- Published on
Awaiting Myself on Both Sides
"Awaiting Myself on Both Sides" - oil on clayboard panel, 14 .25vx 18.5 inches. (click on the image to purchase)
“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.”
― Dejan Stojanovic, The Shape
“I am the shore and the ocean, awaiting myself on both sides.”
― Dejan Stojanovic, The Shape
I am the solid ground of the shoreline, the. mountains, the rocks, cliffs and loamy forest floor. And I am the tempestuous, ever-changing ocean, sometimes with rip currents and sneaker waves and other times glassy and warm against the feet wading within it. We don't have to be one thing or the other - we can be both.
We live in polarized times - black and white, one way or the other, you're ok or you're not.
But really we are ever-changing beings, growing and transforming with each day, each experience and every thought and interaction. It is really alright to wake up one day and be the mountain, and another day the ocean. We are many-layered, complex beings, expansive and ethereal.
I've spent a long time trying to put myself in boxes that no longer fit (or did not fit in the first place). This includes creative boxes - trying to make the things other people think I should be making, or that the market says are hot, or that my skill level feels comfortable with. Oh no OH NO!
Do you find yourself sitting inside those boxes, too? Let's bust out together.
But really we are ever-changing beings, growing and transforming with each day, each experience and every thought and interaction. It is really alright to wake up one day and be the mountain, and another day the ocean. We are many-layered, complex beings, expansive and ethereal.
I've spent a long time trying to put myself in boxes that no longer fit (or did not fit in the first place). This includes creative boxes - trying to make the things other people think I should be making, or that the market says are hot, or that my skill level feels comfortable with. Oh no OH NO!
Do you find yourself sitting inside those boxes, too? Let's bust out together.
About the art - I began with a happenstance series of inspiration images generated by the AI bot (I love when it surprises and delights me!) and then choosing the elements within those images that called to me. I sketched directly onto the clayboard with walnut oil thinned oil paint, then began building the layers. To achieve the effect of water, I applied many light layers of glaze drawn across the clayboard horizontally with a wide rubber wedge. Lots of drying time between layers! Resisting the urge to overly define (what is the dark rectangle in the upper left? The viewer's eye gets to decide) - walking away before mucking about too much.
It's time for the July Reader Giveaway! Leave a comment on a blog post this month and be automatically entered in the drawing for FREE ART! Woot! Your participation helps me, helps others and adds some sparkle to the universe. Thank you!!
- Published on
Get Up And Wander
"Get Up And Wander" - oil on gallery wrapped canvas, 18 x 36 x 1.25 inches. Ready to hang. (click on the image to purchase)
Up too early again. Listening to the patter of rain dripping from the tree limbs onto the tent and the hush of the creek in the darkness. Breathing in the scent of earth and rain. I can’t believe we are here, surrounded by these old trees and mountains, with days ahead of us. I’m a little boy all over again, incredulous that this place actually exists, and I am here in it. I want to get up and wander down to the creek and feel its black, wet, cold aliveness on my skin.
- RICHARD J. NEVLE
There is nothing quite like old trees, mountains and the ocean to make grown humans feel like kids again. And the exquisite luxury of time to enjoy it, more than just a day or two, makes the experience fully immersive.
Up too early again. Listening to the patter of rain dripping from the tree limbs onto the tent and the hush of the creek in the darkness. Breathing in the scent of earth and rain. I can’t believe we are here, surrounded by these old trees and mountains, with days ahead of us. I’m a little boy all over again, incredulous that this place actually exists, and I am here in it. I want to get up and wander down to the creek and feel its black, wet, cold aliveness on my skin.
- RICHARD J. NEVLE
There is nothing quite like old trees, mountains and the ocean to make grown humans feel like kids again. And the exquisite luxury of time to enjoy it, more than just a day or two, makes the experience fully immersive.
I get a little antsy if I don't get outside enough. My nervous system responds to nature with a deep exhale, sheds its anxiety and just is. Even when the hike is long, hard and uphill both ways. Even when it's raining and cold. Even when it's blisteringly hot and oppressively sunny.
The world we live in sends us messages which can keep us away from this balm - too busy, too tired, it's too far, it's too buggy, it will take too long and so on. And yet every time I overcome these ne'er-do-well thoughts, I am instantly glad. And feeling like a kid again? Heck YES!
