Last evening I sat in the garden watching the sun crouch down among the pines and the shadows stretch long, dark fingers across the lawns.

There is something incredibly beautiful about a summer garden heading into its final hours. Perhaps melancholy, yet still holding forth that fragile-edged beauty that whispers to one's soul --

 

“Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence."

Yoko Ono

Simple Gifts

Although the weather here is not too bad, warm actually in comparison to last year at this time, one misses color. If you're a gardener, this is about the time when we pour over seed catalogs, planning for the spring. Today while food shopping I grabbed a lovely little pot of yellow kalanchoe, which now sits in the kitchen overlooking the dirty dishes -- ah, well, at least it's in the sun! 

Trying to organize all my photos before the computer overloads and goes into a tailspin, I browsed through my flower pics -- Oh joy!!! So I thought I would share a few with you all, perhaps brighten your January afternoon --

There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.

Celia Thaxter

Still reeling after Irene

Holding Back the Chaos

acrylic on yupo

 It's been more than a week since hurricane Irene struck New England and we are still recovering. Odd to think that New England, particularly Connecticut, Massachusetts and Vermont, as well as the shorelines, took the brunt of Irene.

The community where I work is still without power in many areas and people are grappling with downed trees, wires, transformers and such. This is a fairly rural area and pumps and well water are out of commission, schools delayed, etc.

But what everyone is muttering about is the sense of disorientation, of having daily rhythms and routines disrupted, of being confused at to what day it is. It's as if summer never existed, just a faint memory as the rains continue and the temperatures drop. Whipped and destroyed trees are shedding leaves and roads are filled with downed leaves.  It looks more like November than early September.

Chinese traditional medicine pays great heed to the junctures of changing seasons, of when forces disrupt and anxieties rise. It is a tumultuous time.  This entire year, weather-wise, has been chaotic, heightened, strained -- a winter that never seemed to quit, tornadoes, an earthquake in the northeast followed quickly by a hurricane that slipped up the coast, missing where expected, landing where unexpected.

This is a painting I did last winter amid the weekly snowstorms that hammered New England -- and it still captures how I feel about these past days, these past months -- unsettled, wary, waiting for that other shoe to drop . . . 

not a good place . . .

Nature in turmoil

earth in turmoil

skies heave

waters thrash

such anger . . . 

darkness

descends

but the dreaming tree

holds fast 

and waits . . . 

[photography by K.E. Marszycki]

Spring Thaw

acylic on paper

9" x 12"

Available as a Matted Print (click here) 

Well, we thought we were out of the woods with winter behind us -- but yesterday another snowfall. Ugh. But luckily the sun slowly made its way through the clouds and all had melted by the afternoon!

Spring Thaw is the mate to the painting below, which I did last fall.  I painted it on heavy 200 lbs. acrylic paper by Strathmore, which holds up well under multiple layers of water and paint, scratching and rubbing. I may continue with this series, hopefully creating a sense of seasons, of nature's rhythms; also exploring the sensibilities of colors -- what conveys a sense of a season, its feel, its weight or its lightness . . .

Late Autumn

acrylic on paper

9" x 12"

Available as a Matted Print (click here)

I don't usually work in series but rather randomly hop from one thing to another.  But now I feel I need a bit more structure, more discipline to the act of painting.  Perhaps because time is so compressed for me -- essentially only having the weekend to paint -- I tend to skip about the creative arena.  Two series -- this one and the ink sketches of the human body.  I should be able to handle that, you would think?  We'll see how it progresses, depending upon the gardening season and the weather.

No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time.

There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,

a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others. 

Martha Graham
American Choreographer

Let it snow, let it . . .ah, heck!

Not much to write about -- lots of white stuff came through yesterday and today; drifts and piles now up to about 6 feet -- spent hours digging out cars and driveways and decks, carving paths like a troop of ants . . .

This winter is sapping any creative juices that still exist.  There's no continuity at work -- open, close early, hope the staff and clients get home safely . . . Come home only to pick up a shovel and attack as the paths and drives begin to narrow again . . .

When I do another run to the laundry room to get things dry again, I glance over at my workspace.  Now blank white canvases make me angry and resentful, too much like snow --  I wonder if I could create some kind of painting incorporating rock salt and sand -- ha!

You see, just like that wonderful classic novel of 19th century America, Ole Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth, the pearled edge of lunacy creeps in with the snow drifts . . . or like Conrad's Heart of Darkness when the Congo River and the jungles carried men along to madness . . . With all our technology, we are still very much at the mercy of Nature, a force that has no allegiance, no likes or dislikes.  It just is.  No matter how hard we rail against it, it wins. 

Well, at least the sun is out and fairly high in the sky.  The sparrows and buntings flit about chirping happily (that's one more path -- to the feeders -- that I must keep open), with a battalion of crows flying maneuvers, riding shotgun on the winds.

God, what I wouldn't give to see a bright fushia hibiscus blossom right now . . .  Take care and stay warm everyone.  Until better times are upon us . . .

November

the gifts of autumn . . .

silver light on water, on delicate petals . . .

a shimmer of amber lacing the last fruit . . .

slow down in November's quietude . . .

feel the wind on your face . . .

trace the bare branches against the skyline . . .

listen to the crunch and skitter of fallen leaves . . .

the gifts of autumn . . .

fragile structures continued

slightly frayed
silken petals
at the point of stillness . . .

seed pods
encased, brittle with life
needing only
a breath,

a whisper
to begin again . . .

fragile structures

flight

Taking some time off from work, playing with a series of digital images -- Fragile Structures -- using manipulations of the software to enhance, to obscure, to render the ordinary into something "other" -- why?

Because we so often disregard what we see everyday, the mundane, the simple . . . and yet when closely examined, these structures are pure, even in the midst of decomposing.

