​Once again, I find myself giving a painting a title that makes no apparent sense.  And once that title is lodged in my wee brain, there is no dislodging it.  So let’s try to deconstruct “The Sycamore Dreams.”


I submit for your consideration the backstory of “Kubla Khan,” the famous Coleridge poem.  The poet swore that "Kubla Khan" presented itself fully formed, like Venus being born out of Zeus’ ear;  he claimed that he woke from a post-opium dream and simply went to his desk and wrote “Kubla Khan” out in full, no strike-outs.  He felt it had been supernaturally dictated to him;  unfortunately, someone came to the door mid-transcription (so like life) and Coleridge’s short-term memory failed to retain the entire 300 line poem so we don’t have the entire piece.
Well, the poet's claim was investigated in full, and I do mean FULL (almost a thousand pages)  a hundred and thirty years later (1927) in a scholarly work entitled “The Road to Xanadu”  by John Livingstone Lowes.   Through intensive biographical and bibliographic sleuthing Lowes was able to account for every phrase having been acquired previously by Coleridge;  the creativity was in combination, not invention, which Lowes thought a higher-level activity.  I tried reading the book but happily concluded that the poem would speak for itself.

And that is my hope for fanciful titles;  the painting itself should render them superfluous.    But, seeing as at least one person will query me about them, I search for rational explanations, such as they are.

As always, the title presented itself uninvited.  I can’t claim hallucinagenic inspiration, although I do confess that too rich a dinner can give me a bad night.     The title “The Sycamore Dreams!”  begins by clarifying the focus of the painting — one gorgeous tree.  I have said previously how beautiful I find sycamores’ bark to be, so one such skeletal beauty, fully revealed after all its leaves had dropped,  is the subject of the painting.  I was lucky to see this sycamore at a nexus of magic moments —   when it was completely bare;  when the maples in the background were still in full autumn colour;  when the golf course sprinkling system was being bled; when the bottom two-thirds of the tree were cast in blue shadows;  and when the creamy upper branches still caught the last light.  The total effect was deliriously lovely, leading me to reflect on the period leading into dormancy for a deciduous tree.  I felt that this sycamore had happily begun its sleepy descent into the long-winter-dream.   So voila:  “The Sycamore Dreams.”

A lovely surprise awaited me in last night’s email from Walkerton. I knew the jurors had awarded “Fly-fishing in the Gorge” second prize, so I was already pleased as punch. But the second email referred to the second painting — “The Cradle Endlessly Rocking” #2. Apparently it had been voted “People’s Choice” by those who visited the show during its three-week run. So thanks, Grey-Bruce!! 

​It is deeply gratifying to receive a popular choice award. An artist thinks of it this way: a group of total strangers (I know of only one friend who was able to attend this particular show) liked your work. Why does that matter so much? Well, think of your spouse and the general reception (or lack thereof) that your outstanding advice receives. Then suddenly s/he takes the advice to heart. And why? Because it has now been delivered by a neutral source. Case in point: Jon paid absolutely no attention to me for years when I encouraged him to drink his coffee with little or no sugar. One comment from Alice, our doctor, and he went cold turkey that day. Maybe women just need to organize better - speed up the process by assigning our priceless advice to a friend in a reciprocal arrangement. I could tell Harry that wearing sunscreen is a smart thing to do; in return for my favour, Harry’s wife, Sue, would tell Jon what a good idea it is to leave your keys in the same place. OR we could all hire Alice, I guess, although her day job might preclude it.

The point being, however unfair it is, advice or praise from a neutral party motivates us. In fact, the more distanced the source, the greater the weight it carries. No-one is suspected of being just kind or pulling a punch. (In that regard, I never need worry about Jon. He’s honest to a fault. For example, let’s take the title “The Cradle Endlessly Rocking,” an allusion to Walt Whitman. Jon has been known to volunteer his opinion that it is “the stupidest title anyone ever gave a painting.” Don’t hold back, Honey. Give it to me straight!)

Okay, I will admit that the title is a bit of a stretch but the phrase kept repeating in my head as I painted the two 30 x 40’s in the series. A river frequently symbolizes the life force in literature and in art and this painting was surely all about the river. There is almost no sky, and only enough vegetation to direct the eye downward. We were paddling down this blue avenue, floating across the sky, as the current drew us into the future. We felt safely contained - cradled - within the eternal procession of life.

That said, I am open to retitling the series with a more accessible title. Buttercup is prepared to suck it up, but if you have an idea for the title, please tell me directly. I would feel compelled to ignore it if you funnelled it through Jon.

I often find it necessary to leave a painting for a few days at least, especially when there's a lot of sun around.  My stone studio, while charming as hell, faces due south.  This is not good.  On a sunny day in a season of low sun, it's almost impossible to read the image through the high reflection.  So I find something else to work on and wait it out.  

Only now, with the high shine gone,  is it possible to detail the paddlers.  The canoe on the right is the painting's focal point, so there I've placed the darkest darks and the lightest lights.   Jim's white hat gleams, contrasting with the shadows on his face and the faintly seen blues of his shirt;  the red of the canoe is so dark as to be almost brown.  The canoe paddling behind, with Brian and Jon, contrasts with the background but less so than does the first canoe with Jim and Moose.

There are a few adjustments to be made to the foreground water, where the lighter sky is reflected, and to the range of hills, but Ugly D is beginning to grow up.  She's "Coming into View."

For those of you who have had the pluck to hang in as I have worked my way from right to left, this is the last post.  I am determined to finish her tomorrow and post on the website itself as soon as the sheen dies down a touch.  
Today the title literally surfaced in front of  me in the form of an ancient memory.    Whitman's poem, "Leaves of Grass," begins with "Into the cradle endlessly rocking" and goes on to celebrate the bittersweet issues of love and life by means of its lush natural imagery;  like Whitman (and Emerson),   Jon and I were submerged  in the glory of sensuous creation.  I am so grateful for these transcendent experiences.