Hibernation

 
 

After a whirlwind, early family Christmas in New York City, I was getting ready for a nice, quiet holiday back home. Then I succumbed to a nasty virus that has put me in bed for a week. Now I feel like a confused, and very grouchy, bear! All my instincts are telling me to crawl back into my cave and hibernate for the rest of the winter. For once I’m not scurrying to get everything ready for the traditional celebrations, and I was hoping to honor the winter solstice by standing still (the word solstice means "sun standing still")—turn inward, listen to the whispers of inspiration, get some new creative work started. But I don’t feel like it, my inner voice screams! Isn’t being human interesting? We set up so many expectations for our happiness, then complain when they aren’t met. I will just have to accept that, at this moment, I’m not a rational human, I’m a tired bear. Time to go back to bed.

Group of Bears (1932, cast 1963) by Paul Manship, photographed at The Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

 

Looking for Ease

 
 

Waiting in line at the bank’s drive-in window, rain pouring across the windshield, I scrolled through the to-do list on my phone. I let out a sigh, knowing this was going to be a week of “Living the List”—going from one thing to the next with little space for letting down. It’s that time, after all, when end-of-year business and financial obligations run head-on into holiday preparations. When the bank transaction was finished, the teller sweetly called through the glass, “Enjoy the rest of your day!” I gave her a lopsided smile. Not likely, I thought, but as I drove away to my next commitment, I starting thinking about her phrase. What would it take for me to enjoy my day? I was reminded of the comedian George Carlin’s irreverent monologue, “Have a nice day!” In it he declares that the trouble with someone saying, “Have a nice day!” is that it puts all the pressure on you to figure it out. I am the one responsible for finding ways to make my day enjoyable, after all. So why does that make me so grumpy? Strange that we humans have such resistance to making our days—and our lives—easier and more enjoyable. I came home and put away the groceries, then decided to do something that would make me happy before moving on to the next task. My eye caught the bouquet of late garden roses a friend had brought me. I carried it into my studio and photographed it, taking a few minutes to delight in the color and abundance of the blooms (smelling the roses!). It was a little thing, but it shifted my attention, and suddenly my outlook on the day was brighter. I could breathe again. Ease is there, always, but we have to look for it. Try it, and really give yourself a nice day!

Sharing

 
 

There weren’t many pauses during the Thanksgiving holiday, as our two grandsons (aged two and four) filled the days with their curiosity and exuberance. They also ate a lot! The two-year-old is especially keen on his meals, taking the time to sit and savor every bite of the food he likes, especially pie. I expected he would inhale it the way his older brother did, but instead he took tiny bites, placing each forkful on his tongue, and letting it melt there before swallowing. He seemed mesmerized by the flavors and textures, and watching him, I couldn’t help but slow down and pay attention to my own dessert. We are so quick to experience everything now—to cook fast, eat hurriedly, exchange information in shorthand, move on to the next thing. Our attention spans seem shorter than a toddler's! So despite the amount of work it took to prepare all the meals, it was a treat to sit with the whole family sharing slow food and slow conversation. Later, I was delighted to discover that the same grandson had arranged the vintage Fisher Price figures (the “guys,” as he calls them) around a table to share his snack. Maybe we have a budding chef in the family!

 

Bird of a Different Color

 
 

The turkey was salted and waiting to star on the Thanksgiving table, the refrigerator was packed with veggies to cook, and the pies were in the able hands of my daughter-in-law, so my husband and I took Wednesday afternoon off for a ritual of another kind— visiting the National Mall. Over the years we've discovered that the very best day for going to museums is the day before Thanksgiving. People are either on the road or home getting ready for the holiday. Even the metro is empty. It was bright and cold, the perfect day to bundle up and hike across the sun-drenched Mall. The East Wing of the National Gallery just reopened in October after a year of repairs, so we decided to start there. It was fascinating to see new paintings and old favorites reinstalled in the galleries, and we were thrilled to discover the new outdoor sculpture terrace at the very top of the building. We had no idea the Capitol was being guarded by a bright blue 15-foot rooster (Katharina Fritsch's "Hahn/Cock"). But it did remind me I had to get home to start the stuffing for my very own 14-pound bird of a different color.

