Spent the morning feeling penned, hemmed into a corner, Restlessly moving, prowling this house that still feels larger Than I like Spent the afternoon wrapped in my own uneasy lone-ness Finally paint and work a panel into night to a good place and A good result
Laid to rest this day a woman beautiful And well-loved in her day, however long that Day is past... Gone beyond the joys of a life expected Into one that so bewilders, sometimes beyond Scope of reason. I paint on, just another with her own future fears Of life lived without my love, who was my family, Of life lonelier.
On your bench I sit watching the go-go's frolicking through the tall grasses as the skies darken, promise Of rain arriving. A friend calls to thank me for being there for his wife. Asks “where you now”. “Sitting in my yard.” “That’s a good Place to be”.
Returning is a sack filled of mixed feelings One part glad to be here, another part forever sad From the missing. Someone wrote: my dear died, not I. True, I know but that is not learned deep through in A few days. So returning here no longer feels like home, As we had home. Yet, slowly, perhaps it changes to Something I accept.
I meet this day learning more about my craft, having the company of friends and knowing another's mother has died I see this day and all days with the soft knowledge of you Ever in my soul, thoughts, deeds, done with you, wrapped warmly in mind Greet this day, softly gleaming as the latest pearl on a string Of good days with which to to adorn my soul, as this day, I am another year older
To learn that others paint in a way I would like, That I can open a book and go to a museum, really see their work. What a delight, to hear and see another use these Techniques, to go back to my palette And try myself.
The day spent painting and listening, looking At my work, at others', learning more what I can do with brush, paint The evening spent with a new friend, widowed Longer, and I listen and over good food, learn life can be embraced
In a darkened theatre watched a marvel of ballet, Of acting, singing swirling together, creating a Small space wonder. A magical morning spent with this Production of the lion, the witch and the wardrobe, Four of us watched with smiles, with tears, Willing to allow the amazement To course through.
The Studio at Line's End Farm is where I paint and try to find some joy again, and some equilibrium, not simple these days. One weblog records thoughts, ideas, methods and mixtures, palettes, observations, actually anything that intrigues me concerning my painting and working in the studio. Another observes only the horse in paintings that I find influential. The last are done for my sanity. All are my opinion only, open to other suggestions.
I will write in red, for my dear, love; who never saw red, not in ink, not in ire.
In 2010, the cold went beyond ten decades, was a century mark of hard winter through the mid-atlantic. For one small household banked by an Eastern Shore river this winter was epochal.