Autumn Attire
It’s October:
Keep your ghouls, ghosts and goblins;
They don’t frighten me.
Save your black,
And just let me be.
It’s October:
That Halloween foolishness
Is a distraction.
Can’t you see
The real attraction?
It’s October:
The best costumes are not seen
Outside your front door.
Just look up;
You’ll see so much more.
Poem in October
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbor wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.My birthday began with the water —
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Steamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapelsAnd the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there in the summer noon
Thought the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.—Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)
In every age the Church has called upon the arts to give expression to the beauty of her faith and to proclaim the Gospel message of the grandeur of God’s creation, the dignity of human beings made in his image and likeness, and the power of Christ’s death and resurrection to bring redemption and rebirth to a world touched by the tragedy of sin and death. — Pope Francis
The word “grandeur” always reminds me of the poem “God’s Grandeur” by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
One of the things I love about poetry is that it speaks on more than one level, and it lends itself to revisiting, potentially rewarding a diligent reader with new insights every time a poem is reread. “God’s Grandeur” is one of the poems I included in my “Year of Poetic Images” photography project. At the time, I focused on the second stanza, which deals with the perpetual rebirth of nature, and I chose an image of a Great Blue Heron.
Yesterday, I revisited the poem and found myself focusing on these four lines:
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.And for all this, nature is never spent;
I imagine I’ll turn to “God’s Grandeur” again and again, and I look forward to what it will say to me through future readings.
In every age the Church has called upon the arts to give expression to the beauty of her faith and to proclaim the Gospel message of the grandeur of God’s creation, the dignity of human beings made in his image and likeness, and the power of Christ’s death and resurrection to bring redemption and rebirth to a world touched by the tragedy of sin and death. — Pope Francis
Here in central Maine, I’m surrounded by old New England cemeteries. They are uniquely beautiful places. It is humbling to look at stones that mark the resting places of people who lived hundreds of years before me. Old graveyards remind me that the world will go on without me, but while I’m here, on this earth, I can gaze upon the grandeur of God’s creation, recognize the dignity of human beings made in God’s image and likeness, and give thanks that Christ died and rose so that I may one day do the same.
In every age the Church has called upon the arts to give expression to the beauty of her faith and to proclaim the Gospel message of the grandeur of God’s creation, the dignity of human beings made in his image and likeness, and the power of Christ’s death and resurrection to bring redemption and rebirth to a world touched by the tragedy of sin and death. — Pope Francis
To be honest, I wish I could take this picture over. It is not technically good enough to make me happy. The focus is a bit off and the gestures aren’t quite right.
And it IS important when we are attempting to relate artistically to our faith, that our work BE technically good enough. We can’t rely on just the quality of our message to pick up the slack for sub-par work. We must be masters of our craft to best relate the message of our faith.
Which is a very tall order. I’m working on it. But in the meantime, photography is not my full time profession. Being a mother is. And not just any mother, but the mother to a large brood of children — each with their own unique demands on my time and heart. And one child with very special demands.
My hope, and my goal, is to share the dignity of that role as mother, the beauty and dignity of family life, and the grandeur of all life, created in the image and likeness of our Creator with those who care to look.
I love capturing color in lens flare.
I do like my color warm as I said last post. But I also love it muted: muddy earth tones and washed-out pale pastels.
Now is my favorite season of the year.
In theory I like to shoot at the blue hour. It makes for some really captivating photos since the ambient light is so cool that it contrasts so beautifully with the various artifical lights. And it’s moody.
I say, in theory, because I’m actually pretty busy at that time getting dinner ready, finishing up the laundry/cleaning chores for the day or driving kids back and forth between games and practices. Last night we left the game early (my husband stayed behind) and arrived home while it was still relatively light. The contrast between the twilight outside and the warm, incandescent light inside was too nice to pass up — especially when the cute little dog was waiting so patiently in the window.
People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and its ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them. ”
― Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
Color fascinates me. It’s an integral part of our lives, but how many of us consciously take note of it?
Our last house was a ranch with a large great room that flowed into the kitchen and the foyer. It was in this house that I discovered how much I love blue. We painted the walls in the great room a very light blue called Light Wisteria. Dennis and I loved that color, because it had so many personalities. In the morning, when the sun was illuminating other parts of the house, our Light Wisteria walls looked lavender and the thinking behind the color’s name became readily apparent. When the sun flooded the room in the afternoon, though, the walls warmed up to a very clear sky blue, and flowers did not come to mind at all. On dark, overcast days, the walls looked almost white, and lamplight made them take on completely different tones, depending on the relative warmth or coolness of a particular bulb.
Without a doubt, I’m attracted to cool colors, but my skin tone favors warm shades.
Earlier when I started brushing PanPastels onto my white watercolor paper (which will eventually become an art journal page), I envisioned a spectrum of rainbow hues. I stopped after red, orange and yellow, though. Perhaps it was the view out my window that made me satisfied with these warm tones.
Right now, the skies out my window are a dark, threatening grey, and I can’t get enough of the warm reds, yellows and oranges on the trees. I want to turn on yellow-toned incandescent bulbs and warm up the world inside my house. If the sun was shining, though, I’d be very happy here in my cool, vibrant, bright blue studio.
