July 11. Hudson River.
I like to draw flower buds. In fact, I like to draw the place where the flower bud attaches to the stem. Little details like that interest me, and drawing something beyond what I can hold in my hand hurts my head. This exercise hurt my head.
But I did it anyway. I wanted to see the world beyond my hand, and I wanted to see the color of the river on the paper.
In the tiny inlet, dogs splashed and played while I drew. A fisherman stood on the bank just to the left of the edge of this picture. I didn't see him catch anything, but I wasn't watching him closely and he was quiet. The lawn hadn't been mowed and all sorts of weeds were blooming. All sorts of bugs and birds shared the stretch of grass with me, and next time I draw in that spot, I'll try to include them.
4 comments:
For some reason, your post reminds me of this from Robert Frost:
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
I paused and said, 'I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther- and we shall see'.
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went through. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tail slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather-
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled- and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before.
The wood was gray and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
· To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.
Well, hurray for you hurting your head! I mean, we should all try to expand what we can do and eventually the pain goes away. Or we can take some aspirin.
Jeremiah, you must explain the reason my post reminded you of that poem. I will tell you that I love that I reminded you of any poem and that you posted it here. I haven't read this one before. The unused wood pile makes me sad.
Mapelba, it's one of those good pains.
I'm a big fan of Frost's poetry. I think because his descriptive gifts are so awesome. I imagine him struggling to find the right words (as I imagine you struggling over your drawings to express the detail of your observations in a concise and effective way). In this piece, in particular, I think his language seems easy and almost conversational, but in fact I think he labored over the exact words: "hard snow", "all in lines", "flew before me", the anthropomorphic, yet entirely birdlike bird behavior, the way in which he tells us about the age of the woodpile by referring to the clematis, the absence of tracks in the snow, the grayness of the wood itself, almost like negative space in a sketch or drawing...
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