Perseverance

 
 

There are times in life when events beyond our control have a disproportionate effect on day-to-day wellbeing, and the election results certainly qualify. Those of us who have lived through a number of presidential transitions (and who have observed the operation of government from a front row seat “inside the Beltway”) know that it takes a lot of players to make change happen, but a lot of worrisome noise can be made in the process. We can only hope that sanity will be injected into the transition process by laws that are already in place. Meanwhile we must focus on the things we can do something about—strengthening our connections to loved ones and renewing our commitment to purposeful activity. As a creative person, I’ve been thinking a lot about my output and asking what is meaningful work in difficult times. I’m very grateful that I just saw the Agnes Martin Retrospective at the Guggenheim Museum in New York City, because her perseverance sets an example. Martin worked up to her death at age 92, and the exhibit spans her creative life in more than 100 artworks. Her canvasses are precise and spare, incorporating lines, grids, and stripes of translucent color. Though at first glance her work appears minimal, there is nothing removed about it; the paintings draw you in, inviting you, in her words, to “go there and sit and look.” One group of 12 large canvases, “The Islands,” look like identical white squares, but as you wait for your eyes to adjust, pale colors—blue, pink, yellow— begin to emerge out of haze, as if coming towards you. I could feel myself being enveloped by a painting, sinking into it. Critics have tried to file Martin with the minimalists because of the spareness of her canvases and her use of grids and repetition, but she believed her work was abstract and that it had the power to express positive emotions. She looked to her painting as a meditation, a way to cope with turbulent feelings (she struggled with schizophrenia), and her canvasses offer an antidote to chaos, anger, and confusion. “I believe in living above the line,” she said in an interview. “Above the line is happiness and love. And below the line is badness, destruction, and unhappiness.  I don’t go down below the line for anything.” Seeing her retrospective has inspired me to keep working above that line.

Pictured: Falling Blue, 1963, oil and graphite on canvas

 

Small Encounters

 
 

Coming up to my front door with an armload of groceries, I noticed something pink shimmering in an unexpected shaft of sunlight. This is the shady part of the garden, but the trees have started thinning and the angle of the sun is changing daily. I went over to investigate and discovered a stunning rose just asking to be photographed. This will probably be the last one of the year, and I had almost missed it. Funny how these small gems of nature cross our paths every day and we often overlook them—a red leaf floating in a sky blue puddle; an orange rose glowing from the inside; the bottom of a cut cabbage forming a perfect rosette. I’ve been collecting these brief encounters for a long time, and have decided to issue a new edition of small prints to celebrate them. I’m starting with just a dozen, though I have hundreds. Sometimes we just need a little reminder that we’re alive to enjoy the moment. That’s why we need Small Encounters.

Most of the images from my blog, "& More," fall into this category of small encounters. If there's a particular image that resonates, I'd be happy to print it in this format. Just contact me.

 

 

From Dormancy to Harvest

 
 

Photographing at Linden Vineyards on a sunny October Saturday, I couldn’t help but feel bereft. The grapes have all been picked (with the exception of the late season Vidal), and the vines are beginning to wear their autumn mantle. It won’t be long before they go into dormancy for another winter. The harvested grapes are well on their way to becoming another fine vintage (2016!). The timing coincides with the end of the exhibition of my prints at Linden (the show closes on November 7, 2016). It has been a lovely, long run, and I’ve been invigorated by the warm responses to my work. But now it's time to move on to new work and new horizons. When I first put up the show in March, the vines were still dormant. I’ve gotten to observe the labor of the vineyard and photograph the vines through all their phases. It’s given me a deep appreciation of the attention and effort it takes to produce their fabulous wines. My heartfelt gratitude to Shari, Jim, and all the wonderful team at Linden Vineyards for letting me be part of their family for an entire season.

“Turning towards the Light: Portraits of Flowers" closes on November 7, 2016.                          Linden Vineyards is open for viewing and tasting Friday to Monday, 11 to 5. See photos of the exhibition on my Linden page.

 

Eye of the Beholder

 
 

One gardener’s weed is another gardener's wonder, to paraphrase the familiar adage, and this is especially appropriate in describing the porcelain berry vine (Ampelopsis brevipedunculata). Also known as wild grape ivy (and sometimes confused with pepper berry), porcelain berry is a native of Asia that has become a vigorous invasive vine in the eastern US. I’ve spent years eradicating it from my garden, only to miss it when the fall berries form. The berries are stunning, their color ranging from light jade green to deep purple. They resemble miniature balls of translucent porcelain painted by the most expert ceramic artist. Vines still pop up in my garden, thanks to the birds who devour them and spread the seeds. I know to pull them out fast before the vines take hold. Luckily I don’t have to go far to find mature vines, as they grow in plenty of empty nearby lots and neglected hedgerows. So I can still admire the berries and thank this wondrous weed for its tenaciousness.

