A few things have converged in my mind so perfectly after the past few weeks in the land. I'm learning too, that when things come together like this, one must hold on to it, and draw out its meaning to one's existence slowly and carefully. How easily we make ourselves believe we can tame wildness, tear out and tidy up the secret spaces there are in the earth. So many moon-treasures I've gathered from half-nights in the hammock, walking through the dark, into the rivers filled with glittering eyes, turning over leaves expecting the full-moon light to just spill into my palm... Such images. I cannot even begin. A slight girl with fawn's eyes offers a plastic cup of water-angels to my mother. A fallen bamboo ceiling swallows the moon whole. There is so much wonder, awe and terror in every gesture, every movement. The moon washes the dust from her face, becomes her true self in the forest. Then it solidifies, comes together: the three of us sit, our backs curved like crescents, on Miss Rose's front step, reading from the Farmer's Almanac. The words are beautiful and without artifice. Moons for planting, for destroying, for raising water from the earth. I do not realize I am bewitched until I begin writing, drawing, obsessing in my quietest moments. As usual, I have no real idea what I'm doing. But the magic is becoming easier and easier to find, and to follow.
Above is detail from half a diptych entitled
Lunar Planting. It's watercolour, ink and collage. The swirly words are notes on phases of the moon, and its effects on plants and bodies of water. Below is some detail from a new work:
Bamboo, which is one of a small series of
Moon Water paintings.
Soon,
~D
A few things have converged in my mind so perfectly after the past few weeks in the land. I'm learning too, that when things come together like this, one must hold on to it, and draw out its meaning to one's existence slowly and carefully. How easily we make ourselves believe we can tame wildness, tear out and tidy up the secret spaces there are in the earth. So many moon-treasures I've gathered from half-nights in the hammock, walking through the dark, into the rivers filled with glittering eyes, turning over leaves expecting the full-moon light to just spill into my palm... Such images. I cannot even begin. A slight girl with fawn's eyes offers a plastic cup of water-angels to my mother. A fallen bamboo ceiling swallows the moon whole. There is so much wonder, awe and terror in every gesture, every movement. The moon washes the dust from her face, becomes her true self in the forest. Then it solidifies, comes together: the three of us sit, our backs curved like crescents, on Miss Rose's front step, reading from the Farmer's Almanac. The words are beautiful and without artifice. Moons for planting, for destroying, for raising water from the earth. I do not realize I am bewitched until I begin writing, drawing, obsessing in my quietest moments. As usual, I have no real idea what I'm doing. But the magic is becoming easier and easier to find, and to follow.
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