With all the family traveling elsewhere for Thanksgiving, we decided to go to our favorite Plan B—a Thanksgiving hike. I cooked the turkey the day before so we could carry delicious turkey sandwiches in our packs. The morning was clear and cold, and we headed to Hawksbill Mountain in Shenandoah National Park, knowing that the views would be spectacular. With hiking poles in hand and camera slung over my shoulder, I made my way slowly up the back trail across the talus slope, stopping to capture fringes of ice crystals on the rocks. There were plenty of hikers out—students, foreign tourists, and entire families—all cheerful and excited to be enjoying the holiday on the trails. By the time we reached our favorite overlook, our appetites were ready. We sat out on sunny rocks munching turkey sandwiches and sipping hot tea. We missed the trimmings—mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts, gravy—but the view was quietly filling. There is always so much to be grateful for!
First Frost
Busy catching up indoors after my California trip, I wasn't really tuned in to the outside temperature. Out of curiosity, I looked up the weather the night before the market and was surprised that temperatures were suddenly dipping well below freezing. I grabbed jacket, gloves, and flashlight and dashed outside to the garden to hunt for anything I could salvage before the frost—a few herbs, some flowers, and the last of my Swiss chard. I hated cutting all of the chard since it was the healthiest and hardiest thing growing, but I didn't want to chance losing it. Back inside I couldn't help noticing the range of colors in the leaves—there's a reason it's called rainbow chard! I decided it was too beautiful to hide in the fridge and made it my centerpiece instead.
Lotusland
I returned to Southern California last week for a family wedding in Ojai near Santa Barbara. Since our son and his family now live in Connecticut, I’ve been missing my trips to the land of light and its beautiful botanic gardens. I made up for lost opportunities by touring Ganna Walska Lotusland in Montecito, one of the great gardens of the world. A member of our family is now gardener in charge of the cacti and succulents there, and he gave us a private tour on a closed Monday afternoon. Though I’d visited the garden years ago, it was a treat to walk through it with someone so knowledgeable and eager to share its quirks and beauties. High clouds rolled in before our tour, and though the light was flat, it allowed the plants to reveal themselves in different ways. The cacti, from all over the Americas, are always spectacular, but the soft light emphasized their textures, and color variations were more evident in the succulents. Many of the aloes were getting ready to bloom, though this pink aloe, located near a kidney shaped pond surrounded by giant clam shells, was striking on its own. My favorite part of the tour was a walk through the cycad gardens, where more than 450 specimens of these primitive cone-bearing plants are on display. I had to be dragged away by my camera strap, but then I found myself among blooming bromeliads and could have spent the rest of the afternoon framing their unusual blossoms with my lens. Though the gardens are renowned (and named) for the dazzling display of Asian lotus blossoms, all was quiet in the lotus pool. I had to make do with palms, ferns, roses, and the topiary gardens. There’s a short “flyover” video on the website. If you can’t be there in person, at least enjoy this bird’s eye view of the 37-acre garden.
Dinner Delight
It happens frequently—I’m in a hurry prepping dinner, and I'm suddenly struck by the beauty in front of me. I have to stop to admire the color, pattern, or texture of whatever vegetable is sitting on the cutting board. Then I have to locate my camera, and carry my subject into the studio for the correct lighting, and before I know it, I’ve drifted off into a world where my eyes are wide open and my stomach is irrelevant. My husband is a patient man who does a lot of his own creative drifting, so he understands. And my delightful distraction never affects the quality of our meal!
Side of the Road
Driving home from a trip north to visit old friends, my husband and I were enjoying the mellow afternoon light on autumn hills and fields as we raced along a Pennsylvania highway. We felt a sudden jolt in the steering and the rumble of a front wheel, and pulled over to discover we had a completely flat tire. I felt an immediate rush of emotions: fear that we could have been hurt; bewilderment that this could have happened to my almost-new tires; disappointment that our lovely, calm drive had been interrupted; irritation that I had to deal with this now; more fear that we still had a long drive on a spare tire and it would be dark soon. I can handle this, I reminded myself and took a deep breath. I thought of a phrase I’d just read in The Book of Joy: “mental immunity.” The Dalai Lama uses this phrase to describe our ability to use our minds to get perspective on our emotions. Emotions are just information—often useful and definitely necessary—but we don’t have to be ruled by them. I took another breath and looked around me. The sun was still shining, the air was warm, I was unharmed, and my dear husband was standing by me. I looked at the trees by the side of the road just as a ray of sun lit up a puddle. Beauty! My phone was in my hand and I took a picture to remind myself of this moment. Then I dialed our roadside service. They responded quickly with an extremely helpful driver, and we were back on the road not long afterwards. I glanced back at the trees as we moved onto the highway and murmured my thanks.