 

Passionate

 
 

On the first sunny morning after a week of rain, I headed out to the garden to get started on the fall cleanup. With the soil still soggy, I could pull out the remains of my beans and tomatoes and wrestle out some of the toughest weeds. I noticed I wasn’t the only one hard at work, though. There’s not much left in flower, but the bumble bees and butterflies were clamoring for position on the passionflower vines. I watched one bee weave in and out of the petals in a frenzy, covering itself with pollen. I understood completely! Passionflowers are among my favorite flowers to photograph—their complexity and color draw my eye and challenge me to capture their sensuous appeal. Like the bumble bees, I can’t get enough of them. But I’ve finally finished a series of prints of passionflowers on nine different colors that I’m releasing as an unlimited edition. It should keep my appetite in check till next year.

Please discover my new Passionflower edition.

 

Some Spider

 
 

Another sign that the season is changing—the large September spiders are popping up everywhere. This rather imposing spotted orb weaver (Neoscona crucifera) placed her web just outside our front door, and I have to be careful not to let the screen bump into it. Orb weavers are common spiders in Virginia, but it’s still arresting to watch one up close! She hides during the day, and once it gets dark and the front light comes on, she perches in the center of her huge web and waits. She’s almost two inches long, and her web is about two feet across. I’ve watched as a large moth, flying towards the light, got caught on the periphery of the web. The spider instantly pounced. I could hardly believe that something so still could move so quickly! Holes in the web attest to her activity, but she’s working overtime to lay her eggs as orb weavers can’t survive freezing temperatures. Watching her is fascinating, but it does give me shivers. Then I remember that the spider in E.B. White’s Charlotte’s Web was an orb weaver (Araneus cavaticus), and she was certainly an astute observer of all that went on around her. If only this spider could talk!

 

Pitching

 
 

Pitching is a topic that sneaks into dinner conversations this time of year, especially with the Red Sox leading the American League East. But I just spent a weekend experiencing pitching of a different sort—trying to sell a story to a publisher or agent. Knowing that I have several novel manuscripts hiding in the back of my closet, my daughter-in-law invited me to participate in Fiction Fest, a writer’s conference for all genres of fiction sponsored by the Connecticut Romance Writers of America. Writing under the name Libby Waterford, she has already published a novel and three novellas, so she knows a thing or two about pitching. I had never attended a writer’s conference before, but the workshop offerings looked very promising, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend some time with Libby in her professional environment. I was nervous, though. It’s challenging to make your living as a creative person, and I’ve found that competition for space in a small market can sometimes bring out the worst in fellow artists and writers. And don’t get me started on critics and judgment. So I wasn’t prepared for the weekend to be so full of insights and encouragement. The workshops focused on craft, the tips and tricks of how to make writing better. I’ve spent a lot of time writing fiction, and a good part of my career writing non-fiction, but I still appreciate good advice. The actual pitching was done in roundtable settings, small groups with one agent or publisher giving feedback. The biggest challenge was coming up with a compelling 35-word summary of my novel! I did it, though, and found that I enjoyed the sharing and the comments. I’m waiting to hear if I’ll be asked to submit a chapter, but I can appreciate that I have more work to do to make my manuscripts sellable. It may be a while before I send any fastballs zinging over the plate, but my pitching arm is definitely improving.

 

Harvest

 
 

Another reminder of summer’s end came last week when I visited Linden Vineyards. One of the benefits of having a show at a vineyard is that I’ve been able to observe the changing seasons through the emergence and growth of one particular crop: grapes. When I opened the show in March, the vines were just sticks, curling and clinging to the wires that hold them in place. I got to see the shoots emerge, the leaves develop, the grains appear and turn into grapes, and through the heat of summer, I’ve watched the grapes ripening into plump bunches. My periodic visits have yielded many photographs in all kinds of light and weather. I drove out to get one last look at the ripening bunches and almost got there too late! Tropical storm Hermine had been threatening to move inland, and wine grower-maker Jim Law was ready to start harvesting the chardonnay grapes to keep them from getting drenched. But the storm moved off, and the weather promised to stay hot and dry, so the grapes were given a few more days to soak up the sun. The biggest lesson I’ve learned from observing the vineyard has been how unpredictable it is to grow grapes for high quality wine. Jim has a lot of experience, and there’s not a day when he isn’t thinking about what he can do to keep the grapes happy. Lucky for those of us who enjoy his wines, his attention and hard work pays off!

