January 29th, 2018
I’m currently working on a piece titled Zinnia, and as I do I return to James Merrill’s Alessio and the Zinnias. It’s a piece I refer to often and can never recall a single line from outside the ending where he writes, “never wear orange or pink.”—advice I’d rather ignore, an omen (I’d say good) as the astros head into the World Series. But I love the poem and went so far to reference it in one of my own works. I was in my twenties when that poem was published. I forgive that terrible decade.
October 21st, 2017
I’m reading Endurance, and I keep returning to the passage with this quote:
“The rapidity with which one can completely...accommodate [themselves] to a state of barbarism is wonderful.”
It’s not far off. Carson deals with infidelity, which isn’t a topic that terribly interests me, however beauty/truth (as Keats correlated the two) is a terribly good reference to explore the complexities of marriage and monogamy. I cannot claim to do her justice by stealing the title, but I want to join the conversation.
In the Victorian era, lovers used flowers to communicate secret messages. Each flower had, attached to it, some hidden meaning. Here are a few to start:
CARNATION: Pink–I Will Never Forget You; Red–My Heart Breaks; White–Sweet and Lovely; Yellow–Disdain; Striped–I Cannot Be with you
CAMELLIA: My Destiny Is in Your Hands
HYACINTH: Blue–Constancy; Purple–Please Forgive Me; White–Beauty
GERANIUM: Oak-leaf–True Friendship; Pencil-leaf–Ingenuity; Wild–Steadfast Piety; Scarlet–Stupidity
I’ve begun a few drawings. I wanted a very different look for this collection—no cropping, no heavy lines; I wanted stark, naked and exposed. And I’m not finished with my blue series yet, so keep looking for additions to both in the coming weeks.
October 16th, 2017
from A Story of Blue
“We know through hearsay that love exists.
Seated on a rock or under a red parasol, lying in the field buzzing with insects, our hands clasped behind our necks, kneeling in the cool darkness of a church, or settled on a straw chair within the four walls of the bedroom, head lowered, eyes fixed on a rectangle of white paper, we dream of estuaries, tumultuous surf, clearing weather and tides...”
I won’t give away the entire poem, but I will say Jean-Michel Maulpoix doesnt use the word blue outside of the title (The Blue Look). It is a felt blue.
Color is an interesting problem. Its a phenomenon. One can only perceive it. This makes me think of Rusty Morrison’s poem where she sticks her hand in a hole inside a tree, feels something gross and remarks, “I have not had the same hand since.”
October 11th, 2017
etre fleur bleue
To be soppy. To be sentimental, be romantic—
I recently started Bluets, by Maggie Nelson. She begins her book by writing:
"Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then one day, it became more serious...it became somehow personal."
I read about fifteen pages aloud before my husband stopped me and asked, why do you like sad things? The answer isn't profound. I just don't find sad things so sad. Such as snail tears (photo taken from Color, Victoria Finley)
Better to be moved.
Perhaps this is sentimental. So I am dedicating my next group of drawings (which can be found under the galleries tab) to my sister, who requested blue.