The crisping of early winter mornings forms wispy tendrils of delicate steam which float above the teacup sitting on a wooden box to the left of my reading chair in the snug of the studio library.
It is often a place and a time of year where and when I go a little deeper and darker under the sway of Under Milk Wood.
Last November while walking those Welsh worn cobblestones I had two companions.
On my shoulder to the left were the well thumbed pages of Dame Hillary Mantel’s Cromwell saga and leaning just there on the bones of the right Franny Moyles’ weighty tome of a biography of Hans Holbein, the younger… of course.
Magnificent chroniclers of juicy details all three authors taken as one provided a playground for this pondering artiste while the Muses plucked their gossiping lute strings stirred up lessons from the lives of the great poisoners and ground pestles of earthy cadmium fire and indigo mystery.
Over my leftmost shoulder just beyond the peat bog stained shelving its Trinity alphabet leafed in gold hiding a scintillating glint winking from atop the leaning pole of mace tucked there into the darkly columned corner…
just there gesturing away from all that history toward the promise of of a canvas garden coat draped over the rim of the sour cherry scarred bucket reflecting the raking of the earliest morning light then flinging us out and beyond to the white stone guards of the churning ocean horizon…
stood that stalwart maid of the chamber Her-story ivory aproned and bible black.
Touchstones … ” : a test or criterion for determining the quality or genuineness of a thing ” (merriam webster dictionary)
From my sketchbook,
7 October 2024
heavy fog and dew 7am with some color in the foliage the hickories are this weeks’ show stoppers but the edges of everything are become brittle.
Talismen – Touchstone groping for guidance – for reassurance chased by fear popping up around unexpected corners and in between dreams which warp relentlessly from problem solving and revisiting childhood houses into nightmares battling with mutating monsters all of whom start out as benevolent strangers.
In the thick and soul clenching morning blanket of fog I reach for my talimans the objects which I have within reach in every corner of this studio imbued with meaning only I can treasure afraid they may lose some of their power if revealed or that I will in the telling.
Organic – dynamic – keepers of the story do I dare let them tell their own.
15 Nov
This feels right – and strong and deeply authentic when in doubt – go home
Meeting the Muses where they are and leaning in
Perfect November day cloud cover newly bared branches
OK now a better approach light and moonlit
TALISWOMEN TALISWOMAN TALISMAN
Painter’s Notes Post Scriptum –
Unable to land on the best use of the “working title” of Talismen/women ? The objects surrounding and influencing the creative sphere are contributions from every corner and gender along the path. So, I referred back to these original sketchbook notations for some clarity and it would seem that the Muses had worked that out from the very start…Touchstones.
The little quotation taped to the bookshelf was attributed to Leonardo DaVinci as the last words he wrote, “perche la minestra de fredda”…loosely interpreted as, “Whatever, the soup is getting cold.”
Sprinting like Jorge Mateo after a sac fly from Rutch, flying around third and losing my helmet on the way towards home base… I am chugging my way into the home stretch… and running out of time. So this year I will offer the New Painting “Rollout” into 4 groups of threes.
The first of these present three “studio” paintings. Qualified as thus because they capture, in still life, glimpses behind the scenes of the new, now very much a hard scrabble working, studio.
I’ll give them each a blog post all their own so you can absorb the Painter’s Notes, take a walk in the garden and brew a fresh cup of tea in between.
A metaphor which applies to this painting on both literal and ironic levels.
Both ships imagined together in this composition, The Amistad and The Charles W. Morgan, have recently sailed out of the Granary Gallery and on to the walls of an island patron.
Which means the image meets the criteria for being offered as a print in the HN Studio Print Gallery.
And that brings me to the reckoning with the rising costs of everything involved in making those prints, from ink (which is the most expensive liquid on the planet… a Jeopardy answer that I guessed at and got right !), to the paper and the packaging tubes, etc. But last week when I sent the Head of the Shipping Department…Herself…on a mission to drop a print order off at UPS she called from the counter to say they wanted almost $70 to ship that tube. An almost $50 increase since the last one we shipped.
After a couple weeks of scratching my head and investigating other options we think we have a reasonable plan to use the USPS and have settled on a flat rate of $25 for shipping. That covers most of the shipping fees that we use to absorb without raising the price of the prints themselves.
