Tuesday, 4 June 2019

Some transformations are quiet.

In my little garden on the first day of June I sat in my garden and looked around and noticed the corners filling with blooms and the carefully made piles of curated things, and the unfurling green.

"It has happened, the miracle has arrived, everything begins today, everything you touch is born; the new moon attended by two enormous stars; the sunny day fading a glow to exhilaration; all the paraphernalia of existence, all my sad companions of these last twenty years, the pots and pans in [the] kitchen, ribbons of streets, wilted geraniums, thin children's legs, all the world solicits me with joy, leaps at me electrically, claiming its birth at last." 

- Elizabeth Smart from By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept.

Lizzie Smart has got no chill, either.

We enjoyed this random buttercup so much we moved it to a pot. Who will stop us?

Rusting things that will be made to serve. A hammock?

All found buried throughout our soil. I will do something with them at some point. (I've been saying this for two years and counting...)

Random foxglove that appeared on its own somehow. We let it be, waiting to find out what it was, and when the guests finally arrive... Ecstatic bliss.

Giant daisies like these always remind me of Alice, daydreaming and singing at the beginning of the Mary Blair designed Disney film.

"A messy desk is the mark of genius" is a lie I sing to myself and invest with belief.

Looking at you looking at me looking at you.

I added some layers to a couple of journals. I enjoy this stage. Endless potential. Much more exciting then finishing.

I cut the pages I made on this day and arranged the elements on the scanner bed. I worked a little bit with a cut-up method when I made them. I put m phone scrolling to some purpose, I was mindful of what images rose from my digital feed and responded to them with a brush pen filled with water and a bottle of chinese ink. The spontaneity and the unreliability of working so wetly was stimulating and pleasing. I have spent so long obsessing over the crispest lines. The lines become a haze. They have mind of their own.

Crass. Sometimes only Crass.

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