About the art: this is a large piece created over top of another murdered painting. I fussed with the original piece until it just felt hopeless, dark and unsatisfying. What's the fix for that? Heaps of softer, brighter colors and some groooooooovy texture (thank you, failed underpainting!) along with a hint of whimsy (the heart just revealed itself - not planned at all). I lost count of the layers, and it took months (not weeks) to dry.
Big thanks to artist and blogger Dotty Seiter (dottyseiter.com) who recently posted about tearing up a piece of art that just wasn't working. It inspired me to rip a piece to, um, well, pieces. No worries - those pieces will become fodder for collage later. Yay!
It's time for the JUNE READER GIVEAWAY! This month's reader question is: what do YOU do to refill your creative tank? Leave a comment below. One (or more) lucky readers will be selected at random and win an original piece of art - FREE!
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"Sorrow is the True Wild" - oil on Yupo, 17 x 24. Available here and at Artfinder.
Is sorrow the true wild?
And if it is -and if we join them - your wild to mine - what's that?
For joining, too, is a kind of annihilation.
What if we joined our sorrows, I'm saying.
I'm saying: What if that is joy?
- ROSS GAY, The Book of Delights
Is sorrow the true wild?
And if it is -and if we join them - your wild to mine - what's that?
For joining, too, is a kind of annihilation.
What if we joined our sorrows, I'm saying.
I'm saying: What if that is joy?
- ROSS GAY, The Book of Delights
We leave Alice exploring in the background for a bit as we dive into the wild-er-ness. Wilder than Alice? Oh, indeed.
This month, mixed-media mosaic artist Helaine Abramson and I explore wolves, women and art in A Song For The Hunted. When creating a show like this, there are a lot of things that end up on the cutting room floor, as they say.
This month, mixed-media mosaic artist Helaine Abramson and I explore wolves, women and art in A Song For The Hunted. When creating a show like this, there are a lot of things that end up on the cutting room floor, as they say.
Sorrow is the True Wild
We give ourselves a restricted number of pieces for these shows, but the muse doesn't care for rules or guidelines, so there are stacks of wolves and women who appeared along the way. And threads of thought and inspiration less explored, like this one - sharing sorrow, joining wilds, creating joy.
If the "wild" is the sorrow and the sorrow is the wolf, then my wolf looms large and feisty behind me. Hovering, coloring what I see, shadowing. But that very thing, shared with another, does, indeed create a visceral JOY - a connection unexpected and energetic and healing. Oh yes.
If the "wild" is the sorrow and the sorrow is the wolf, then my wolf looms large and feisty behind me. Hovering, coloring what I see, shadowing. But that very thing, shared with another, does, indeed create a visceral JOY - a connection unexpected and energetic and healing. Oh yes.
About the art: for this one, I used myself as a model for the AI bot, uploading my own photo and asking for woman and wolf in a sepia-toned sketch. Six degrees of separation from my photo later, the bot landed on a series of woman and wolf sketches that had my inner muse beaming.
Beginning with a light wash of thinned oil paint on Yupo and a very sketchy charcoal sketch, slowly adding varied values. Carving back through the wet paint with chopstick, rubber wedge, paintbrush handles to create a scratch, sketchy textured feel to the paint. As always, resisting the urge to overly define, letting the wildness remain.
Beginning with a light wash of thinned oil paint on Yupo and a very sketchy charcoal sketch, slowly adding varied values. Carving back through the wet paint with chopstick, rubber wedge, paintbrush handles to create a scratch, sketchy textured feel to the paint. As always, resisting the urge to overly define, letting the wildness remain.
We've launched softly this month...little fanfare, a few cheeky adverts. We are so incredibly grateful for the hundreds of you who have already stopped in on opening weekend, left comments on Facebook and Instagram, sent emails and encouragement.
The show is open through July 31. Pop in as often as you'd like! And who knows? One (or more!) visitors and commenters this month may win a little something from us. Woot! Or should we say "awoooooooooooooo"?
The show is open through July 31. Pop in as often as you'd like! And who knows? One (or more!) visitors and commenters this month may win a little something from us. Woot! Or should we say "awoooooooooooooo"?
