Silvermine in the spring is a great departure from the snow laden version I experienced in early January. Everything is insanely green. Where there were houses spotting the river view from the inn in wintertime, there was a curtain of green wrapping around the river's edge. The trees so thick I felt I was in the South. And where there was ice, was a flowing river full of cotton seeds and floating fowl. Teaming with new life, somehow the place kept its serenity. It was quiet on the giant back porch of the inn with its vacant tables and potted red geraniums, and minimal phone reception for days. It was perfect. I brought that feeling into my painting all week, not worrying about finishing my paintings but getting what I needed out of them and enjoying the process of creating without any stress, throwing paint down and wiping it back out. It's not about finishing the work, my teacher so wisely says.
The Old Mill (17th century)
With the sun high in the blue sky, on the last days after a few gray wet ones, I was a bit stir crazy and wanted to run through the woods half the time I was in class, get my country fix in before I found myself back in the land of buildings, but I think I learned something and I came back renewed. My roommate asked me if I had indeed gone painting or to the beach all week for I had sprouted many freckles. And I had gone to the beach, one night with new found friends and drank wine, putting my toes in the sand while I listened to life stories and Brooklyn restaurant suggestions from those who had been New Yorkers much longer than I. And as we watched the sunset I pondered the many ways to live one's life. And took them all into consideration.
I am partial to old barns.
content sleeping ducks by the inn
"pink girl" (as we all call her)
stares down at you while you help yourself to homemade sticky buns for breakfast,
painter unknown.
