Each day

Moments from two mornings. Mood and outlook leak into images on paper. Evidence of seeing and feeling. The desire and need to connect, musings included or withheld. How much to reveal; what to say, what to keep private. The anxiety of being judged or misunderstood against the loneliness and pain of isolation. Will what I post touch anyone, help someone to feel inspired, encouraged, or worthy? Find joy or wonder in the everyday, strength and determination when all seems dark, or simply the comfort of recognizing a kindred spirit in this bewildering world? I hope so.
morning glories, 6" x 7", 2B graphite and colored pencilsrainy morning, 8" x 11", Derwent Inktense colored pencils


Un-still life

Ever try to draw a three year old? They never stop moving. And dogs aren't much different than human children. You'd think that while they're napping, (a lot of the time), that they'd hold still. They don't, not for more than a few seconds at a time. Makes it tempting to use a camera to freeze the image, but then, at least for me, the spirit of the living moment is lost. I'd rather struggle to focus my full attention and bear the frustration of amateurish results than to forfeit the direct experience. I want more than to be a skilled copyist.

That said, I wish that life would hold still sometimes. Or at least slow down.



Begonias with Noble

Yesterday Noble, Ina and I went down to Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania to see the Andrew Wyeth 100th birth year exhibition. Me for the third time. It was inspiring and intimidating.

Today, Noble came over to finish an acrylic painting she started yesterday afternoon. I set her up on the patio then decided to join her. I'm pretty sure that had she not come by, I wouldn't have pulled out my new watercolors (gift from Ina), and spent whatever interval standing out there in front of an easel, next to my daughter, trying to do something worthy of the paper and paint it took to produce an image. So here, an impression of a pot of begonias.

For the record, I've given up on trying to be like Andrew Wyeth. Or Winslow Homer. Or John Singer Sargent. I'm just trying to be whoever I'm supposed to be. I won't give up on that.

watercolor on paper, 24" x 18"


Sketchbook pages September 2-3, 2017


Unextraordinary views

A wide creek flows off ankle deep in the wake of a mill falls, rippling fingers across a streambed of rocks and mud. Moving points of light flicker and flash on the surface, the sun's rays filter through translucent layers of broadleaf boughs overhead. A stone wall curves away towards Tilden Street bridge, steel I-beams painted public works green, supported midstream on a tapered block stone pier, carrying traffic in and out of busy Washington DC. 

I ignore the old dam with its wide sheet of cascading water behind me, and the picturesque whitewashed mill building above the bank. I'm interested in these quiet layers that frame this scene, unremarkable on first glance, its mysterious appeal only revealed to me because my mind is calmly receptive to the wonder and beauty of nothing out of the ordinary.