- Published on
"The Wild Edge of Sorrow" - oil on canvas, 15 x 30 x 1. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
[Shame] is unspeakable because we do not want anyone to know how we feel inside. We fear it is irreparable because we think it is not something we have done wrong - it is simply who we are. We cannot remove the stain from our core. We search and search for the defect, hoping that, once found, it can be exorcised like some grotesque demon. But it lingers, remaining there our entire lives. anxious that it will be seen and simultaneously longing to be seen and touched with compassion. - from The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller.
Even as the skies are watering us with spring, it seems there is a great weeping sadness in the world.
Perhaps it is just my own clouded view, my own lens, my own filtering of news and social media posts and lessons learned (an often deep source of shame) and recent loss.
[Shame] is unspeakable because we do not want anyone to know how we feel inside. We fear it is irreparable because we think it is not something we have done wrong - it is simply who we are. We cannot remove the stain from our core. We search and search for the defect, hoping that, once found, it can be exorcised like some grotesque demon. But it lingers, remaining there our entire lives. anxious that it will be seen and simultaneously longing to be seen and touched with compassion. - from The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller.
Even as the skies are watering us with spring, it seems there is a great weeping sadness in the world.
Perhaps it is just my own clouded view, my own lens, my own filtering of news and social media posts and lessons learned (an often deep source of shame) and recent loss.
The Wild Edge of Sorrow
And yet...here in the studio where the will god prods, there sits a book on the supply shelf waiting to be digested. Recommended by a divinely creative friend and collector, Weller's book unpacks sorrow in a way both scientific and spiritual. As that book sits in my own two hands, the lightness of connection, compassion and being seen lifts the burden of loss and says, "Lola, you are not alone."
Here in the community of tender hearts (artists, writers, sensitives, creators, collectors, deeply feeling humans) we can put wings on each other simply by seeing and saying. As one tender heart commented last week in the blog, "I've learned that I'm not alone in these feelings anymore and that really helps a lot..." Whoa.
Here in the community of tender hearts (artists, writers, sensitives, creators, collectors, deeply feeling humans) we can put wings on each other simply by seeing and saying. As one tender heart commented last week in the blog, "I've learned that I'm not alone in these feelings anymore and that really helps a lot..." Whoa.
About the art: after a long, rambling creative session with the AI bot, from cyborg fairies all the way to ballet, a tiny snippet of one of the resulting images inspired this piece. Beginning with a canvas toned with the general range of background colors planned for the piece, I drew a colored pencil sketch and lightly painted in the shapes with thinned oil paints. The key to this one was keeping the abstraction of the figure and background, so many big steps back as I over-defined and had to dial it down again. Ending with a final coat of thick paint applied with a palette knife. That pop of minty-ness makes my mouth water. Yum.
Wonder Mike and Lilly selected TWO winners from the April Reader Giveaway commenters! Congratulations Carol K. and Kelly M! Send your mailing address to the shipping hounds at thewanderingsoflola@gmail.com and your big prizes will be flying to you in the post. And thanks SO much for participating!
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They Caught the Wild Children
"They Caught the Wild Children" - oil on paper, 24 x 22. Available here and at Artfinder.
They caught the wild children and put them in zoos,
They made them do sums and wear sensible shoes.
They put them to bed at the wrong time of day, And made them sit still when they wanted to play.
They scrubbed them with soap and they made them eat peas. They made them behave and say pardon and please.
They took all their wisdom and wildness away.
That’s why there are none in the forests today.
- Wild Child, by Jeanne Willis
They caught the wild children and put them in zoos,
They made them do sums and wear sensible shoes.
They put them to bed at the wrong time of day, And made them sit still when they wanted to play.
They scrubbed them with soap and they made them eat peas. They made them behave and say pardon and please.
They took all their wisdom and wildness away.
That’s why there are none in the forests today.
- Wild Child, by Jeanne Willis
It is April and this morning it snowed.
In the studio, the wild god continues to nudge and prod - there are directions I'm heading in which are mighty peculiar. The inspirational can of worms has been opened and the horse is out of the barn. I fall asleep visualizing brush strokes and color. I awaken thinking of composition and subjects, stories and themes. Oh!
The A.I. bot and I are heading down the rabbit hole of fairytale and fantasy. If only I could paint faster! And yet, the whole point is to paint more slowly.
