As the weeks grew from spring into early summer
with nary a twitch I began to worry
that it might mean no bunnies this year.
One sparking afternoon
at the tail end of May
I went to the end of the garden path
to pick a posie of herbs.
Just there
tucked in the shade of the arbor
in between the morning glory trumpets
was a nest.
Five tiny furballs
cuddled in a gently snoring mound of love.
Alice decided to celebrate with tea.
And I did catch this one
by a whisker.
Feeding Jane’s Crow
Oh Jane…
So this painting is one of those collaborations
in which I play only a very minor part.
I really had nothing to do with this one.
Early on in the pandemic
Pat and Jane made a pact.
They would call each other
to check in almost daily
for support during the isolation of lockdown
her on her island
and Pat in her log cabin
and to provide at least one good belly laugh between them.
That conversation has been ongoing ever since
and it is honestly the highlight of my day
to come home and hear the latest story from Jane.
I secretly think they each go out of their way
to make stuff up just for the chuckles
but I’m here to witness that we, none of us,
would have made it through without that connection.
So Jane has this crow
which she feeds.
She reports that it visits each day
and goes so far as to follow her on her daily walks
through downtown Menemsha
and apparently gives her what for
if she forgets to offer up the daily snack.
One day Pat comes over to the studio in tears…
well actually every day Pat comes over in tears
which are mostly from laughing
at Jane’s stories.
Apparently Jane had set out a bag
with some sort of crumbs
for her crow.
It was a stormy day
and the wind
or possibly the crow
had blown the bag onto her roof.
Pat sternly warned Jane not to jolly well climb up there after it.
This is something you must remember
as her friends know
to warn Jane not to do.
Then they got to giggling about how Pat
suggested Jane get a tiny little umbrella
for the storm soaked crow
and they both lost it
which is why the tearful laughter in the studio
and
as ever
those cheeky Muses were in the corner
listening.
It was the work of a moment
to find a teacup from Oversouth
and the delicate whalebone handled parasol
had been perched on the top of a picture frame
hanging on the wall of the log cabin dining room
ever since Mr. Morse handed it to me on our last island goodbye.
I stripped away all but the tidal current from the basin
and then just stood aside.
There is personal meaning to the bling.
But that’s
personal.
Sail on Lady Jane
and your little crow too.
Double Pointed Light
That first mitten was pale yellow
and big enough for a yeti.
Its matching sister mitten
was a snug fit for my Tiny Tears doll.
I was 9 and the thread
of that fuzzy yellow yarn
has now twisted and woven
its way through
a lifelong love of all things fiber.
Now I am knitting my way
through the sixties
and the pleasure and peace
of picking up those tiny needles
and warming my arthritic fingers
with that soft and silky handspun wool
is all about keeping those hands warm and busy
while my mind wanders and wonders.
The long arc
of that knitted path
reveals an automatic
and deeply authentic
connection back to that child
who could never
ever
have imagined
what adventures
her clumsy young hands
would have before her.