But this winter has been unremittingly cold and onerous. The last month more onerous than the month before. But like a pernicious patch of weeds that we rip up in a righteous fit, what will be left when Winter is gone? Will we get a delicate and soothing Spring or will we hurtle into a Summer of see-sawing extremes with new pernicious greenery, biting bugs and hungry slugs? And where, has timelessness gone to? How do we suspend the moments when we're so focused on trends? We don't live in fear of the weather. We live in fear of climate. The senses reel at their own confusion and powerlessness in the face of abstract and frightening speculation and prediction. We have lost our innocence but maybe a few art-filled moments of observation and wonder can sew a patch on our frayed selves.
I will try to love what I can of it and draw and draw and draw… till the cows come home.
|studies of some cows. One is eating from a bucket.|
|Bitter cold morning, the trees are coated with rime, mist. I saw a Bufflehead duck|
The sun is casting shadows across the swirling foam below the dam
View upstream; the river is encased in ice.
This drawing done from inside my car. I'm tired of winter!
Last Sunday morning: a view downstream from atop the Pleasant Street Bridge.
Trembling reflections; drawn with a big blue child's crayon
Glowing hoarfrost and Icy skirts on the island's rocky shore
|You can't put your hand in the same river (or season) twice.|