Perhaps the morning snow is a message - slow down, Lola. It's too soon to put away mittens and boots.
In the studio, the wild god continues to nudge and prod - there are directions I'm heading in which are mighty peculiar. The inspirational can of worms has been opened and the horse is out of the barn. I fall asleep visualizing brush strokes and color. I awaken thinking of composition and subjects, stories and themes. Oh!
The A.I. bot and I are heading down the rabbit hole of fairytale and fantasy. If only I could paint faster! And yet, the whole point is to paint more slowly.
Perhaps the morning snow is a message - slow down, Lola. It's too soon to put away mittens and boots.
About the art: beginning with an A.I. prompt "little red riding hood" and about three dozen resulting images, veering away from the prompt to capture just the wild child within the tale. A rough sketch in colored pencil on toned Arches oil paper, then slowly capturing faces with layers of oil paint thinned with Liquin. Drawing into the paint with a small brush laden with paint thinner and color, using broad arm gestures to avoid prissiness.
Stay tuned for April's Reader Giveaway! Wonder Mike and Lilly are busy selecting the prize - reader comments and entries begin next week!
- Published on
The Wild God, Denouement
"The Wild God, Denouement", oil on gallery-wrapped canvas, 30 x 30 x 1.5 Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
Your dog is asleep on the table.
Your wife is stirring, far above.
Your cheeks are wet with tears;
Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.
A black bear is sitting by the fire.
Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.
He is awkward and does not know the ways
Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.
His voice makes vinegar from wine
And brings the dead to life.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons.
Here we are, at the end.
The end of the exploration of Tom Hiron's wild god and all the poking and prodding and demanding it has made of us - a gut-check and a reminder to nurture our passions. Oh and Oh.
There is something deeply satisfying about creating a body of work in response to a poem. Beginning last summer with Nudge - Shove with Sylvia Plath's poetry and artist Helaine Abramson, the unfurling of a thread between the words, the thoughts, the emotions and the arts became a lure, a whisper, a nudge. (Helaine and I will travel this path again, we think! But view last summer's exploration here.)
Wandering with Hiron's wild god in the paint pushed me places I've not been, and also renewed passions I had let wither a bit. Not dissimilar to the wanders my husband and I take in the wilds, where the ways are difficult but the payoff is placing your feet (and eyes and ears and skin and heart) places where you've not imagined before. Oh again.
The full poem and the paintings it inspired are gathered for viewing here. A solo exhibit, of sorts. My cheeks are wet with tears, my mouth aches from laughter and shouting. A minotaur sits in the paint.
The end of the exploration of Tom Hiron's wild god and all the poking and prodding and demanding it has made of us - a gut-check and a reminder to nurture our passions. Oh and Oh.
There is something deeply satisfying about creating a body of work in response to a poem. Beginning last summer with Nudge - Shove with Sylvia Plath's poetry and artist Helaine Abramson, the unfurling of a thread between the words, the thoughts, the emotions and the arts became a lure, a whisper, a nudge. (Helaine and I will travel this path again, we think! But view last summer's exploration here.)
Wandering with Hiron's wild god in the paint pushed me places I've not been, and also renewed passions I had let wither a bit. Not dissimilar to the wanders my husband and I take in the wilds, where the ways are difficult but the payoff is placing your feet (and eyes and ears and skin and heart) places where you've not imagined before. Oh again.
The full poem and the paintings it inspired are gathered for viewing here. A solo exhibit, of sorts. My cheeks are wet with tears, my mouth aches from laughter and shouting. A minotaur sits in the paint.
About the art: beginning with a gesso'd linen canvas, "drawing" the figures on in a toned neutral oil paint thinned with Liquin. Wiping away the paint to create the highlights - removing details with a battery-powered eraser tool. This creates texture and grit where the paint has been absorbed into the linen and removed on the high points. Adding in darks and color. Deciding the man needs hair and a beard like seaweed, as the story reveals itself and the characters tell me what they want to be. Resisting the urge to perfect and correct. Allowing the paint to direct and murmur. Wishing I could be hugged by a minotaur.
