Mine

Now, this one is definitely mine. I picked up the Wildman himself at the airport just last night and he was able to identify himself as captured photographically by one of the training staff while patrolling through some very lush and wet woods. He and his fellow traveller were tired, having gotten very little sleep all week, but well satisfied with their training. It appears the action was realistically grimy and noisy with blanks fired from M-16s and fake grenades. Much of it happened at night, deep in the woods, complete with furious attacks by a group known only as "Reaper". This nefarious group had a habit of attacking from treetops, booby-trapping campsites, and leaving laminated Grim Reaper cards in one's very own sleeping bag (after climbing in with muddy boots to teach one a lesson about leaving one's camp and equipment unguarded.) And of course they were all bitten from head to toe by the voracious mosquitoes, in spite of ample bug repellant. Much fun and coolness was thus had by everyone.

We're off again, this time on a camping jaunt to places not yet planned for. Where the wild things are... See everyone in about two weeks.

Passages

When I lie in bed at night, or early in the morning, and my window is open, I can hear the ships' horns from the river and lake. They speak to each other in their own language, which every mariner knows. The sound carries so well across the water that they could be gliding past my room, especially if there is fog.

My parents were immigrants and I married an immigrant. There are passages in journeys as well as in art and music. The ship horn announces the commencement of the passage and if you listen you can hear the words.

Acrylic paint, silk, found scrimshaw ornament*, and 22K gold leaf on paper. 56 x 38 cm.

*Scrimshaw ornament is a reproduction by Suzanne Storen Carlson of a painting of the "Sea Witch". The original painting hangs in the ballroom of the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club. I found the ornament in a local second-hand shop.

Ship Horn Symphony

Hedge Fun

There's something about that shrubbery which looks veeery familiar... but I really have no idea if we are looking at the Boy or not. I snatched this photo from the page of progress photos from his latest training. I guess they jumped right into the camouflage, and it appears they have already gotten real down and dirty by crawling through a mud field with rifles and engaging in some hand combat training as well.

Looks like just the kind of thing he wanted to try on. Now, excuse me while I fetch my hedge clippers.

"...from coast to coast to roam..."*

The Boy has flown away on his first solo airplane trip, sans adult escort, to attend another training. I heard from him as he relaxed in a USO lounge, awaiting other cadets before being whisked away to a more remote area. At that location he will practice marksmanship, and navigation through a wilderness setting. He will also learn rappelling and the art of camouflage.

Let's hope he remembers his bug spray.


(photo courtesy of "Anchors Aweigh", 1945, MGM Studios)

*“How happy is the sailor's life, from coast to coast to roam; in every port he finds a wife, in every land a home.” - Isaac Bickerstaffe

The Fragrance of the Night

“A garden inclosed is my sister, my spouse: a spring shut up, a fountain sealed.”*

Perhaps I can lay the blame on the flowered skirts I’ve been wearing to the studio. Sumptuous skirts of recycled sari silk that, at the slightest breeze through the open windows of my battered red pick-up truck flutter up to orange alert levels as I drive through neighborhoods that are modest in the extreme.

“They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.”*

Perhaps it is simply the warm, sultry weather, and the hydrangea that blooms profusely at the side of the studio steps. Or the fact that the Boy has been away, training on a watery border with a distinctly masculine retinue, equipped with body armor and weapons. (His re-training will include an insistence that every colorful description need not begin with the letter “F”.)

Suffice to say that my painting mood has turned to ancient texts and perennial themes...

The woman in the garden and the men in the night occupy two separate worlds, yet the walls are breached by the flight of tiny, fragile moths.

For the WWI soldiers, searchlights and biplane, I used several period illustrations and sculptures as reference, combining them in a montage.

Acrylic paint with silk and 22K gold leaf on Arches paper. 28 x 38 cm.

* Song of Solomon, King James version

Music of the Spheres

Acrylic paint with silk, leather, snakeskin, beads, seeds, cotton, brass, rubber, enamel, silver, white metal, paua shells, and 22 K gold leaf on Arches paper. 38 x 48 cm.

Doppelgänger

I had my eye exam early this morning, so I am a useless artist until the dilation wears off. But last night I snapped a picture of my nearly-completed sculpture, along with the model, who seems quite pleased with herself.

It's housework for me today. I'll see you all tomorrow (far more clearly) with two new paintings.

Toodles!

The Song My Paddle Sings

West wind, blow from your prairie nest
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep,
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its way ahead;
Dip, dip,
While the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel.
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

Emily Pauline Johnson, aka Tekahionwake, Canadian/Mohawk poet

Photo: Laurent Chappuis