Primary Hallelujahs

Primary colors in late January are fine and nourishing things. On days when snow falls thick and fast, the north wind blows through telephone lines and I can't see past my front door, they make me feel like dancing, kicking up my heels and throwing paint all over the frayed and tattered canvas of my life.

This is one of those days, and I am about to run away without ever setting foot out of the house and plunging into the deep snow beyond. To be honest, I couldn't paint my way out of a recyclable bin bag, a gunny sack or a tardis, but that is quite all right. The tatty brushes in their old clay mug outshine any vibrant summer bouquet I can think up this morning, and the colors in their dear little pots, tubs and tubes are hollering for attention. Throw in a sheaf of watercolor pens in vibrant shades, and life is good.

On a palette, the reds, blues and yellows sizzle, and even the exuberantly spattered tarp on the floor is arty stuff, probably more so than what I will be smearing on paper, canvas and all over myself this morning. What a splendid, sticky, "hallelujah" sort of mess I am about to make - just the right thing for a late winter day with heaps of snow in the forecast. When the white stuff starts falling, I may not even notice.

Friday Ramble - A little scarlet, please

How to describe these early February yearnings for rantipole hues, curving shapes, foreign musics and exotic fragrances, maybe a little warmth? It is cold and snowy here this morning, and there is no vivid color outside. The front door is scarlet of course, but one can't see it from the window of my study. Several inches of snow fell overnight, and the village is a sea of rolling white from here to there and back again.

In such weather, one finds herself turning inward and a tad thoughtful, dare I say insular? I down mug after mug of Darjeeling or Lapsang or Earl Grey, prowl through the library at all hours of the day and night, haul out sketch books and play with collage, always looking for color. Any sumptuous, dazzling shade will do, scarlet, turquoise, electric blue, purple, gold—let 'em rip, let all of them rip at once and together.

 

In the kitchen I stare at a bowl of clementines or a tidy heap of saffron threads on the counter, and a bowl of pomegranates on the sideboard stops me dead in my tracks - the things are just so bright and juicy and pleasingly shaped. I love their architecture. Beating eggs for this morning's omelet, I got lost in all the gloriously yolky gold and stood gazing into the bowl for some time before getting on with the task at hand. It is a wonder anyone in the tribe gets fed on days like these.

Birds visiting our snow drowned garden don't seem to mind the weather, and outside there is the scarlet flash of cardinals' wings in the hedgerow, the blue of nattering jays, the yellow of grosbeaks, the delicate grays and creams of chickadees and nuthatches at the feeders. Filling the bird feeders a few minutes ago, I stopped by the cathedral fretwork of rose canes along the fence, and along came a memory right out of the shaggy green halls of departed summer - one of multitudinous blush-colored blooms and old rose fragrance. A little further along, an old stone basin held a frothy confection of frozen leaves and stems with scallops of ice and bubbles like champagne. I was going to chuck out the contents and fill the thing with birdseed this week, but I couldn't bring myself to disturb the fetching frozen arrangement.

Returning indoors, I made a pot of tea and tucked John Williams' lovely Mediterranean Concerto on the CD player. Though the weather be dark and gloomy and cold, all is well in this little corner of the world. Happy February, everyone. 

Islands in the Stream

Oh, Primary Hallelujah

Primary colors in late January are fine and nourishing things. On days when snow falls thick and fast, the north wind blows through telephone lines and one can't see past her front door, they make her feel like dancing, kicking up her heels and throwing paint all over the frayed and tattered canvas of her life.

It is one of those days, and I am about to run away without ever setting foot out of the little blue house in the village and plunging into the deep snow beyond. To be honest, I couldn't paint my way out of a recyclable bin bag, a gunny sack, a backpack or a tardis, but that is quite all right. This morning, my brushes in their old clay mustard crock outshine any summer bouquet I can think up, and all the colors in their dear little pots, tubs and tubes are hollering for attention. Throw in a sheaf of watercolor pens in vibrant shades, and life is good.

Mixed on my palette, the vibrant reds, blues and yellows dazzle the eyes, and even the exuberantly spattered tarp on the floor is arty stuff, probably much more so than what I will be smearing on paper, canvas and all over myself this morning. What a great splendid sticky "hallelujah" sort of mess I am about to make - just the right thing for a late winter day. There are several bags of snow in the forecast, but I may not even notice them.

The Gladdening Trees

Friday Ramble - Seeing Red

Beyond the window is an ocean of deep, pillowy white that goes on forever and ever. Weary of ice and snow, she longs to have her morning tea on the veranda, but she knows that she will not be doing that for months. Given the snowfall this winter, we may not see the garden until the end of April. A little bright color right about now would be grand, and it would vastly appreciated too.

While pottering about in a local organic market, a tin bucket of tulips catches her eye, and she scoops up a large bunch in assorted colors, carrying them home in her arthritic paws as tenderly as if they were fledgling birds.  The pinks, purples and yellows are fine stuff, but the scarlets are nothing short of amazing - they are attention grabbers of the first order.

Arrayed in an old glass vase (a flea market find last summer), the glossy blooms and bright green leaves don't just light up the day - they light up just about everything else too. A single bloom would be enough, but a whole bouquet is almost indecently sumptuous. What a way to bring in the month of February!