My pumpkin orange house provides some interesting photographic opportunities. Here, in October, it’s perfectly at home among the autumn foliage, but I especially love it in the winter, when it’s the only sign of warmth in a world covered with cold, white snow.
Color is a great call. Even though I’m in a black and white mood currently (because of the other things that I’m trying to concentrate on), I know that color is something that I should study.
Everything boils down to line, form and color, right? I feel like I’ve got a good handle on the line and the light aspects of photography but color, for me, tends to introduce too much chaos. I haven’t learned how to bring a cosmos out of the chaos of color around me. That’s why I have chosen to use this call to focus on simplifying color in my pictures.
On Saturday, my husband bought a remote-controlled plane — “for the children,” he said. Yesterday we took it to a big field and flew it until it crashed too hard into a tree branch and cracked the wing. I got some great photos, but this one, with the gradient of blue sky and the touch of green tree top, seemed to me, to be the strongest color statement.
And finally, I’ve picked up “The Art Spirit” again and I wonder why I ever left off. But here a few quotes from his section on color (the book is aimed toward painters, but works for all visual arts, I think):
There is a super color which envelops all the colors. It is this super color — this color of the whole, which is more important.
Do not be interested in light for light’s sake or in color for color’s sake, but in each as a medium of expression.
Today I was led to a blog with a one-word, five-minute writing prompt published each Friday. It may be just what I need, and I think I’ll give it a go.
Before diving in this coming Friday, I’ll practice a bit, on my own. Right here. Right now.
I’m starting off with the word “color,” because it’s my Call for the week, and I’m hoping I can come up with something I can use.
******
Color. The Brits spell it “colour.” I sometimes wish we did.
Last week, I raised the blind on the big window in my studio all the way to the top. I was trying to get some extra light for a photo. I’ve left the blind where it is. Now I’m trying to get some extra color for my life.
The view out my window is really rather beautiful. We are blessed with lovely hardwoods in the forest that surrounds us, and autumn here brings deep, vibrant reds, light-filled golds and oranges that lean towards happy rather than dour.
I sometimes wonder what people think when they walk into my royal blue foyer and studio. Some of them tell me they like it. But those who are quiet?
The colors that surround me make me happy, but not in a jump-for-joy-because-I-can’t-contain-myself way. The bright, pure colors in my house and my artwork and my life make me feel content. They put my soul at ease and reassure me that everything’s OK. Better than OK, actually. The colors in my life, at some deep-down level, remind that God knows exactly what He’s doing and that He wants us to be happy in our hope in Him.
*****
About the photo: that’s Stella, who seems to love color as much as I do.
Friendships don’t have to be scripted or prescribed.
They need not be micromanaged, arranged or engineered.
Tastes may differ, ages can range widely and beliefs can be unshared.
Friendships can be simple or complex, straightforward or nuanced.
But they should never have to be explained or justified.
What is it that Pooh says? Start at the beginning and go on until the end? Or something like that…
So let’s start at the beginning. What is a metaphor?
I spent a lot of time yesterday reading and browsing around, trying to come up with a definition in my own words that was not only correct, but made enough sense to me to be able to remember it. This is what I got: a metaphor is a comparasion between two different things that have a similar trait or characteristic. Usually the shared trait will lead to a deeper understanding of the quality possessed by one of the objects. An easy example of this is God as King. The majesty, authority and power of a king is easily understood and helps to clarify for us the same quality in God even though it is to an unimaginable degree more with the Lord.
All well and good for writing and speaking, but how does that translate visually? I found a lot of things written about metaphors in advertising and was able to glean a few useful items. To start, they give a specific name for each of the objects. There is the target, which is the main subject, and the vehicle, which is the metaphorical subject. So think about a sports car with a wildcat in the ad. The car is the target and the cat is the vehicle (the metaphor) that explains the qualities of the car — sleek, sexy, fast, aloof, cool.
My six year old begged to play Dogopoly the other day while I was trying to catch up on the news. I was suddenly reminded of Boehner saying of the shutdown that “It’s not a damn game.” Aha! I grabbed my camera and began to shoot. Only in my mind I had to work out what was the target and what was the vehicle. Who should be in focus and who could be only suggested or hinted at? Looking through the shots, this is the one that I think bests conveys the metaphor. It’s definitely something that will take a lot more practice until it becomes second nature.
from: CS Lewis, Limping Metaphors, and Groanings Too Deep For Words
What Barfield is saying here is that metaphors are not simply ‘poetic trappings,” but the foundation for all of human speech—but we have become so familiar with these metaphors (as well as historically removed from their original usages) that we cease to recognize them as such. Thus, we all rely on metaphors on a daily basis, although for the most part we remain ignorant of our great debt.
It is impossible to overstate how central metaphors are to the entirety of our lives, for all of human experience is shaped by metaphors. We humans are built in such a way that we make connections between the visible world of the senses and the invisible world of the spirit by the use of language; we are able to understand what we have not seen by the things which we have seen. Metaphors give flesh to that which is abstract. It is a shocking thing to realize that one cannot actually think without metaphors, for they are the very heart of meaning.
I strongly recommend following the link and reading the beautiful C.S. Lewis poem and Joshua Lelands’ reflection.