Rabbit Skunk Red Fox Bobcat

When I was in Maine in November for the artist in residence program, I taught a class to rural Maine eighth graders.  I had to teach at night.  For their assignment, I had each small group of students create a still life out of objects provided by the rangers.  There were lots of skulls.  I was able to borrow the skulls over one weekend.  I am fascinated by what lies below skin and muscle, the sockets that hold the eyes, the size and shape of the teeth and the beauty in the curve of cheek bone.

Two trees

At The Horizon - The Atlantic

Heart beats

What makes my heart sing

There are some environments that make my heart sing, no matter where, no matter when.  I don't know why.  I've never gotten tired of it.  If I intellectualize it too much some of the magic disappears.  If I let the dastardly little voice in that says, its just a bunch of grasses in the snow, then of course more of the magic disappears.
I know that we all have these environments and situations.  So, to borrow words from the word goddess Eileen, this is what I saw today.

Acadia

I'm finally home.  Unfortunately I got the flu the last day of my stay... the full nasty flu...Thank goodness my sis came up for the last two days to play as she got me to her house in one piece.  The whole residency experience was joyful and satisfying.  I wish every artist could have this kind of experience once each year.  Thank you Acadia.

Acadia postcard number 13 - bluebird of happiness

Acadia postcard number 12

I

Sometimes I get tired of writing on the blog and really just want to show the image with hopes it would speak for itself.  But as I put this photo up this morning, I started thinking about memory.  

What will I remember of this two weeks in Maine.  Will I remember the feeling of that cold fog mist on my face and the inability to see where the mist ended and the water began?  Will I remember the little brown bunny that watched me ride my bicycle down the lawn to the water before dawn two days in a row?  Will I remember the feeling of the sun on my face as I lay on the pink granite rocks on the ocean?  Will I remember those twinges of guilt as I talked with my husband on the phone as he juggled his work and all the family animals and a kick ass cold?  Will I remember the sounds, or the smells of wet leaves and thick deep green moss?  Will my words bring me back?  WIll my photographs bring me back?

I took one of the kid chemistry classes that was going on this week as part of the Schoodic Education and Research Center.  The discussion for sixth graders was the water cycle of the world: evaporation, condensation, perspiration of all living things and how a drop of water inside of me could be the same drop of water a dinosaur drank ( or sweat or urinated) 10 million years ago - that's amazing and comforting all at the same time, water making the world go round.

Acadia postcard number 11 - election day 2010

Acadia postcard number 10 - erosion

Happy Halloween - creature from the deep

Acadia postcard number 8 - take two

One of this things I've recognized about this time in Maine is the feeling of being able to act on whim.  I had a little drawing I did of the ocean yesterday and I copied it and layered it in to the postcard - take two.

Acadia postcard number 8

"What will you do with your one wild and beautiful life?"
-Mary Oliver

( I don't have her book of poems with me, but I think that's how that line goes)

Acadia postcard number 7

Little red cruiser bike I borrowed for my remaining time here.

Acadia postcard number 6 - syzygy

At first it looks like a made up word for a Scrabble game, but the definition of syzygy has to do with the "spring tide" when the sun, earth and moon are all lined up.  When this happens there is a large tide.

One of the reasons I wanted to come to Acadia was to try and understand (visually) my fascination with the horizon where the air meets the water at the ocean and the rise and fall of water along the shore.   I studied tides today and learned that the human race has long been intrigued with the tides and the gravitational pull of the moon and sun on the large water bodies of the earth.

How do I describe my longing to be near this tidal movement which seems so very essential to our existence?  I've started with multiple images of water and air in varying densities on top of each other, we'll see where it leads.

Acadia postcard number 5

I skipped a day

Already the commitment fell short.  I had good intentions (really what are those?) of posting yesterday but I got caught up reworking the class to kids that I am teaching in exchange for this wonderful opportunity.  Thirty kids last night and we talked a bit about design and then observed and photographed skulls, leaves and animal pelts.  I still get a charge seeing someone's face light up as they "do you see this?  look at this?".

I was a frantic woman this morning.  I didn't get out of bed when I wanted to and then spent the morning chasing waves and fog in frustration and discontent until I realized that what I really needed to do was just sit and listen to the waves.  That's really why I'm here, to watch the curl of a wave and the way the light skims the top of it and rolls through it as it crests and falls. And it does it again, only different, time after time.

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
Elizabeth Bishop

Acadia postcard number two

"Everyone needs beauty as well as bread" - John Muir
From the visitor center in the park.

This image is in honor of my friend and artist, Jenni Fraser, lover of trees...

acadia postcard number one - little fishies where have you gone?

fall

The first morning

Where do I go, what do I do?  What do I see, what do I write?  What do I hear?

On the way

I was awarded an artist in residency at Acadia National Park for two weeks, October 23-November 6th. The excitement and anticipation have been bubbling and rumbling since I received the news earlier this year.  I flew in to Albany to visit my mom and then headed up to Maine.  Yesterday I stopped at the Maine Wildlife Park to work on my Captivity series.  Every time I cry.  I try and be open minded about what each wildlife park and zoo is trying to accomplish.  But when I see a bald eagle that is in a cage too small to extend its wings for more than a moment of flight, or two barred owls characterized as shy and solitary on the information sign displayed in their pen on tree limbs with no place to hide, I question the park's role as stewards and protectors.  The park grounds are spacious for picnic groups and concerts but I am continually surprised at the size of the enclosures, a bobcat pacing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Golden Eagle behind glass

 

Fisher

 

Skunk

Raccoon

Opossum

Barred Owls

 Bobcat

Red Tail Hawk

Gate

mom

Bait

Slicker

in passing

she sleeps stretched out flat
on cool hard slate
she whimpers
her tail lifts and thumps briefly on the floor
her desires  are revealed in her dreams

Obituary for the grasshopper

Another little life lost yesterday in Lucy's outdoor water bowl. It sank to the bottom of the bowl.  Grasshoppers only live three to five months. I'm marking its death, its fantastic and beautiful structure.

More muscle memory

Muscle memory

Using new muscles

Drawing class of live raptors at MAM in Missoula
Great Horned Owl

Slathering buttery oil paint on boards
The beauty of the "beginners mind" , uncertainty and bravery at the same time

Chicago Art Institute

Light and steel doors