We were hiking on a country road this week and found ourselves between banks of ripe raspberries on either side. Free sun-warmed raspberries always taste the best and we did them justice.    Although fresh raspberries rarely make it into a bowl, I do insist on keeping a dedicated bramble patch in our own garden too.  The dry heat has finished most of the raspberries here but I dedicated time today to watering the blackberries;  they are heading up nicely and now need only to fill out.  Surely heaven reserves a special place for the genius who developed the thornless variety.  Sadly they only ripen when summer is winding down so their flavour contains a tinge of farewell.

Raspberry is equally appealing as a colour.  I mix it from alizarin crimson with a touch of ultramarine blue and a hint of white.  It always feels sensuous, special, hot.  Watercolour has a higher key version called "Opera," an inspired name if there ever was one;  it is a permanent colour, despite its reputation of being "fugitive."  Clothing in Schiaparelli (pronounced"skaparelly") pink also catches my eye.  Elsa Schiaparelli went so far as to stage a hunger strike to escape from the convent her desperate parents had sent her to ;  as a Parisian couturiere in the 30's she invented women's divided skirts (thank you) and teamed up with Salvador Dali (we forgive you).  The hot pink which bears her name remains a favourite of many, even if it appears only as a hot "pop" in a cooler setting.  

I was drawn to these waterlilies for that very reason.  While the deep pinks cover very little of the total area of the paintings, their placements play a major role in directing the eye of the viewer through the blues and greens.  

Now it's back to the garden while there is still enough light to see who ripened today!

The Cradle Endlessly Rocking #2 has been proceeding apace.  I am 98% finished but there is still some glazing to go. I took this digital minutes after I put my brushes down on Friday and the flash exposed the most recent oil glazes,  which read as hazing in sections of the water;  this unevenly reflective surface will unify slowly as the oil paint dries.   It might take up to a year to settle into the characteristic satin glow of an oil painting.  Until that stage is reached, applying a protective varnish is not recommended.  Traditionally, the delayed"vernissage" (or varnishing) was marked by a small party to mark the true completion of a work.

I have varnished very few of my paintings.  Its value is to protect the painting, as it can be removed, taking any accumulated dirt with it.  Free of kerosene lamps, candle and coal soot, our homes are much cleaner now, and protective coatings are less necessary.  Moreover, varnish is extremely toxic and is normally sprayed on.  A process like that necessitates outdoor application at the right temperature and humidity, so it's the rare day that is suitable.  On the other hand, creating an reason to celebrate is never a bad idea.

Still cogitating this one.  Please weigh in, artist friends.

The two little men next door celebrated birthdays last week and so a new adventure was in order.  Uncle Jon (their clear favourite) was trapped in the garage working on the furniture so it fell to me to plan and execute a satisfactory quest.  

Immediately across the river sits a robust second-growth forest complete with shady trail and a beautiful concrete pond which is many decades old.  As a bonus it satisfied the requirement of proximity;   next year they will both be old enough to travel in our car with seat belts but until then, shank's pony will have to do.

Walking across the footbridge, Younger confessed to a desire to drop objects from heights and then sensibly handed me his prized walking stick, a gift from Uncle Jon, in order to save it from a sure watery grave.  I suppose he couldn't have known that I share that urge, but we made it across without incident, because I immediately changed the subject.

A need for poison ivy identification arose;  there is lots of it in the old field community leading to the woods. I didn't have the heart to tell the boys that global warming is setting up perfect growing conditions for this plant and that we can expect to see a great deal more of it in the future.  On the plus side, Elder spotted the tiny Deptford pinks among the grasses.  I explained that they are in the carnation family and he said "What's a carnation?"   So I changed the subject.

Sitting high above the river, the woods were cool.  When Younger wandered too close to the cliff edge for my comfort, I asked him to take my hand because heights make me nervous (and want to throw things).  Instantly, he donned the mantle of solicitous care-giver, firmly holding my hand and releasing it only to direct me to the far side of the path whenever a tree divided it, while frequently assuring me that my "braveness" would grow if I copied his.  If he caught me glancing down I was immediately chided and encouraged to be braver.  He might have a future as a personal trainer.  

The pond made everybody happy.  I have always loved it because it is filled with waterlilies, and reflects the graceful arc of a stone bridge;  its enchanted loveliness has been on my "must paint" list for years.  The boys loved it because the pond was absolutely filled with tadpoles.  In a world of threatened and disappearing herps (amphibians),  this mass of hundreds, if not thousands,of squirming black bodies was an exciting sight indeed.  We all crouched at the shallow edge and feasted our eyes until our knees gave out.  To their credit, neither of them fell in.   Astonishingly,  neither did I.

