19/03/2011
Looking down
I don't usually choose such sentient subjects for my looking down photos, but couldn't resist this...
18/03/2011
'Sobre-Natural': 10 artists look at nature
Exhibition next week, opening on 26 March at Casa da Cerca, Almada, Portugal. You can click here to view an online album of the works I will be showing. Wish I could include the other people's works here too!
17/03/2011
À la Recherche, 17
16/03/2011
15/03/2011
14/03/2011
Looking down
Looking down has started to become interesting again, after the bleak month of February.
12/03/2011
À la recherche, 15
Watercolour and indian ink wash and brush markers in Canson Montval spiral-bound sketchbook.
11/03/2011
Fear of spring
To commemorate the first birthday of this blog... I might have chosen Emily Dickinson's poem 'A Light Exists in Spring' which speaks specifically of the light in early March, but instead
I dreaded that first Robin, so,
But He is mastered, now,
I'm accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—
I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—
I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—
I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when 'twas time to see—
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—
I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they'd stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?
They're here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—
Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—
But He is mastered, now,
I'm accustomed to Him grown,
He hurts a little, though—
I thought If I could only live
Till that first Shout got by—
Not all Pianos in the Woods
Had power to mangle me—
I dared not meet the Daffodils—
For fear their Yellow Gown
Would pierce me with a fashion
So foreign to my own—
I wished the Grass would hurry—
So—when 'twas time to see—
He'd be too tall, the tallest one
Could stretch—to look at me—
I could not bear the Bees should come,
I wished they'd stay away
In those dim countries where they go,
What word had they, for me?
They're here, though; not a creature failed—
No Blossom stayed away
In gentle deference to me—
The Queen of Calvary—
Each one salutes me, as he goes,
And I, my childish Plumes,
Lift, in bereaved acknowledgment
Of their unthinking Drums—
Emily Dickinson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)