 

Changing

 
 

It’s not just the lighter traffic that’s letting me know summer is ending—it’s the light. Only a few weeks away from the autumnal equinox, the days are getting shorter and the angle of the sun is changing. As I walk around my house and garden, I’m suddenly arrested by a splash of bright light that wasn’t there last week, or longer shadows across the walk. It makes me wonder about the subtle effects of changing light on my senses and on my moods. I recently watched a fascinating video, Flight of the Butterflies, that taught me quite a lot about the amazing long-distance migration of monarchs. Diminishing light is what triggers their movement south, and they navigate using the changing position of the sun. We humans like to think we’re not influenced by sunlight, but I feel restless this time of year (and it has nothing to do with going back to school). Maybe there’s some secret refuge I’m supposed to head towards? Actually, I usually pick up my camera and head for the hills as often as I can in September. The crystal light heightens contrast, and even familiar landscapes are suddenly transformed. That's worth a trip!

 

Fabric Distraction

 
 

Lying in the semi-darkness of my Feldenkrais class this morning, I was following the arc of my hand as it moved from side to side above me. This easy, smooth movement, like most of the gentle actions in this class, is designed to bring awareness of the connections inside the body while improving flexibility and coordination. I usually find it wonderfully meditative, but today, each time I rolled to my right side, I kept noticing the unusual soft colors and subtle patterns of my neighbor’s shirt. I was like a bumble bee, incapable of ignoring a nearby flower! After class I complimented her, and we both had a laugh about my distraction. Her shirt had come from India, and the vegetal dyes have softened over the years yielding pale shades of blue and green. I’m always looking for color and form to capture through my lens, and though I usually look to gardens and landscapes for my inspiration, this reminded me how visually stimulating the colors, textures, and patterns of fabric can be. Artists have often been inspired by fabric—Matisse started accumulating fabrics at an early age and went on to collect textiles from all around the world that he used in his paintings. And though often overlooked, almost every world culture has a tradition of designing, weaving, or dying fabric into wearable art—from India to West Africa to Central and South America. So in late summer, as the flowers are fading, I am considering a visit to the Textile Museum. What better place to take my distractible bumble bee eye?

Summer Blues

 
 

It’s mid-August, and there’s not much to like about the weather, especially as the temperature has been hovering around 100˚. I know I’m fortunate to live in an air-conditioned house, but by this time in the summer I’m beginning to feel trapped. I have plenty of printing, writing, and reading to keep me busy, and my frequent forays to our high school pool keep me in shape, but I find I’m suddenly distracting myself by baking. Is this why people joke about Christmas in August? Inspired by the abundance of fruit at the market and the store, I’ve been going through cook books looking for fruit recipes. One of my favorite new cook books is from the SONO Baking Company in Norwalk, Connecticut. They have a section on fruit cobblers, crisps, Bettys, and buckles (such great names!), and I’m enjoying trying out their variations. Forrest Pritchard’s second book, Growing Tomorrow, has some delightful and unusual fruit recipes gleaned from organic farmers across the nation, including a raspberry beer cocktail and blueberry salsa. Alice Waters covers cobblers and crisps in Art of Simple Cooking, but I’m drawn to her summer fruit compote (doesn’t get any simpler!). My favorite tart dough recipe comes from Baking with Julia, and I use it for a peach and blackberry galette. But I keep returning to an old standby, Jeanne Lemlin’s Vegetarian Pleasures, for a muffin recipe that is just delicious with fresh blueberries—not too rich or sweet, and just bursting with fruit. The muffins freeze well, so I don’t have to eat too many, but they go a long way to fighting off those summer blues!

