The election madness is roiling around us and we are still dealing with the disappointments and "can't do that now" realities of covid. I've been spending a great deal of time thinking about and dreaming into the new futures that might arise from the collapse of the old period that we are in, trying to find a way to hold light and joy in this time of confusion, anxiety and animosity. In some ways I think I should address that here, but it's not what wants to come forward. Rather, I am led to share a recent outdoor experience, where I was taking in and being fed by nature, and of course by color and form and texture and the overwhelming artistry of creation. So here's a tale of a day in the life, and the details that are out there whenever we really look. Take the trail with me and may it lead you to your own creative expression and inspiration (seeing the images in full view is the most effective way to get the feeling--click on them to go through the slideshow).
It was chilly, but the rain had stopped and we wanted to get out to explore. We decided to try a place we had never been, a relatively new section of the Ice Age trail about 25 minutes of out town. (The trail is envisioned as a "thousand mile footpath tracing ice age formations on the landscape." It is far from complete at this time, but grows incrementally as portions of land are ceded or owners grant right-of-way access.) It turned out to be a lovely outing. The terrain kept changing, offering unexpected new experiences in just a few miles, and the sun came out and cast its glow over everything. The variety and sense of bounty the trail offered was especially welcome because the very strong winds we had had for a few days seemed to have blown off the most brilliantly colored leaves, and I was already feeling the desolation of late fall. The brightest red maple leaves had passed, and the purple ash leaves had no intensity. The tree in front of my house (inoculated and safe so far from the emerald ash borer) had turned bright yellow almost overnight, but with the fierce swaying of the branches in the high winds, the colored leaves came furiously swirling to the ground within two days.
But back to the trail. As expected, the path skirted fields and led through forested areas, sometimes following rock formations. The woods were relatively young-- the area had either been lumbered or more intensively farmed at some time in not-too-distant the past--and was dominated by oak and hickory trees. The hills were gentle, as was the dominant color palette: varieties of muted greens, golds and browns, with occasional accents of black, red, orange and purple (swollen pokeberry stems particularly stood out with their bright magentas). When one stood back from the woods, in particular, it presented a soothing autumnal tableau; restful and gentle, it reminded me of a hand-colored sepia photograph.
It was chilly, but the rain had stopped and we wanted to get out to explore. We decided to try a place we had never been, a relatively new section of the Ice Age trail about 25 minutes of out town. (The trail is envisioned as a "thousand mile footpath tracing ice age formations on the landscape." It is far from complete at this time, but grows incrementally as portions of land are ceded or owners grant right-of-way access.) It turned out to be a lovely outing. The terrain kept changing, offering unexpected new experiences in just a few miles, and the sun came out and cast its glow over everything. The variety and sense of bounty the trail offered was especially welcome because the very strong winds we had had for a few days seemed to have blown off the most brilliantly colored leaves, and I was already feeling the desolation of late fall. The brightest red maple leaves had passed, and the purple ash leaves had no intensity. The tree in front of my house (inoculated and safe so far from the emerald ash borer) had turned bright yellow almost overnight, but with the fierce swaying of the branches in the high winds, the colored leaves came furiously swirling to the ground within two days.
But back to the trail. As expected, the path skirted fields and led through forested areas, sometimes following rock formations. The woods were relatively young-- the area had either been lumbered or more intensively farmed at some time in not-too-distant the past--and was dominated by oak and hickory trees. The hills were gentle, as was the dominant color palette: varieties of muted greens, golds and browns, with occasional accents of black, red, orange and purple (swollen pokeberry stems particularly stood out with their bright magentas). When one stood back from the woods, in particular, it presented a soothing autumnal tableau; restful and gentle, it reminded me of a hand-colored sepia photograph.
I loved the sensual layers of worn-down sandstone, kissed by pastel lichens, and the little micro-environments for ferns, mosses, and spiders. And I loved experiencing the varieties of fungi that are so vital to the forest, and so magical. To fully appreciate them we usually need to change our sense of scale--to enter into their world means getting very close and seemingly small enough to take them in.
The real surprise of this walk was that the trail led from the woods into a cornfield; the path was a wide passage between the rows. Clearly, this was a right-of-way, and totally unexpected. I had many feelings stepping into this new environment. This was acreage planted in field corn, with soil that had been heavily tilled and probably treated with fertilizer and pesticides. The corn was the type grown to feed the livestock kept in feed lots, or to process into the fructose corn syrup additives found in so many processed foods. It represented everything wrong with our agricultural system--the opposite of the regenerative agriculture that would build strong soil and help sequester carbon and clean our planet. I am learning more about that, and understanding how commitment to that kind of relationship with the land (our mother) is absolutely at the heart of the oneness and unity we must grow into.
