Everywhere the surface was changing, crumbling to dust, washing away … Gradients of color, broken edges quickly softened. Never straight lines, only gravity pulling water on paths of least resistance.
Lemon Balm Ice Cream
This ice cream is small reflection of the glowing, balmy restorative days; a distillation of the bright coolness, the sharp scent of new green growth, and the creamy sweetness of perfect air.
After the Apocalypse (Or My Grandmother was a Landscape)
So what remains after you lose everything? When water or fire or clumsiness or meanness or a pandemic or cancer or war or ignorance and obsolescence changes everything–breaks everything, what do we do with what remains? We make art.
The song of the white-throated sparrow
There is a pause, a thick electric hush, as we wait for the thunder. But in the yard the white-throated sparrow, seemingly unphased, sings and sings his wild and melancholy song.
John Gerard’s Herball (& 2 colcannon-inspired recipes)
Basil is a “remedie for malancholicke people,” the scent of it good for the heart and head, and will make a man merry and glad. Anyone who has harvested fresh basil on a summer’s day can attest to the truth of this!
Gabriela Domville: Preserve Collection
Gabriela Dombille’s thought-provoking Preserve Collection asks questions about our relationship to nature and about our often-deadly fascination with the mechanics of beauty and of life itself.
You cannot see them anymore, They are not there
So I am content to draw, each drawing a provocation, another layer in an ongoing process of poking and prodding at notions of place and landscape and in that sense I am content to let things drift.
Werner’s Nomenclature of Colors and Emily Dickinson’s Herbarium
There’s so much in life that we can’t capture in words or pictures: everything is shifting, changing, and with more hues, values and shades than our eyes can see, more notes than our ears can hear, more subtleties than our hearts can feel or our minds define. But I love that we still try.
Featured Artist: Marjorie Thompson
“The images for these paintings weave and intermingle in my mind and present themselves as a mélange of overlapping histories.”
It boggled my mind that all of these birds had been here, all along, so vivid, so loud. They weren’t new. I’d never bothered to look at them, I’d never taken the time to look up, and discover the colorful teeming world in the tangled branches of the trees.