As I begin to play with these images they often take on a new life, as in the hosta leaf above.  It appears to be soaring off into space, on a trip of discovery . . .

 

detachment

This image has an altogether different feel -- dark and brooding, perhaps threatening.  The detachment from the stem, I think, adds to this sense, and the leaf reminds me of O'Keefe's skull paintings, all bones and sharp edges.

The textures I used are from a wall of graffiti I photographed while walking through Fort Mason Park in San Francisco with my brother.  It lends itself to the sense of times past . . .

I feel that autumn demands that we keep some kind of tracing of what is transpiring all around us before winter slips over the threshold and covers all in a blanket of white.

One can never study nature

too much and too hard.

Vincent van Gogh

Autumn Light & Shadow

Autumn -- one of the most beautiful seasons with nature's array of colors, but also one of the saddest -- losing the light, deepening shadows conveying a sense of urgency, a growing awareness of decay beside such beauty.

Because of the drought we've experienced, the leaves are brittle and dry, curling up upon themselves before their time. I picked several hosta leaves that, to me, appeared almost mummified, frozen in time. I wanted to try and capture the delicacy of these structures. I knew I couldn't accomplish this with my camera, so I carefully scanned them, using a length of velvet as a soft weight.

I want to continue these explorations, this navigation through a shadow world that demands we look closely and spend time with these fragile structures.

So, as the light begins to fade and the orb of sun drifts down into the horizon, cherish the light -- grab those final moments and celebrate Autumn!

Come forth into the light of things.

Let nature be your teacher.

William Wordsworth

Daydreams of Spring

Morning Stroll


She stands in the winter-darkened wings, waiting to make her entrance, trailing silks and chiffons; like a great dancer, a grand jete will be her signature motion. But for now, she waves a bit silk to tease her audience, who wait breathlessly for the grand moment . . .

However we picture spring, we are being blessed with several days of 50 degree-plus, sunny weather here in New England. Yesterday, I sat on the deck and baked my winter-weary, pale white skin. Not the best thing to do, but it was a must. Sweat actually formed on my brow and I had to remove my sweater; I eventually took off my hiking boots and wriggled my toes in the warm air, letting them rest on the sun-baked wood. I did not go inside until well after 5pm. And next weekend is Daylight Savings, so the clocks will be turned ahead, giving us extra hours of light at the end of the day. Glorious!

This morning I took a long walk, not striding with purpose but rather strolling, ambling in the early morning sunlight, letting the cool wind wake me up. As I walked, I purposely looked up, not down, which is usually my habit, searching for little bits of twigs, which I collect for some odd reason. For some it's pebbles and stones, for me it's those quirky bits of wood that remain after the woodchipper has left or the flattened pine cones squashed by the snow plows.

Up above the sky was azure, cerulean, so clear and bright it seered these eyes more accustomed to dimmed winter interiors. Evergreens and birches pressed themselves against the china blue, cutting a fine edge of contours. Black crows scuttled from tree to tree, making screechy sounds, almost delirious with the growing warmth of the morning.

As I walked neighbor's windchimes gave off sweet, yet melancholy metallic notes that drifted in the wind, and these were answered by the chirrups and chuckles of goldfinches and chickadees darting among the still bare branches. There was little car traffic as this is Sunday, so the quiet was deep and delicious.

Green! How many greens can there be as we slowly make the curve into the new season? The darkened green of ivies climbing walls and chimneys lay against the brighter green of rhododendrons, melted snows revealed patches of mosses, grey-green lichens on dun-colored bark, white pine needles, like slender threads, offered slivers of green against the blue-green of a spruce. Even the magnolias offered a feathery sage green veil promising so many thousands of buds ready to break free.

With the growing warmth, the smell of earth drifted upwards, something that I had not met on my walks for months now. It was almost as heady as baked bread, making my gardener's mouth water. Yesterday I had done several hours' work in the garden, clearing out leaves and mulches, lightly pruning dead branches and readying the ground for the first signs of growth. Amazingly, my hostas and daylilies are peeking through, little fingers of green tipped in white and purple edging up through the ground. A primula flashes her ruffled leaves and soon will offer another heady smell if one bends low enough to catch it.

I have no series of images to offer today, except for those I have painted with my words. No matter how hard an artist or writer tries to capture the beauty and grace of Nature, nothing can compare. I think the closest we come to a true(er) expression may be through music -- perhaps Beethoven's Pastorale or Copeland's Appalachian Spring -- begin to capture the daydream that is spring.

She gathers her silks about her and retreats further into the shadows,
seeking a quiet corner to gather strength.
It is not time yet, not yet . . .

Snow Rose

Snow Rose
photograph by artist

I certainly hope this is one of the last photographs I post that capture winter! Another storm hit the East Coast and New England, bringing snow, rain, sleet and miseries galore.

This delicate little beauty somehow made it through, still clinging with a touch of color, petals like parchment, iced over like a candied sweet from fairyland.

So, amidst the wintry dreariness, nature offers us a treat, which I share with you -- stay warm and dry this weekend!

Beauty is not caused.

It is.

Emily Dickinson

Tree as a symbol of tenacity --

"Tenacity"
5" x 7"
pencil on Fabriano 140 lbs. watercolor paper

In response to Vivien Blackburn's Tree Challenge for July -- here's my work -- a quick sketch from a tree I pass every day on my way to work. It appears to be growing out of the cliffside and its' contorted trunk is so twisted and misshapen, it hurts to look at it. And yet it's so beautiful, nature's own sculpture.

I've been fascinated with the Daphne myth for many years and often think of it when I see trees such as this one.

I hope to take this sketch and work it into a larger piece. My fear is that the state department of transportation will someday chop it down and that would be a sorrowful thing.

Thanks, Vivian, for the challenge -- it made me do this!