She resolves to keep a cauldron, a pot, a tin, a bucket, a vase or a tankard of something flowering near the southern window from now until spring. She thinks about how beautiful a single rose will look there come summer, and it seems to her that this is not just about a vase of tulips or a single rose, but about all the boundless gardens of the earth coming into riotous intoxicating bloom.

Friday Ramble - Bees and Asters

Autumn days here are warm and sunny for the most part, but nights are chilly.  The sun doesn't rise until 6:30 so it is still dark beyond the windows as I write this.  We have already retrieved flannel sheets and patchwork quilts from the cedar chest, and there is no doubt about it - daylight hours and warmth are waning, and the northern world is slowly turning its attention toward the long white season.

One craves color in September, not just any old color but shades dazzling, intoxicating and downright riotous. Velvety taupe and cream milkweed pods disclosing fluttering silks in late September are all very well, but give me colors before the snow flies, and hallelujah, here they are.

Think bronze chrysanthemums, burgundy sedums and fall blooming asters, scarlet maple leaves, russet oak and golden birch. Think autumn nights when the sun goes down in flames over our favorite lakes and rivers in the Lanark highlands.  Think cold clear mornings when one's breath sparkles in the air and early light turns the awakening world to gold, erasing for a few moments the shifting ephemeral boundaries between land and water and sky.

In the garden behind the little blue house, my heritage rose offers several hopeful buds, and Michaelmas daisies are coming into flower. When the day warms up, each and every swaying bloom wears a jeweled bumble, a honey bee or a wasp, sometimes a tiny goldenrod spider lying in wait for its next meal too. If only I could capture everything with my lens or find the right words to describe it.

Lilies of the Day

Day Lilies (Hemerocallis spp.)

Friday Ramble - Seeing Red

Beyond the window is an ocean of deep, pillowy white that goes on forever and ever. Weary of ice and snow, she longs to have her morning tea on the veranda, but she knows that she will not be doing that for months. Given the snowfall this winter, we may not see the garden until the end of April. A little bright color right about now would be grand, and it would vastly appreciated too.

While pottering about in a local organic market, a tin bucket of tulips catches her eye, and she scoops up a large bunch in assorted colors, carrying them home in her arthritic paws as tenderly as if they were fledgling birds.  The pinks, purples and yellows are fine stuff, but the scarlets are nothing short of amazing - they are attention grabbers of the first order.

Arrayed in an old glass vase (a flea market find from last summer), the glossy blooms and bright green leaves don't just light up the day - they light up just about everything else too. A single bloom would be enough, but a whole bouquet is almost indecently sumptuous.

She resolves to keep a cauldron, a pot, a tin, a bucket, a tankard or a vase of something flowering near the southern window. She thinks about how beautiful a single rose will look there come summer, and it seems to her that this is not just about a vase of tulips or a single rose, but about all the boundless gardens of the earth coming into riotous intoxicating bloom.

Going for the Gold

The eastern Ontario highlands blaze with color in October, and sumptuous scarlets command center stage, all the surrounding earthier hues thrust into supporting roles by cavorting red maples and their ebullient public relations agency.  The "reign of the reds" is all very well and good of course, but the oro (gold) on display here in autumn is anything but pallido (pale or light). I have a passion for carmine, claret and ruby, but it always seems to me that the golds, bronzes and russets of other tree species in my native place don't get the attention they deserve at this time of the year.

Hickories, ashes, birches and a few maples enthrall in radiant saffron as do the leaves of ginkgo trees in the village.  Beech leaves are coppery coinage, and oak leaves beguile in alluring rosy bronze.  Poplars and larches (or tamaracks) down by the beaver pond wear a delightful buttery gold that is all their very own.  Late blooming goldenrod and tattered dandelions sway back and forth in canary colors until they go to seed and start blowing about in the wind.  Everywhere, there is fine contrast from spruces, pines and cedars in the background, and blue-green evergreen fragrance fills the air.

And then there are smaller entities down there on the forest floor. Eastern Yellow Fly Agaric (Amanita muscaria var. guessowii) glows like a hundred watt bulb, and one can spot it in October as at no other time of the year. From the shadows, the lovely but poisonous fungus dishes out its frothy incandescence like a halogen lamp set on high beam. 

After days and sentences rhapsodizing about the luscious reds of northern hills in October, this morning is for the glorious dancing golds of the autumn panoply.  Long may they delight in dazzling array.

Wordless Wednesday - Signs of Spring

 Pretty Maids All in a Row

A Hallelujah Kind of Mess

Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.

Twyla Tharp

Let's face it - there is not much color about in winter, and encountering a little or a lot in late January is something to be treasured.  This morning, my palette and brushes and the pigments in all those dear little pots, tubs and tubes are singing and dancing and come hithering like fin de siècle cabaret dancers.

Purple, scarlet, saffron, cobalt and turquoise - the vivid hues are enough to make one swoon.  All swooshed up side by side on the palette, they're almost indecently sumptuous, and swirling them round and round together is something else.  Even the exuberantly spattered floor here is fine arty stuff, and probably much more so than my daubings and smearings on canvas, paper and all over myself.

I can't paint my way out of a paper bag, a telephone booth or a tardis, but that is quite all right.  I am running away today, but without ever setting a foot beyond the threshold of the little blue house in the village and into deep snow.

What a splendid sticky "hallelujah" kind of mess I am about to make - it's just the thing for a gray day like this. Oh yeah, we can do this, can we ever...