In my brain is a tree. Its trunk is the brain stem, its leaves are thoughts, a myriad of them, many that look the same. Its roots spread out along the byways to the very edges of me where they take in air and sunshine and sustenance. The trunk divides in two, one leader in each half of my brain, and in each, amid the complications of branches is a crow.
Now, you may not recognise the voice of a crow as song because they’ve had a bad wrap, but they sing of sunshine and wings, grubs, the dank delicious flesh of the freshly dead, and they sing of love and babies, just like we all do.
And what they sing with, is air, like the air on the intricate surface of our skin or in each alveoli of our lungs, the air that courses through all of those byways of brain and body, and trunk and leaves.
having been burnt to its roots the parsley thrives and I take it as a metaphor
the wagtail on its wings of frailty expresses in its flight something like joy
sometimes my dead mum comes wearing a sun hat flowers and secateurs in her hands
the heart that breaks and breaks and breaks until there’s beauty even in that
a seedling weed it’s virility pushing towards seed what will I plant now in the burnt garden of my heart
these happy flowers of the onion weed nod their heads and here I am with my murderous intent
twittering out of sight some unknown bird about its business of eating and loving
following the heart’s happiness I find I quite enjoy hanging out washing
that I am earth lying here on it gazing at the sky sometimes the mind needs rest, and so …
By Sunday, we will have a roof on the structure that will be our home! Lock up next week. Wow! It looks enormous perched on the hillside on its piles of excavated dirt. With the partly enclosed veranda it is a slightly larger floor plan, but is actually a little less tall than our old house, but because it has no trees around, it sticks out like … a new build on a bare hill. The old house nestled in like it wasn’t there. It was, in fact, just as visible but no one noticed it. Now we have people saying, ‘Dean called me out to the veranda the other day and said, “Look over there. We can see Ervin and Belinda’s new house.”‘ They always could because I looked, standing there one day.
The veranda will be able to be closed with shutters, if it ever has to face down flame again. Otherwise we would have to shift anything flammable inside, not something you want to have to do while running.
Today we will finalise choices on the kitchen cabinets. On Friday it was choosing for the bathroom. All I can say is I am glad I have our wonderful daughter managing all this, and managing me and holding my hand when confronted with a vast array of possibilities, tiles for e.g..
A bit inundated lately. I feel like the guy on the right; my brain oozing out.
Still, I’m enjoying this notebook that I’ve been keeping for the 30 days of drawing. It’s longer than thirty days now. Usually I go through a notebook in less than thirty days but this one is mostly drawing. It will be on display. That’s new. My notebooks are usually quite private.
The one in the left was done while watching TV. Right hand one is from Kasia Tons’ wonderful embroidered masks. Have a look at her work on frewster.com Amazing stuff.
Ink and handmade brushes and nibs. Very yummy fun.
We’re getting to the pointy end of this process. I can’t wait to see everyone’s work on the walls.
If you’re a Facebooker (and even if you aren’t) look up Big Draw Lobethal. Some of the other participants work is up there.
One thing I love about drawing is that the immediacy shows. Take something like this to painting or printmaking and it is very hard to keep that feeling of looseness. And even if you do it usually remains a drawing. Or looks contrived.
We are having lots of discussions in the group I’m participating in (30 days of drawing, for The Big Draw, in Lobethal, South Australia) about what drawing and painting are, and where the separation might be.
A friend of mine said she things of a lot of painters as drawers. Toulouse-Lautrec, obviously, but also Picasso because his images are founded in line. This is different from painters who build up images in colour and tone. Cezanne, I think, even Van Gogh, though I love his reed pen drawings too. Come to think of it, those drawings, even though monochrome, seem to build up the images with repetitive movement rather than define an outline.
What do you think? Can you think of good examples of both?