Paris Leaves among the Vines
During an autumn visit to Paris a few years ago, I became intrigued by the Plane tree leaves crunching underfoot, their marvelous shapes and colors standing out against the textures of sidewalk and street. I spent a lot of time in museums and cafés, but when the weather permitted, I pointed my lens at the fallen leaves. I went back the following year with a better sense of what I was looking for, and from those images, I created my Paris Leaves edition. Though they’ve been displayed a few at a time, I’m pleased to announce that Linden Vineyards has invited me to put all nine prints in their tasting room for the season. It’s a welcoming venue with the bonus of offering truly fine wines to accompany a viewing. I’ve observed that they make their wine with the same attention and affection that I make my prints, only they spend a lot more time and invest a great deal more physical labor! Only an hour from DC, Linden is a beautiful place to stop on any tour of fall foliage. Here's an opportunity to get a glimpse of Paris via Virginia wine country.
Paris Leaves
October 1 to December 31, 2017
The Linden Vineyards tasting room is open Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from 11:00 to 5:00
Signs of the Season
With the heat and humidity of the past week (and the return of air conditioning), I completely missed the vernal equinox. Suddenly, it’s officially fall. Though it may seem like lingering summer, the signs of seasonal change are beginning to show. A squirrel staggered past me in the garden, its mouth clutching three hickory nuts on a stem. It was frantically searching for a place to stash them, but I wondered if its neck would give out first. Asters and mums are making a dramatic show in my garden, and the bees are working overtime among the colorful flowers. Ornamental grasses are turning golden in the sunlight, and oat grass seeds dangle and dance in the breeze. This is the time of year I start to think about all the plans I had for my garden. Where did the time go? If I follow that line of thinking, I’m sunk. Better to acknowledge that every day is a beginning. The sun is out and I’d better get to work—like the bees!
A Breath of Fresh Tea
It was a busy morning—a client project and prep for a small exhibit opening next week—but I promised a friend I’d meet her at a local cafe for a catch-up conversation. The day was warm, with September light slanting through the trees, and I walked up the hill to our urban hangout (this used to be the countryside!). After ordering a big cup of Japanese sencha, I sat chatting about life and work, letting the tea work its magic. I haven’t had coffee for decades, though I used to love it, and still enjoy the smell of it. But I wouldn’t trade my cup of tea for..., well, I already enjoy quite a bit of all the tea in China! I am a green tea drinker, favoring teas from China and Japan. Tea is like wine, it reflects its terroir—the conditions and climate its grown in—and flavors vary with every “vintage” year. This particular sencha was delicious, and as I felt the teanine (like caffeine only different) brighten my brain, I’m sure my conversation took on a sparkle. I was certainly enjoying my pause, and I returned to my studio refreshed in body and spirit.
Harvest Happens
In my quest to photograph a vineyard through its many phases, I found myself early one morning this week standing among rows of ripe chardonnay grapes on a hilltop in Linden, Virginia. Camera slung across my shoulders and clippers in hand, I watched the experts begin the harvest. I was encouraged to start as well, and in between photographing the hands of the pickers and the light slanting through the green-gold grapes, I crouched down and started snipping. Holding a bunch gingerly, feeling its weight settle in my palm, I searched for the stem and snipped. Then I placed the bunch delicately into a plastic lug and moved on to the next bunch. Watching the harvest veterans, I was stunned by the gentleness and efficiency of their movements and the speed with which they filled their lugs. But getting as many grapes harvested as possible was the goal of the day. Predicting the right moment to harvest is a tricky business that involves testing the grapes for acidity and sugar and tasting the grapes for just that fleeting flavor that indicates everything is in balance. This requires patience and attention, but in the moist and unpredictable climate of Virginia, weather is often the deciding factor. On this day we were hustling to get the grapes picked before hurricane Irma hit the East Coast on one of its possible trajectories. Apparently no matter how well a wine grower plans, there’s a point when choices run out—harvest happens!
Eclipsed
Where were you during the solar eclipse? If you were fortunate enough to be in the heart of its shadow, it must have been a spectacular experience. My husband and I made do with our Virginia garden, testing out our homemade pinhole devices and photographing the effect of the partial eclipse on a variety of surfaces. Since we couldn’t look at the sun directly (though the pull to do so was intense), we observed the shifting light and the shadows it cast on the flowers, leaves, paths, and walls around us. We knew it wasn’t going to get very dark, but we weren’t prepared for the eerie glow—a bright gold with a purplish undercast that varied its intensity as the moon passed in front of the sun. We were also quite surprised by the uneasiness we felt as the light shifted. As artists, we pay a lot of attention to light, and its disruption felt threatening. It makes sense, I suppose, as the sun is what keeps us alive on this planet. We humans do our best to pretend we’re not affected by the natural world. This was one instance when I completely understood the urges of primitive peoples to bang on drums until the sun returned!
