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Tinkerbell

25/6/2017

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You can practically hear them munching.  Then there is the gentle pitter-patter of frass pellets (caterpillar poop) falling from the trees.  And all the light strangely present in the shade garden.

Every so often the defoliators’ boom/bust cycle peaks and terrifies those of us who love trees and in particular, the old slow-growing ones like our beloved 30 metre butternut.  This giant feeds and shelters a multitude (even bats, in a box Jon built for me many Christmases ago), but when the cankerworms struck, it was stripped bare in a few days.  These “white walnuts” are so rare and endangered as to be a protected species.  And irreplaceable, at least in human years;  as the saying goes, you plant poplars for yourself, but walnut trees for your grandchildren.  

So when this, our most precious tree, was among the throng of trees vociferously attacked, our hearts dropped — especially when we realized that gypsy moth caterpillars would hatch just in time to eat the second set of leaves.  Trees rarely survive 100% defoliation, let alone the loss of those leaves which are intended for next year.   We’ve done what we can:  Ontario was sold out of Tanglefoot;  we found some in The States and drove down to pick it up.  We have set up both sticky and burlap barriers on the trunks.  Every day we go out and murder the unhappy caterpillars we find there.

The whole process painfully reminds us how the presence of old trees so enriches our lives.  Our rescue efforts may not work.  We pray that they will.

I have no paintings of our butternut.  While huge, it sits quietly in the back corner of the property, visible only  above the surrounding red oaks and sugar maples.    This small study of another beloved tree will have to stand in it for it.  Sitting at a bend on one of our favourite rivers, this sugar maple beckons us on in all weather.  We have paddled towards it both in high winds laced with sleet and on sizzling blue-skied days.  I am now even more grateful than usual for its reassuring presence. 

Perhaps our butternut can be saved by the love we feel for it;  I understand that it worked for Tinkerbell.
Picture
"At the Bend" oil on panel 8 x 10
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Dry Well

20/6/2017

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PictureGlaze oil on canvas 40 x 30 Underpainting
 

Putzing along with this new painting, I find myself yet again occupied with the effort of discovering the right title.  Yes, "discovering."  The idea of freeing a sculpture from its imprisoning blocks of marble is not entirely crazy.   Something draws artists forward, although occasionally it turns out to be an uncooperative white whale.

But it is worthwhile, I think, to consider why we take on a demanding project.  Something - a thought, a hope -  seeks expression;  a good title can re-enforce that original implicit intent.  More easily said than done.

I am content with many of my titles.  “Rapunzel” was the only possible choice for the painting which was all about the hair.  The “First Valentine” portrait series of mothers and babies commemorated the first of the great loves of our lives.  “Perfect Obedience” showed a fawn hiding in plain sight, exactly as her mother had taught her.   And “Day 3, First Light” caught one of those moments on a canoe trip when we are in flow with the rhythm of the wilderness voyage. 

As you know, I have as many rotten titles as strong ones, the “Up, Up” series being a particularly fine example;  I tried for the idea of soaring vistas but keep summoning the tune from “Up in the air, you junior birdsmen!”  complete with finger spectacles.   

​And this current work is not proving any easier to name.   The shot was taken from a low bridge on one of our favourite rivers.  We had pulled the canoe up onto the rocks and into the coltsfoot on river right. Pointing upstream, it is tucked in behind the whitened bones of old downed cedars which lie in the shallows.

As I paint, I am musing about a break in a journey, or a temporary choice of land over water - stillness versus movement -  while celebrating both.  Don’t know yet.  You will see a title appear on the website if inspiration visits.  If you see something like “Half a Canoe” you will know that the verbal well is bone dry!



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Size Matters #3

9/6/2017

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Picture"Into the Wind" oil on canvas
If I were to judge from the size of his head, a marble mounted on his football of a body, I would have to guess that Mouse the house grouse doesn't entertain any big thoughts. Yet here he is in the morning, perched on the drying rack outside the kitchen window and hammering on the glass. He wants his sunflower seeds and he wants them now. Last night he suddenly decided to park himself in my lap like a feather muff. He's not here at the moment; probably off translating Crime and Punishment or teaching himself to knit. Theodore, on the other hand, should be able to create and run a widget factory with that enormous head he ports around, yet I might have to put my money on Mouse if they ever get around to that chess game they keep talking about. In fairness, Theodore has gotten so laid back, what with owning two slaves and all, that I doubt that the need to think is much of an issue for him. When it comes to crania, I guess head size doesn't matter much.​

But for me canvas size does. Once again I seem to be on the brink of conceiving an elephant. My common sense argues against starting something big, especially on the eve of hot humid weather, but the heart wants what the heart wants. I know I'm in trouble when buying food seems less important than choosing the right shape. Rectangle or square? If rectangular, "portrait" or "landscape" orientation?? And in what ratio - "screen" or "book" or "paper" ? And how big? Subject matter drives these decisions. The painting below -- all about the force of the wind on the paddlers -- demanded a long and lean image. This time, all I've decided on is "big."


The Canadian painter, Tom Forestall, went so far as to make shapes that reflected the subject matter. One of his most exciting paintings was in the shape of binoculars. Huge binoculars looking out on a marsh. Stunning. It doesn't seem fair to ask Jon to give up fly-fishing in order to build and stretch enormous and unique canvases for me.


Still....


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You Can't Get There from Here

5/6/2017

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Picture
This was Hugh Hood's choice of title for a novel.  As a prairie kid, I always thought the statement absurd. Of course you can get there. For heaven's sake, you can see it!


Well, life has nuanced my view a bit. For example you can see Galiano Island from Saltspring, but no ferries connect them and we met middle-aged people on both islands who had never visited the other one. And imagine my surprise when I once headed east in Montreal and found myself back at the same intersection an hour later; only then did I remember that "cote" meant "side" ( as in mountain). I had circled Mount Royal.

The implications of the adage have particularly struck home this spring. For the last two months our major and aged thoroughfare has been undergoing trunk sewer replacement. A two-minute trip across the river now takes twenty. When the annual marathon was added to the mix, we had to backtrack twelve miles to cross.

Ironically, the incessant thinking about routes has clarified my mind about the virtue of the circuitous nature of rivers and the otherwise inaccessible places they preserve. We have been paddling rather than driving lately, and particularly appreciating the meandering nature of river travel. We enjoy the inevitably grumpy great blue heron who always flees downstream only to find us dogging his steps bend after bend. Yesterday we caught a glimpse of the wonderful old maple of "The Ancients" 2, though it was almost unrecognizable because higher water levels were covering its gnarly roots. We ducked swallows as they swooped from high sandy banks to feed their kids. We found patches of wild iris and fringed polygala. I have taken a gazillion digitals to paint from.

In short, we've been choosing the three-hour paddle over the ten-minute drive. Everywhere we found life proclaiming itself, even in the canoe itself, where Theodore was making his maiden voyage. After he gave up trying to climb on Jon's lap, he wedged himself between my knees in the bow and started to enjoy the ride. He was so happily exhausted that evening that his snores drowned out the conversation.

So perhaps the phrase should be "You CAN get there from here - eventually." And perhaps adding distance, time and effort can actually enhance the experience if the circumstances are just right.

At least we think that's what Theodore mumbled as he was dropping off.



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