Since Vegetarian Pleasures is out of print, I'll share the recipe here:

  • 1 cup whole wheat flour
  • 1 cup unbleached flour
  • 1/2 cup sugar
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
  • 2 cups fresh blueberries
  • 2 eggs
  • 1/3 cup milk
  • 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract (substitute Fiori di Sicile citrus extract if you like)
  • 4 tablespoons melted butter (cooled slightly)

1. Preheat oven to 425˚ and prepare muffin pan (butter and flour).

2. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Toss in blueberries and gently coat them.

3. Beat eggs, milk, vanilla, and melted butter together and stir into blueberry mixture just until moistened.

4. Dough will be very dry and crumbly. Spoon it into muffin cups. 

5. Bake for 15 minutes or until a knife inserted comes out dry.

Glad

 
 

“If only I had more sun in my yard, I would plant—” This thought passes through my mind each morning as I stand, hose in hand, surveying my poor garden. Well, there would be more tomatoes and green beans, of course, because the few I have now don’t provide enough to feed me and the ravenous squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons (oh, did I forget the bunnies?). There would probably be more roses, because I will never have enough roses to satisfy my senses, and I would definitely include more plants to attract butterflies and hummingbirds. But during late summer when everything is looking anemic, I would love to have an entire bed of colorful gladiolas. They’re popular cut flowers, and easily found in grocery stores this time of year, but I don’t often see them in neighborhood gardens. Grown from corms, each showy spike holds a dozen blossoms that open in sequence from bottom to top. They grow in wonderful saturated shades, ranging from yellow to deep purple, and they last for days in a vase. I grew them years ago (when I had more sun), but since they’re not winter hardy in this climate, I had to dig them up every fall and store them. As I think of this, I remember that I used to forget to dig them up so they would never grow back!  I’d have to go out and buy more corms, which may be why I stopped growing gladiolas. I guess I can't blame the lack of sun, after all.

 

Appetite

 
 

Dinner at my house is sometimes held up by the demands of creativity. Last evening I walked into the garden and picked fresh bush beans—Royal Burgundy French and Roma Italian. I cleaned them and then stood transfixed by their combination of colors and the interesting arrangement created by tossing them onto a plate. The beans deserved a photo op before going into the steamer. I’m prone to interrupting almost anything I do in this way, so I have lights ready and a small table cleared in my studio, just a hallway away from the kitchen. I can get lost in arranging and re-arranging the overlapping curves of beans and the negative spaces between them. I have to remember what else is on the stove as I click away, but the interruption usually doesn’t last long. By the time the water boiled, I was ready to cook the beans. They were tender and delicious.

 

Storm Relief

 
 

Heat and humidity have been unrelenting for the past two weeks. I should be used to it—this is July in Virginia, after all—but I dread this kind of weather more than any other. Give me a nice 15-degree snowfall, and I’ll be bundled and out the door for an afternoon of hiking. When the temperature goes over 90, the air conditioner becomes my life support and venturing outdoors is as risky as strolling on Mars. Luckily there is the occasional relief of thunderstorms. I got to witness one close up with camera in hand at Linden Vineyards last week. We were enjoying a refreshing glass of Riesling in the shade of their terrace when the sun suddenly disappeared behind clouds. Within minutes, a line of thunderheads was moving above the vines, and hard rain started pelting the rows. I took shelter under an awning that gave me a fabulous view of the storm front as it swept across the landscape. Being careful to keep the lens dry, I was able to document the shifting light and racing rain. When the storm had passed, steam rose from the ground to shroud the trees and hills. The air smelled fresh and sweet—a deep inhale of storm-cleaned oxygen is so invigorating. And the 20-degree drop in temperature was a much-appreciated bonus!

 

White Form

 
 

If I had to say what it is that inspires me about a flower—what motivates me to pick up my camera and start looking at it seriously—my first answer would be "color." So why am I spending so much time lately photographing white flowers? Ah, that's because my second answer would be "form." Form is a hard term to define. It's the visible presence and shape of an object, which can't really be separated from it's color and texture, but it's also how that object sits in space.  I'm looking at the inside of a flower, and the outline of a flower, and the way the spaces in and out interact with each other, and all together they create form. There is something restful about working with white; form is easier to perceive. In my work, I find myself going back and forth between riotous color (there's a lot of that in flowers) and quiet color (even white flowers have some color). Whatever flower I am holding in my lens, I'm paying attention to its form as a way to convey the emotional effect it has on me. Even when that flower isn't a flower at all, but the cut off bottom of a cabbage!