Caught up in the wave of the cost of doing business …the ship of free shipping… has sailed.
Meanwhile the brushes are flying in the studio and fired up for a long winter of painting.
We appreciate every one of you who has supported us and the work over the years and are grateful to have you along for the ride.
Thanksgiving…the perfect time to share all the gratitude we feel for the love and support from patrons and friends throughout the year.
Here are a few new little paintings to help celebrate the season of light and love… these are currently on exhibition at Gallery 1261 in Denver for their Small Works Show.
For those of you who are scattered far and wide across this planet here’s a link for you to see all the fine paintings included…Gallery 1261. And I know a few of you who are within visiting distance of those Rocky Mountains and hope you will stop in and say hey for us.
Happy and Merry from the studio…
Sunflower Summer – 12 x 9
This was the year of Winter Sowing. A new and ancient method of seed starting. New for me ancient for the planet.
In late December, on the solstice if you want to celebarte the suns’ journey, recycled milk jugs and deeper potting pots with good drainage holes are filled with about 4? of seed starting soil. Then a packet of seeds is scattered over the top, carefully marked for much later identification… or not so carefully in my case… and sprinkled with water and covered with a plastic lid or in my case a ziplock back with ventilation holes. (Pro tip: A soldering iron saved time, and strain on my hands, in the making of all those holes.)
And then the fun part… put those jugs outside and walk away.
Mother Nature does the rest.
The beauty and the wonder of my new studio is that it was plunked right smack in the middle of my garden.
So, of course, Maggie and I inspected all those pots each day on our walks. I was a bit skeptical but not Maggie. Joyous trust is her superpower.
We had, per usual, exceeded our enthusiasm and of the initial 100 pots sown in the winter there was about an 85% success rate.
And among those the sunflowers were simply the best. Encircling the tomato plants lining the Ruth Stout Garden they made this one to remember the Sunflower Summer.
Rocky Mountain High – 9 x 12
This one came to me in a dream and taught me a new knot.
And then I got to trip down memory lane and listen to John Denver again.
I was right back in my Aunt Bonnie’s little MG with the top down and a burlap earthshoe bag full of 8 track tapes at my feet in the passenger seat.
Wind in our hair singing at the top of our lungs it was the closest I have ever come to a Rocky Mountain High.
Trustfall (Study) – 9 x 12
A Study
An idea beginning to take some sort of shape.
The lump in the throat.
A challenge thrown down by the Muses which I gently picked up three months ago now.
This very tiny painting was the first to emerge …three months ago… from the gossamer threads of a nebulous swirl which they The Muses were tossing one to the other like a beachball made of feathers in front of me.
And then in the middle of last night or rather the wee hours of the morning they woke me up and threw a scattershot of volley balls straight at me.
I snuck out of bed grabbed a flashlight and headed over to the studio to quickly capture some sketches.
That page as it turns out is a wild mess. But after a cup of tea and an hour of log editing and the 7.07am sunrise announcement from the Cardinal I went back down to the library and the next page in the sketchbook now reveals a fully formed series of paintings… Trustfall.
I know not to even be the least bit surprised that today is Thanksgiving Day.
On this day as we gathered to celebrate the life of our friend Arthur…
A moment to look back on the painter’s notes for Fisher of Men. And then the companion painting…Arthur’s L He may be among those distant stars right now… or he may be the song of the bird…
Fisher of Men
Oh dear soul…this is Arthur.
But it started with Rick. Or more specifically a photo that he put up on social media five years ago. A side shot of himself coming home from clam digging at night with the water below him and the moon, shining above his shoulders, caught in the wire basket he had dangling from a long clam rake. I told him right away I was stealing it. He said it’s all yours.
A few years passed and somewhere along the way I was watching our friend Arthur from across the dinner table one deep winter evening and the Muses bumped me from behind.
I came home and made a quick sketch using Arthur, in the fullness of his seasonal whiskers, and wearing his cabled fisherman knit sweater, as the model standing in for Rick, with a delicate old hay rake that I found at the local second hand store substituting for the clam rake.
You can see it’s a pretty rough idea here … but don’t let that fool you. The Muses like to tease.