On the way back I recognized the spot where the shot for this painting had been taken.  Then I made the fatal error of remarking that Uncle Jon and I had been walking these trails for a third of a century.  The boys valiantly tried to digest this alarming factoid but it was pretty obvious that it was frying their brains.  So I changed the subject.   

I had identified a number of plants by then.  Younger, while firmly powering me back along the cliff, casually mentioned that he didn't mean to be rude but it was okay if I stopped.  Apparently, the local field station had games which did the job much less painfully.   Butterflies were okay, though.  I changed the subject to flying insects.

Aside from a brief stop in a freshly-cut area to throw grass clippings at one another, we headed straight home for ice cream.  We all agreed that it was a perfectly satisfactory adventure;  they were kind enough not to mention my conversational deficits.

This week while I've been working on this painting, I've been thinking about luck.  One might say that this beautiful boy was unlucky in the extreme.  He suffered neglect as a pup, had to learn to walk again last fall after major knee surgery, and died shortly after been diagnosed with rampant malignancies several weeks ago.  We saw him only last month and he seemed well;  we would never have guessed that he would be gone so quickly.  Buddy was only six.

I doubt that he thought of himself as unlucky, however.  While Buddy's life certainly started off badly, his rescue had delivered him to the finest forever home I can imagine.  Surely his doggy heart beat with gratitude and joy every morning when he woke to find himself beloved of dogs.  We saw this in Jewell, whose early suffering was mirrored in her initial inability to be held and her night screams of terror;  when she gradually learned to relax in our arms and to sleep peacefully through the night on our bed, we knew that her spirit had healed.  Buddy had the added good luck of finding himself living next door to the bodacious Tillie, with whom he played like a pup;  they literally wore a path between one another's homes.

We all need to feel important and Buddy knew that he was.

When he needed to be released from his suffering body, Buddy also had the profound luck to be a dog rather than a human being.  Then he was gently carried home and laid to rest in the garden.  

Buddy's heart knew love.  What more can any of us can ask?

I keep forgetting how much physical work a large piece involves.  Today I have been adding the lightest values and a break is called for.  Being thoroughly right-handed, I have the use of only one arm, while Jon is ambidextrous like most lefties.  Now my right arm throbs from fingertip to shoulder, but mostly in the middle.

It's small comfort to be able to pinpoint the day I injured my favourite elbow.  Last August we were paddling a calm river;  as usual I was in the bow.  Easy peasy.  The next day it was painful to bend my right arm. Almost a year later it still hurts!  While I admit to a history of self-inflicted injuries, I used to be able to count on a quick bounce-back.  For example, some time ago I found myself at the physiotherapist's office after a sore shoulder failed to heal in a week or two.  Jon had sweet-talked me into paddling the river, which remained open that February, and of course I had hurt myself.  The amiable physio asked me the standard question:  how I had injured myself?   I explained.  Horrified, he asked why on earth I would have agreed to do that.  The truth will out:  I explained that Jon had assured me that vigorous paddling would give me big breasts.  The physio took a few moments to digest that and then said, "Well, maybe one."

The point here is that he fixed the shoulder.  I might have been lopsided but at least I had no pain.  Now I am down two for two.  Just shoot me.

I'm posting the grisaille with the full range of values.  Tomorrow, COLOUR!

If you haven't checked my other website (zannekeele.com) in the last two months, you haven't missed anything.  In my defence, I cite the sequence of a month-long virus, a month of catch-up gardening,and the usual plethora of various June celebrations.  And then of course there remains the furniture to be finished. Happily, the need to rethink its placement (i.e. find main-floor homes for it) has indirectly inspired a re-jigged studio!  Eureka!  Now for the first time ever, I am working at an easel which has an available width of four feet;  in a pinch, even five feet! No more rotations or the painting of upside-down images!!

This brave new setup has had the immediate effect of inspiring me to get back to work.  A number of images in holding patterns have been circling my head.  The most pressing is a companion piece to "The Cradle Endlessly Rocking."  Like the second twin born of a quick labour, this image followed the first by mere minutes. I think our canoe might have just rounded the bend that could be viewed in the upper left quadrant of the first painting.  Still bathed in light,  the river remains a-gleam with blue and green-gold jewel tones.  Sun-bleached cedars  poke up here and there, punctuating the riverbank darknesses.  Another moment worthy of commemoration.