Veraison
Photographing at Linden Vineyards on a rare cool and sunny August morning, I couldn’t help noticing the variations of color in the grapes. Where only a few weeks ago I walked past rows and rows of yellow-green grapes, I was now seeing clusters arrayed in a rainbow of hues from bright green to deepest purple. I learned from wine grower Jim Law that the grapes had reached veraison, the point of transition from berry growth to berry ripening. During this process, sugars increase in the grapes and acids decrease, creating color change most obvious in the red varieties (which are green up to this point). This is an exciting time for a vineyard, as once grapes complete veraison (a process that takes 5 to 7 days), the clusters will be ready to pick in about 6 weeks. The countdown for harvest has begun! It’s also a reminder to a photographer who responds to the beauty of grapes and vines that I'd better get to work, as my season in the vineyard will be ending soon.
Equivalent
How is a zinnia like a tangle of electric extension chord? In my studio the other morning I was winding up the chord when I glanced out the window as the morning sun caught an orange zinnia in its rays. I walked closer to the window, and the sunlight lit up the orange chord. I had to photograph the two together in that golden light. We never think that an extension chord can be beautiful, but highlighted by the sun, it paired elegantly with a glowing zinnia.
Rediscovered
I just spent a delightful week working harder than I have in a long time. Though I'm exhausted, it's fatigue that comes from physical work with a rewarding purpose—in this case helping our son move his family into a house of their own in Connecticut. They had everything well under control, but this is the kind of transition that is greatly aided by a little extra elbow grease. And since their house sits on a small plot of land, I focused some of my efforts on evaluating the overgrown vegetation and tackling the weeds. Someone years ago must have loved this yard, because under weed trees and wisteria that had run amok I kept finding remnants of a garden planted with care—varieties of irises, some hidden sedum, and two different hydrangeas, one with lacy violet-tinged flowers. It made me think of the possibilities inherent in a garden, of the dreams and disappointments that go along with owning a piece of the earth. With the arrival of a new family, a house and garden take on new life—literally—and suddenly there is a revival of possibility in a neglected garden. It was very exciting, especially watching our two grandsons discover places to hide (and places where toads and bunnies hide!). I came home with a fresh perspective on my own garden. What would I do now if I were just moving in and discovering this garden for the first time? A lot! I can't wait for cooler weather so I can get started.
Figs and Financiers
This is the time of year when making dessert gets really interesting at my house. Despite an otherwise strong commitment to healthy eating, dessert is often on the menu—reasonable, healthy desserts, of course, but I’ll use any excuse for a session of baking therapy. With all the fruits available this time of year, I get a little carried away. In the past week I’ve made peach tart, dark chocolate cake with cherry brandy sauce, peach shortcake, and cherry clafoutis (we’ve also eaten lots of plain blueberries and cantaloupe, but no baking was involved). Then a friend brought me fresh figs, and I can get quite ecstatic about figs. They are so delicious on their own that I decided not to bake them into anything. Instead I tried out a recipe from Dorie Greenspan’s new dessert cook book, Baking Chez Moi, to go with them. I had just gotten some matcha (green tea) powder, and I remembered Greenspan has a recipe for matcha financiers. Figs and financiers? Why not. Financiers are a staple of French patisseries, a small, firm "cupcake" made with egg whites, sugar, almond flour, and brown butter. Who knows what prompted me to pair matcha with the figs, but the combination of flavors and contrast of textures was inspired. I was also rewarded with a visual bonus—their colors matched perfectly! Here are links to Dorie Greenspan's recipes for regular financiers and matcha financiers. But you'll have to find your own source for the figs.
