On the cusp of two seasons

Today is the first day of autumn. A welcome change but a bittersweet moment as I gaze at my garden and see the blooms fading, drooping, dropping. 

But at the same time the skies are that clear, bright cobalt blue and the air is crisp. Above the leaves are shifting to gold and amber, ruby red and wine. So odd, standing on the cusp of two seasons.

Images from earlier in the spring and summer, sweet momentoes -- 

Anna Magnolia

Azaleas

 

-- and my favorite of all flowers, the rose -- 

Last Roses

Two Roses

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

Liar, liar . . .

All right, I lied.  I said I was going to take a break for awhile, the impact of autumn, loss of light and more got to me.  I apologize! 

Last week was frantic, hectic with emotions running high here on the home front.  There was no peace to be had and the weekend was eaten up by running errands, food shopping, laundry, bills, what-have-you.

No art, no peace -- all was in abeyance.  By the time I got to work on Monday, I was exhausted.  Easier to be at work than at home sometimes (ha!).

But this weekend proved to be quieter.  I put all menial tasks aside yesterday and today.  My one "duty" will be to hand out candy to the little ones for Halloween tonight.

These paintings are the result of time to create, to experiment.  Listening to Mary Ann at Blue Sky Dreaming and to Eva Macie, I tried working with Yupo and acrylics, learning how this paper keeps the artist hopping!

Turmoil

As you can see, turmoil was on my mind, and I think this illustrates how I was feeling last week.  Incredible the number of textures you can capture so quickly on this paper!  I did several more and plan to use them in my collaging, although I have so much to learn with Yupo.

The Weight of Winter

"Weight of Winter" is acrylic on bristol vellum, using a brayer to capture texture, as well as a bamboo pen.  As November creeps over the threshold, I feel that the year is coming full circle, but that the weight of impending darkness threatens my inner balance.

However, as Emily Dickenson wrote: "Hope is the thing with feathers . . . " and "Summer River" brings out the deep warmth of a sunset on the Connecticut River, when colors deepen into that exquisite jewel-like quality.

Summer River

Well, the light is leaving shortly so I'm off for my walk before the trick-or-treaters start their nocturnal treks through the neighborhood.  Next weekend we turn the clocks back, so we gain an hour -- and that's good!

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words . . .

Emily Dickinson