You might be able to tell that the toning did not go smoothly.  Finding an expanse of floor to work on proved futile, so I had to prep the 30 by 40 canvas outside, braving frass pellets and pregnant mosquitoes.  Too impatient to wait for the red oxide oil paint to dry, I rubbed on Indian Red acrylic paint mixed with matte medium and water so that I could begin the grisaille immediately.  Of course, it dried too fast yesterday, and left a few uneven patches .  While none of these will be visible in a few days, the headlong rush I recognize in myself when hearing the siren call of a new painting does force me to own up to certain slap-dash tendencies.  I promise myself that all subsequent layers in oil will be carefully applied.  The more accurate the underpainting, the more enjoyable the final glazes.

Only the burnt umber darks have been added so far, but the river is emerging and the upper left focal point clarified.  I might begin on the white highlights today as well.  Great to be back.

While fishing is never far from Jon's mind, summer brings it even closer.  He studies the weather like a general planning manoeuvres:  the very best days are cool and overcast, and a mayfly hatch makes everything better.  The weather has been perfect.  He hasn't had time to fish for a while, however,  because we lost our heads at an unbeatable sale of dove-tailed solid oak Mission furniture several weeks ago.   

About twenty years after we bought our wee stone house,  it came to our attention that it was a "Craftsman bungalow."  That term might lead you to expect that the house is only one story, but not so -- the original term designated a storey and a half, which explains, I suppose, why our only bathroom is upstairs.  It is understood that if either of us breaks a leg, the breakee is to be shot.  I have a dream once or twice each year in which I am wandering through our home and discover a hither-to undiscovered main floor bathroom.  Such joy.  Then I wake up.

So, getting back to furniture and the lack of fishing, what pieces we had bought were always mission oak in style because we intuitively realized that they best suited our house.  And here was the opportunity to substantially increase our storage capacity (again, small house) without breaking the bank.  The only problem that we foresaw was that these pieces were unfinished.  A hundred dollar can of specially matched stain later, we were good to go.  I couldn't wait to have a wardrobe in the bedroom in which Jon could stash his weekly pile of "clothes I might wear once more."

About to finish Piece #4 of five, Jon said, "Did we check to see if it would go upstairs?"  We???  Isn't that the man's job??  I'm sure I remember hearing it stipulated in the wedding service.  After much bristling of measuring tapes we came to the conclusion that the wardrobe might go up;  it  had equal odds of wedging at the bottom of the stairs, leaving us short two bedrooms and the bathroom.

We are similarly wedged into the position of having to finish and place the new furniture before our real lives can resume.  I should have mentioned that not only our garage but that of our wonderful neighbours is housing this stuff and we're all getting antsy.  Jon would rather fish and I would rather paint.  They would like to be able to get their bikes in and out.  No such luck for the immediate future.  We are thralls to woodcraft, serfs to case goods, enslaved by our raw greed for drawers that work.  This painting serves as a reminder of the golden era when Jon and I had our priorities right.

Imagine cyberspace.  It is very dark.  But if you looked really closely on a few Mondays ago, you would have seen two parcels of data pass one another.  The second one was superior to the first one, which claimed to have seen a peregrine nest.  Damned technology and dogged men:  Mike had returned to Cambridge with his long lens and taken a brilliant shot of what was definitely not a peregrine.  Who knew that red-tails have also begun to nest on sky-scraping buildings??  Not me, apparently.

The photo, while something of an embarassment given the timing, did capture the gorgeous trousers the so-called redtail sported;  they were the beautiful cream favoured by so many denizens of the sky.   I have in fact posted a pieced-together shot of a barn owl on my bulletin board, with the intention of including exactly such an elegant undercarriage in a portrait.  Risking a gilded lily,  they are frequently covered with tiny fawn-coloured fleurs de lys and look splendidly regal.

Because I seem to lack more important things to ponder, I gave some thought to why the under-body colouration might be so pale.  The lack of bright colours makes sense, of course;  why waste a great outfit that you can't easily flash towards a prospective mate?  But why cream rather than dark?  Does a white feather reflect more heat back to a nest of chicks?  Is it easier to locate itchy-scratchy intruders on a white field? 

Such are the critical mysteries in a quiet life.  Luckily, our bird feeder hangs just six feet from my studio and I KNOW FOR SURE that the red headed guy eating peanuts was a red-bellied woodpecker.  His white belly with hardly a hint of red was irrelevant.  So there.