Long-Awaited
Three summers ago, in an impulsive act common to gardeners, I fell in love with the drawing on a packet of hollyhock seeds and bought them. The delicate illustration showed stalks of flowers of such an unusual purple-black that I knew I had to see them in actual bloom. Hollyhocks are tall flowers demanding space and full sun, both of which are lacking in my small urban plot. But when has reality ever deterred love? I found a space along the bamboo fence that gets a few hours of afternoon sun, and I carefully lined up all the seeds in the packet and planted them per instruction. I waited and eventually two tentative stalks emerged. I watered and watched them as big, round leaves appeared. Both plants reached the height of one foot and stopped. A few more leaves circled the middle of each, and that was it for the season. Hollyhocks are self-sowers, but without blooms there can be no seeds. I bid them goodbye as the frosts appeared, though I couldn’t resist a stern lecture on their ingratitude. I would just cross hollyhocks off the list of plants able to survive in my garden. To my complete surprise, the two plants reappeared the following summer, though they repeated their disappointing performance. Well enough of this, I thought last fall. I know when I’m being manipulated. Something prevented me from pulling them out, and now I’m glad I resisted the urge. This week the first flowers appeared, and as promised, their color is a sultry black tinged with purple. I wasn’t prepared for the alluring spray of pink stamens bursting from the center, though. Ah love!
Happy 4th!
A burst of July wineberries fresh from the woods. Happy Independence Day!
Fluffy Meadows
Early June rains kept the ground too wet for mowing during our Vermont visit, so the pastures were beautifully overgrown and full of wildflowers. I took my two grandsons for a nature hike up the hill to share my love of wildflowers and the surprising names we give them. They giggled when I held buttercups under their chins to see if they loved butter, and both enjoyed the ragged robins fluttering like pink feathers in the breeze. The five year old considers himself a horticulturalist (his word), and he proceeded to give me alternate names for each of the flowers. Purple vetch became white horses, and wild parsnip became yellow stars. His versions were certainly in the spirit of wildflower naming, which is based on local observations and customs going back centuries. The same flower in a different locality (or language) will often have a different name. The orange paintbrushes we picked are also called devil’s paintbrushes and orange hawkweed. The two year old had the last word, though. He was more tuned in to the sensual experience of the meadow, smelling and caressing each flower he picked. Stepping into the tall grass in pursuit of pink fleabane, he petted the stalks and flowers around him and smiled. “Fluffy,” he said, and it struck me how accurately that adjective fit the meadow—soft and full enough to lie down in comfort.
Long Day
Part of the fun of being at the “lake house,” as my grandsons call our rental cottage, is staying up and celebrating the summer solstice. In Northern Vermont, the longest day is especially long, with the sky brightening just after 4 a.m. and darkening around 10:30. Reflected in the lake, the twilight seems to go on forever.
Unexpected Blue
Standing up to my knees in the icy waters of a northern lake, I gaze at distant mountains framed by the infinite blue of a summer sky. I’ve returned to Vermont to celebrate the solstice with my family, and the ritual of decades begins with testing the temperature of the water as I acknowledge the power of the landscape. And yes, as usual, the lake is too cold for swimming. I take another step out and slip a little on the rocks. Through the clear water, I am surprised to see a piece of the blue sky sitting in the sand. I bend to look closer and discover a crayfish, its blue claws setting it apart from the surrounding stones. With a little research I learn this is the virile crayfish (Orconectes virilis), a common denizen of northern streams and lakes. The blue pigment is caused by proteins and may be part of a phase in its growth, but apparently it doesn’t occur in all virile crayfish. This one is lucky to get those beautiful, sky blue claws that perfectly complement its sandy brown body. Nature at work doesn’t need a design degree! I’m not sure what advantage the blue claws give the crayfish, but they certainly have delighted me.
Evasive
Since the end of April, when I first noticed the return of the catbird pair, I’ve been trying to take a decent photo of one or the other. It’s a pursuit I start every year, and so far it has failed miserably. I see them constantly—on the hanging branch of the cedar, in the birdbath, on the fence, in the gravel outside the porch, in the garden wherever I’m digging, and most prominently perched (for just a second!) on top of the dead Japanese maple. They are the most active birds in this season of bird activity. They seem to taunt me, and I swear they know what they’re doing. They land within feet of me, cock an eye in my direction, and fly the instant I point the camera. Even when I’m lurking behind the corner of the house or waiting with camera aimed from my bedroom window, they move so quickly I only get a record of their grey blur. Named for their mewing cat-like call, grey catbirds also have a fascinating repertory of bird sounds. Like their mockingbird cousins, they skip through their playlist at the least provocation, but unlike mockingbirds, they string the phrases together only one at a time. Since they migrate each winter as far south as the Caribbean and Central America, I get to hear bird calls I’ve never heard before. I suppose I should just be content observing their energetic movements and listening to their lively concerts in my overgrown garden, but I’m not giving up my quest for a photo. I’m now looking into a GoPro with a tripwire that I can rig up in the birdbath...
Instead of posting any of my fuzzy photos, I’m relying on this detail from an 1810 sketch by the master, John James Audubon. It appears in an inspiring new book, Explorers Sketchbooks: The Art of Discovery & Adventure.