Despite the sadness of standing in this manifestation of such short-sighted monoculture and all the implications of not living in a cooperative ecosystem, this part of the trail still brought a gift: a chance to experience this plant with full attention and appreciation. I don't think I had ever lingered in a cornfield at just this time of the growing cycle, when the crop was dried out but not yet harvested (if it had been sweet corn, it would have been cut down long before). There was an accompanying sound---a distinctive whispery crackle that would rise and fall with the intensity of the wind in the dried stalks. There was aesthetic delight in the many shapes and textures, and in the plays of color--subtle variations on the stalks (a deep red at the joints, eggplant hues on the roots) and husks (from a creamy off-white to shades of purple); the sharp contrast between the dark dried-out corn silk and the pale husks; and the bright bright yellow of the crop itself. There was the warmth of the sun shining through the few still-green leaves, and the discovery of the tiny hairs that grew up the stalks, perhaps to protect them, or let in moisture. There was the pleasure in seeing the patterns of the ripe ears, which at this point in the season were in different positions, some playfully pointing toward--or away--from each other, some seemingly following the push of the wind. And the amazing roots, those sturdy mandalas that gripped the ground in no uncertain terms. This is a really strong plant, growing so high and solid in a single season, and, especially because I was there with the observant camera's eye, I was given the chance to fully take it in.
Despite the sadness of standing in this manifestation of such short-sighted monoculture and all the implications of not living in a cooperative ecosystem, this part of the trail still brought a gift: a chance to experience this plant with full attention and appreciation. I don't think I had ever lingered in a cornfield at just this time of the growing cycle, when the crop was dried out but not yet harvested (if it had been sweet corn, it would have been cut down long before). There was an accompanying sound---a distinctive whispery crackle that would rise and fall with the intensity of the wind in the dried stalks. There was aesthetic delight in the many shapes and textures, and in the plays of color--subtle variations on the stalks (a deep red at the joints, eggplant hues on the roots) and husks (from a creamy off-white to shades of purple); the sharp contrast between the dark dried-out corn silk and the pale husks; and the bright bright yellow of the crop itself. There was the warmth of the sun shining through the few still-green leaves, and the discovery of the tiny hairs that grew up the stalks, perhaps to protect them, or let in moisture. There was the pleasure in seeing the patterns of the ripe ears, which at this point in the season were in different positions, some playfully pointing toward--or away--from each other, some seemingly following the push of the wind. And the amazing roots, those sturdy mandalas that gripped the ground in no uncertain terms. This is a really strong plant, growing so high and solid in a single season, and, especially because I was there with the observant camera's eye, I was given the chance to fully take it in.
With this new awareness of corn and sense of her majesty, I had the urge to go out and plant an edible variety, complete with her sisters--beans and squash--like the native people did, and like them to bury a fish in the center of the grouping to add nutrients to the soil. I wanted to treat this plant as she should be, embraced, honored and nurtured, so I could be nurtured too. I also yearned to collect corn silk and husks, and felt some regret that in all the years of proximity to cornfields, I had not gathered this material or used it in my art.
Perhaps I'll still have that opportunity in the future, but in any case it was a visceral reminder of how I relate to these natural environments and materials, wanting to know them as an artist, to show off their essences and help other people see them anew, with eyes of awe.
Perhaps I'll still have that opportunity in the future, but in any case it was a visceral reminder of how I relate to these natural environments and materials, wanting to know them as an artist, to show off their essences and help other people see them anew, with eyes of awe.
The final impression from the walk that I want to share today is the patterns and the greens from the just-cut grasses in a field beside another section of the trail, the sweet contours of the land, and (if you can imagine) the fresh scent as those plant essences rose into the air. Every one of these little environments offers gifts; every one has stories to tell, associations to evoke, appreciation to be felt. And they want to be appreciated. I am grateful that I was able to take that in, even in the places where I felt some sadness or sense of disapproval.
I had expected to be including more about some of my art this month, but this is what came forward. There's always more, but I will stop here. It seems appropriate to quote Janet Conner, who recently wrote these words in her weekly newsletter (see janetconner.com/):
"If it's meant to be sung, sing it. If it's meant to be lived, live it. You have no option but to live the art that wants to be lived."
That's it: this, today, is the art that is meant to be lived by me.
I had expected to be including more about some of my art this month, but this is what came forward. There's always more, but I will stop here. It seems appropriate to quote Janet Conner, who recently wrote these words in her weekly newsletter (see janetconner.com/):
"If it's meant to be sung, sing it. If it's meant to be lived, live it. You have no option but to live the art that wants to be lived."
That's it: this, today, is the art that is meant to be lived by me.
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