When the time came to pass that the Muses were ready for me to bring this painting idea to life I found Arthur freshly shaven so the bearded fisherman was slightly more respectable than I had envisioned. He did arrive at the studio with the sweater on and we quickly found him a proper cap and out we went to find some angle of light to bring this thing to life.
I must pause here to share something of the measure of this man. Arthur has one of the softest souls I know. He is quiet…and patient in that stillness… but the depth of what his eyes have seen and his heart has weathered have molded a profoundly philosophical soul and mellowed into a peaceful countinence which is a great comfort to sit next to on a wooden bench out in the garden on a cool summer’s eve.
So, back in the studio yard…
I ask this dear sweatered man to put that rake up on his shoulder and take a couple determined steps. He patiently tries to hear my direction which is muffled by the camera in front of my mouth. The light changes and we try the rake on the other shoulder. I begin to see something else happening…but am fighting it.
So we take a break… and while I head inside to look on the computer to see what the camera has captured I can overhear Himself and Herself talking on the porch. Arthur was describing a sermon he was going to be giving over the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend. As a retired minister one of his abiding faiths is in seeking social justice, and we can go deep into many a good night…and a bottle of dry sack… opining over the state of this most imperfect union.
But something I overheard had clicked… and I went to the bookshelf and found my version of the King James, Audobon’s Birds of North America, and bade Arthur to try one more pose please…
This time with the book in hand. I told him this was his bible. He immediately started to page through. No, I just want you to carry it.
Snap. Everything changed. The man who was kindly tolerating my earlier directions with no real idea what I was on about had completely changed his demeanor. He stood taller with a visibly more confident authentic spirit and stride. His firm grip on the book…THE book…made all the difference.
It doesn’t happen often. But at 62 I catch it right there on the whisper now. Something transcendent washes in surprising even the Muses and I jump right out of my own way.
This time it was stepping aside and making way …
For the Fisher of Men
Arthur’s Light
Arthur has one of the softest souls I know. He is quiet… and patient in that stillness… but the depth of what his eyes have seen and his heart has weathered have molded a profoundly philosophical soul and mellowed into a peaceful countenance which is a great comfort to sit next to on a wooden bench out in the garden on a cool summer’s eve.
Or across the sofa from in the log cabin living room on a frosty winter’s night where the fireplace warms our bodies and the dry sack warms our souls…
and his wavy winter beard
gently lays on the fisherman knit of this fisher of men.
She’s behind my chair as I write and finish this last Painter’s Note though it is the other end of the day from this painting and the light is different on her fur
and she’s really tired of me sitting up here in the loft all day.
Maggie’s favorite treat is still sweet peas and this spring I planted them close enough for her to help herself.
She still loves her sticks and keeps a stockpile by the studio front door to share with special guests.
She’s fearless in the face of woodchucks and tolerant of chipmunks.
If you read the notes from the painting, Seeing It Through, you will understand where much of this still life came from.
Set in my library, sadly not on the USS Jamestown, you may recognize that inkwell, and though I use the pen not the quill I have tried to write with it.
The little oil lamp lives on a library shelf…patiently waiting and the signal flags are never in the same place when I search for them in the new studio.
The eyeglasses and this journal itself were handed to me by C. Morse himself.
As was typical for the time period when paper didn’t grow on trees someone in the last two hundred years used the first half of this old whaling journal for a scrapbook carefully gluing religious tracts and society news clippings all the heck over entire pages.
But the last few pages were free of this detritus and in the most exquisite script, which I didn’t even try to render, the captain or probably boatswain recorded the comings and goings of the last days of a several years’ long whaling adventure of the ship Java out of New Bedford.
Even today the log entries of a commercial fishing vessel differ from that of a naval vessel. The 1861 log I am editing mostly lists weather, reckoning data, who got thrown into irons and the occasional details of the odd court martial.
The Java’s log book reads more like a journal and we learn of the cases of scurvy and birds that follow the ship.
And on at least one page, revealed under the corner of the pasted clippings, were those drawings of whales. It was common to illustrate the ones they captured, perhaps by way of some kind of inventory and documentation.
This was the final entry written as they had Cuttyhunk in sight which means they were sailing past the Aquinnah lighthouse as he put down the pen …homeward bound.
