Here is one of my calm things - when Rob brings up a new painting from his basement studio and we get to enjoy it by ourselves. We see it in the light of morning, late afternoon, evening. A larger painting, he'll have worked on for up to three weeks, a smaller one, for a week and a half, sometimes two weeks. He's been painting for over thirty years, most of that for at least 8 hours a day. So there's the weight of that in his paintings, which are constructed area by area. I remember when we first met, he'd talk a bit about how difficult it was to mix the colour he wanted, but by now, he's absorbed the skill, as you absorb another language over time, begin to dream in it. He'll have the same colour in three different brands of paint, because they're all slightly different. And I think it is something that takes a decade or two to get right.
It's a habit in this house, to see flowers all the way through, to keep them company. To wait with them until the petals begin to drop.
The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.
- Lawrence Ferlinghetti
We can't save the flowers, but we can apply poetry to them. We can photograph them, paint them. It seems the least we can do.
Overnight, a substantial snowfall, so that the light is now different. Because I am really only good at going forward, I give you fall light from this past week. And tomorrow we begin afresh with winter light....
Midmorning with persimmons and a cool glass of water:
Late afternoon light with tea roses from Home Depot:
Early evening light with the roses, at a further stage. Fireplace bokeh.
Afternoon light on the kitchen desk with leaves collected on a morning walk.