Tracey in Maine

I have been trying to photograph a vase of baby’s breath for quite a while now.  The stems were part of a larger bouquet, just filler for the fancier flowers.  But as those flowers passed away, the baby’s breath remained, tall and strong though with a certain fragility.

This morning as I sat at the kitchen table thinking about the chaos in many a friend and family member’s life right now, people who are bearing the weight of so much sadness, my eyes kept falling upon the vase of baby’s breath.  The light from that same sun that struck the green sage mentioned in an earlier post now fell upon fine white petals.

Against the backdrop of a window still covered in frost, the petals reminded me of fresh fallen snow with the dazzle of glistening flakes and the accompanying quiet that descends upon the land.  In those moments, I…

 

I was hoping a walk in the woods would help me regain focus for steady, solid writing.  I think it is okay that I was inspired to paint instead.

 

A bit of paper glued down to another surface.  Collage is simply that, and so much more than that, at the same time.  I’ve certainly come to appreciate the vision and intricate work involved with collage through my ongoing collaboration with artist Zoe Langosy. More to report soon about our next collaboration for 2013.  Meanwhile …

* here’s a wonderful essay by artist Camille Martin writing about The Collaged Brain in Talking Writing Magazine

* here’s a vintage post highlighting an early collaboration with Zoe as she took simple branches and sea shell images and wove them into cloth.

* you can also read more about Zoe’s creative process in this interview.

 

Odd items, I suppose, a tiny scrapbook of family pictures, the remains of my first and probably last attempt at eating escargot and a blade of grass picked up on the way home.

Leaves on the ground at the Middlesex Fells.

drifting down

covering the mostly naked branches of trees in the Middlesex Fells

mostly naked I say because up high leaves still bathed in the fading light

until even that light disappeared and all that remained was a transient glimmer of gold in the air

and a dusting of dark rose upon the land

… butterflies in a mobile that a friend gave to me several years ago,

dried flowers disintegrating at a wonderfully slow pace,

oak leaves shining like jewels in a coronet,

and water dissipating on a window pane.