And by that, I mean an artist. One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.
In the dead of winter, on the days my lips grow numb and my fingertips bright, I listen hard for green. For growth. For the churning of cellular multiplication, for the hum of photosynthesis, for the rhythm of sleep, for the good work of life turning within the solar system of pods and twigs and trunks, for the beating heart of it all.
I woke up this morning mind churning. I've love the dawn, the first bite of morning, the blueness, the hope. I would be up with the first light every day if not for my sleepy-brain which seduces me with a great woolen cloud draped over my eyes. But not today. Not today sleepy brain! I know exactly what I want to create with my hours on this gorgeous frozen Monday.
I've become extra picky and discerning regarding the nests I bring home this winter - a far cry from the enthusiastic collecting frenzy I embarked upon last year. But this one... she's a beaut. I may need to do up a quick watercolor. Or a series. Watercolor nests? Sounds good.
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I'm listening hard to my own truths, those tracks that lead you ever farther off the broad path and into the deepest woods with the richest loam and most fertile detritus. On that and other virtues of introversion, this TED speech by Susan Cain was one of the most inspired things I've heard all week. I love TED speeches. It's been around for a while, but one of my very favorite ones is Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the muse. If you've not heard either, well, load them up stat.
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It was cold, so cold in the shadow of the Ridge that my lips were too numb to whistle at the pups. I should have worn mittens. I really need a manicure. Luckily for me, as I crunched through frozen mud and hardened grasslands, I bought these for my feet a few weeks back and have hardly worn anything else since. Thank the boot gods!
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I keep trying to deep clean the studio, really shake out the dust and wax on a fine polish, but there are just too many ideas. I clear off the desk and feel immediately called to roll out fresh paper, spread out the paints. I categorize the cabochons and chains and then immediately realize I need them all back out again. In the meantime, I'm collecting my lusty dream studio spaces right here.
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This week, like so many others, has held the full tide of creative highs and lows: I burned the holy shit out of a gorgeous ring (a large, large, multi layered thing) and then created one of the most sacred tribute pieces that has ever passed through my hands. There is so much capacity for fullness in any given day, week, year. So much capacity for listening, for seeing, for seeking. I'm just learning so much these days. * * * I'd love to hear one bit from your week, just a little something, if you feel compeled to share! Either way, I wish you a weekend full of woolen mittens and robins gifts!
This was a lesson in slowing. The push and pull of sinew, the animal warmth, scent rising as heavenly incense. The tactile delight of mortals.
This was breath. Rhythm. Wisps of song sliding upward. Bits of prayer tumbling forth. A quiet. A roar. A quivering in the sleek tide of night.
This was homage to cellular souls long melded with stardust. Tribute to the spark and the small feet that carried it. A paean of gratitude, life for life in the cyclical dance.
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(vintage rabbit fur, tanned deer skin, sterling silver, ocean jasper. A absolute labor of love and meditation)
She is a thing of smoke and vapors, giddy and clever, caring not for the clock or food or sleep or restless dogs or dinner dates. Yesterday I spent the afternoon fussing about in the studio, combing through cabochons, pushing bits and scraps of silver around, driving to the art store and buying a handful of new watercolors. There was this thing, this idea, this phrase I wanted to bring to tangible life. I knew the visceral movement of it, the emotional evocation, the balance, the ascetic, the raw feeling of it, but the physical form fleeted just out of reach.
A nebulous, potent idea, like grasping air or balancing water.
Then, after the studio was closed down for the night, after dinner and wine and tea and this ridiculous flourless-chocolate-cake-from-WholeFoods-my-newest-gluttonous-addiction, and teeth brushing and face washing...
After all that, my muse woke up. (how fabulously, terribly typical)
I was so tired, so physically done, but my mind came alive with color. In the dark shadows of the bedroom I could see it, translucent and spacial, arcing and sparking. The essence of idea distilled to form. I felt that if I could just close tight my eyes and trace those colors with my fingertips, the glowing line left behind would hold the key to unlocking this visceral riddle like a land map to buried treasure.
I laid in bed and debated. It was cozy under my hive of blankets and the studio was no doubt hovering around 39 degrees. Sancho was already snoring. And so I asked her, with a bit of chagrin, if she could please just let me sleep and come back in the morning after coffee.
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