A.I.-generated inspiration image
wiping away
let's add a beard to match his hair
in situ
- Published on
The Wild God Nods His Head
"The Wild God Nods His Head" - oil on cradled wood panel, 20 x 20 x 1.5. Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
- from Sometimes a Wild God, by Tom Hirons
Listen to them:
The fox in your neck and
The snakes in your arms and
The wren and the sparrow and the deer…
The great un-nameable beasts
In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…
There is a symphony of howling.
A cacophony of dissent.
The wild god nods his head and
You wake on the floor holding a knife,
A bottle and a handful of black fur.
- from Sometimes a Wild God, by Tom Hirons
We're so near the end of Hiron's poem. Are you listening to the snakes in your arms yet? Hiron's wild god wants us to inhabit our passions - to nurture and protect our unfettered creativity. The words are visceral and rightly so. It resonates deep within my bones.
Just one more piece to this poem, which has kept me company in the studio for a couple of months now. It has prodded, poked, stabbed and shoved. I will miss its daily prickliness. And yet, I am now holding a knife, a bottle and a handful of black fur. A beast emerges in the paint.
Just one more piece to this poem, which has kept me company in the studio for a couple of months now. It has prodded, poked, stabbed and shoved. I will miss its daily prickliness. And yet, I am now holding a knife, a bottle and a handful of black fur. A beast emerges in the paint.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image the A.I. bot and I collaborated on (the beast in the background of the imaged called me deeply), I toned a smooth cradled panel with a neutral glow. Slowly working outward from the center and creating texture within the wet paint using paper towels, chopsticks, small rubber wedges and the wrong (right!) ends of paintbrushes. Allowing the "frame" portions to remain rather sketchy, keeping the focus on the (now nodding) wild god.
inspiration image
working from the center outward
building layers
boldly becoming
detail
The reader giveaway winners have been selected! Wonder Mike and Lilly selected THREE lucky readers! Wooohooo!
Thank you for reading, for commenting and for sharing your wisdom. I am so inspired by your commitment to, new pursuit of, rekindling of and delight in your very own wild passions and creativity!
Stay tuned! A new reader giveaway arrives in April!
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I Was Busy Surviving
"I Was Busy Surviving" - oil on paper, 23 x 23. Available here and at Artfinder.
The wild god points to your side.
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
You are bleeding heavily.
You have been bleeding for a long time,
Possibly since you were born.
There is a bear in the wound.
‘Why did you leave me to die?’
Asks the wild god and you say:
‘I was busy surviving.
The shops were all closed;
I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’
from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Here I am still. Communing with this poem and the wild god at my door, in my studio, in the paint. And this bit of the poem - oh and oh. Why did you leave me to die? asks the wild god. And how often have I left my inspiration, passion, interests and sparkle to die while I was busy surviving? For much of my life, I fear. But, I didn't know how.
How do we feed what makes us thrive when we are busy trying to survive? How do we exist in the world of should and musts and responsibility and busyness and yet nourish, protect, inspire, infuse, inhabit the wild god of our passions and explorations? It is, by far, the thing I most hear from other artists and creatives - how do we live in the world and yet create?
I know how I have learned to do it. And how I am still learning to say yes and yes and YES, HALLELUJAH when the wild god knocks at the door (and yes even when the muse is not present - show up and often things happen) But what I'd love to know is how do YOU inhabit your passions, dear reader? Perhaps your secret techniques will be just the whisper another creative needs in this very moment.
Both Wonder Mike and Lilly think this is an important question - and will reward one lucky commenter with a piece of original art! Yep, it's time for the MARCH READER GIVEAWAY (not giving away a reader, nope nope! Giving away a bit of original art!! Leave a comment below to be entered.
How do we feed what makes us thrive when we are busy trying to survive? How do we exist in the world of should and musts and responsibility and busyness and yet nourish, protect, inspire, infuse, inhabit the wild god of our passions and explorations? It is, by far, the thing I most hear from other artists and creatives - how do we live in the world and yet create?
I know how I have learned to do it. And how I am still learning to say yes and yes and YES, HALLELUJAH when the wild god knocks at the door (and yes even when the muse is not present - show up and often things happen) But what I'd love to know is how do YOU inhabit your passions, dear reader? Perhaps your secret techniques will be just the whisper another creative needs in this very moment.
Both Wonder Mike and Lilly think this is an important question - and will reward one lucky commenter with a piece of original art! Yep, it's time for the MARCH READER GIVEAWAY (not giving away a reader, nope nope! Giving away a bit of original art!! Leave a comment below to be entered.
