The nights are cold again with frost spiking the windows and the darkness begins to come earlier. Apples hang ripe on gnarled trees, the wind carries the smell of wood smoke and change. The sun casts across the land at a low angle, it seems to be a deeper more …
It’s as if the mushrooms’ folded world has its own colour spectrum, warm and dark; brown, orange, red and yellow, a shiver of green in the darkness of a decaying log. Trees curve over the steep valley, grey barked, zigzagging the distant sky. This is a house of trees, earth …
I rise before the sun, the scratchy radio voices catalog what bad things have happened in the world while I slept. But the world tells a different story– out the old farmhouse window the dawn blooms impossible colours against the somnabulant landscape. Two ravens sit warily in the orchard on …
As I consider the rumpled clouds, (white, gray, blue) a clump of five chickadees whirs up to the barren rose bush I’m standing next to. They rush about from branch to branch yelling chick-a-dee-dee-dee. I go in the house and come back with my camera. They wait for me and …
The wind is up, rain pelts relentlessly and I am finishing the autumn’s work and starting my winter projects. Over the last year I’ve been focusing on honing my drawing and painting skills alongside my work as a swordsmith and sculptor. The act of painting an idea is a …