AI-generated inspiration image
work in process
why didn't I take. more process pics?
At last! She has an arm.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image generated by the A.I. bot responding to written prompts. Note the bot decided the woman did not need an arm!!! I used a grid on this one to keep myself from veering too far from the composition. After toning the Arches oil paper with oil paint and liquin (several days to dry), then a grid and sketch with colored pencil. Working from the inside out, applying layers and glazing the requisite 80 million times. I pulled the man forward in my rendition, deciding the interaction between these two characters needed a spotlight. And that she needed an arm. :)
- Published on
Hymns to Enchantments
"Hymns to Enchantments" - oil on paper, 22 x 30. Available here and at Artfinder.
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
The wild god dances with your dog.
You dance with the sparrows.
A white stag pulls up a stool
And bellows hymns to enchantments.
A pelican leaps from chair to chair.
In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.
Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.
Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.
The hills echo and the grey stones ring
With laughter and madness and pain.
In the middle of the dance,
The house takes off from the ground.
Clouds climb through the windows;
Lightning pounds its fists on the table
And the moon leans in.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Ooooooooh the wild god is running rampant around the studio! Enchantment is everywhere. Stags bellowing, sparrows dancing, pelicans leaping, lightning pounding fists.
I continue my exploration of Hiron's poem, which is nearly always running through my thoughts. The A.I. bot is fickle like the muse...you have to show up regularly to get good results. This inspiration image was created on a very good day with the bot. So much magic; only two hands to paint it with. And then the moon leans in.
About the art: this piece, a full sheet of Arches oil paper, was a dance in itself. Wanting to capture the essence of the inspiration image, but lighten the ominousness of it a bit, I began with a background of layered oil paints thinned with liquin and applied with a rubber wedge and paper towel. A light sketch in colored pencil and then working methodically right to let (I am largely a southpaw, so trying to keep my arm from dragging through the paint) and from top to bottom. Using negative space to define the figures. Building layers with brushes and wedges, then drawing back into the paint with a bit of paint thinner on a brush to create the delicious runny "swirlyness" that the bot does so well.
You might notice the bot does not do hands well - take a look at the inspiration image. It's good to know artificial intelligence has creative limits. :)
You might notice the bot does not do hands well - take a look at the inspiration image. It's good to know artificial intelligence has creative limits. :)
inspiration image
work in process
adding color
wardrobe
- Published on
"Exults and Weeps at Once" - oil on paper, 15 x 18. Available here and at Artfinder.
You cough again,
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Expectorate the snakes and
Water down the whiskey,
Wondering how you got so old
And where your passion went.
The wild god reaches into a bag
Made of moles and nightingale-skin.
He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,
Raises an eyebrow
And all the birds begin to sing.
The fox leaps into your eyes.
Otters rush from the darkness.
The snakes pour through your body.
Your dog howls and upstairs
Your wife both exults and weeps at once.
- from Sometimes a Wild God by Tom Hirons
Exults and Weeps at Once
March finds me still in thrall with the wild god.
Hiron's poem nudges and prods, demands and whispers, pushes and dares. Let the wild god not find us, dear reader, wondering how we got so old and where our passion went. Instead, let us listen to the foxes and otters and snakes and live on the edge of our eyeballs whenever we can. And so, in witnessing what is emerging in the paint while the wild god prods, I both exult and weep at once.
Hiron's poem nudges and prods, demands and whispers, pushes and dares. Let the wild god not find us, dear reader, wondering how we got so old and where our passion went. Instead, let us listen to the foxes and otters and snakes and live on the edge of our eyeballs whenever we can. And so, in witnessing what is emerging in the paint while the wild god prods, I both exult and weep at once.
About the art: beginning with an inspiration image provided by the A.I. bot, who seems to very much like ballet (oh yes, even monsters, villains, goats, rabbits and demons might be wearing tutus when you ask the bot for things), I set out to create a deeply colored piece with an air of thoughtful wistfulness and contemplation. Beginning with a light sketch in color pencil, laying down thin washes of oil paint with rubber wedge, brush and paper towel. Allowing the paint to do things on its own, resisting the urge to perfect, overly clarify or define. This one is on Arches oil paper, which remains my new favorite.
