old pond
frog jumps in
water's sound
Basho translated by R. Aitken
Workshop with Timothy Hawkesworth and Lala Hull
Spring Hill Farm
Day one:
( notes from the morning talk.) Tim was talking about work, how to get started, and about the pond, - the energy of the grasses at the edge, that we look at it like a hard horizon line, but it's actually an incredible intersection between the growth of the grasses and bulrushes up and down, the roots heading down, bringing water up, the tree energy, the silence of the land. That you could just start with being in your body, and being in the landscape, and listening and looking with full attentiveness. So that your fingers and eyes and skin were listening with as much intensity as your ears... Start by listening and the instructions will come, follow the leads, it happens in real time. It's no small matter-- falling into the nature of things. Sometimes you can approach things as a lover, not just as a seeker.
the ride up was exhilarating, so happy to be on the road. I love driving away, thinking about everything, everyone, singing...
dark woods,
cycles and seasons.
Thunderstruck, I am one of the youngest ones here, which suits me, except for all of the questions and positions to navigate. I just want to retreat and be quiet. Lying in the grass in the afternoon, looking up at the clouds and blue sky, with sheep cropping grasses, electric fences, wanting to go in with them, but not. Remembering parts of my childhood, hours and hours of my life outside. Reading interviews with Cy Twombly. I love hearing the laughter and talking in the distance. Who am I? Remembering that time is the most important thing.
Being here, I remember what this rhythm is like, the languorous quality of time. Like the heat wave in the city. I was reading books all day, under a fan in a cool, darkish space. It may have been the perfect segue way here. Like "oh yeah, this too..." It's always here, I can go to it at any time, in any place. We have such funny rules and assumptions for how our lives need to function. I sometimes feel guilty for spending my days and hours alone. Maybe it's the city effect. So much to go and do and see.
Making art is like managing a farm. Hours and hours of solitary work that could be swept away by one false move, by one storm. (and the quiet too, seems similar, a way of working, attending to things.)
Even the butterflies feel fast. Don't limit yourself. Be as spacious as possible. Spend more time outdoors. Walking around, taking it all in. Just ride every where, you can do it. Take your time. Make stops, have snacks, watch the river flow...
" by the banks of Manhattan, flower...") (from the poem of Ted Berrigan "doing not enough"
I hope I get that look of a person who spends a lot of time outside. I want to know things actually. Seasonal changes, Birds in flight, trees, wind, water, range gauge. Taking notes will help. Camping always thrusts you into those circadian rhythms.
I started out on a drawing table near the pond, after looking at the sheep barn (too many people) and the big barn wall, (too exposed.) I told T. I was going to start there, and he said, "of course you are, why would you want to be anywhere else?" But the pond was so overstimulating that I could barely even move. That's where the thunder struck quality came in. I could not believe the fecundity, movement, buzzing quality of that site. Bees, frogs, blue tipped dragonflies, woodpeckers, butterflies, the linearity of the rushes above and the rippling reflection on the surface from a slight breeze or a swallow coming in for a drink.
The pictures above are a record of the dappled leaf light, and it was another layer of visual phenomena that I paid attention too. I sat for long periods of time, jotting notes, looking at things- feeling overwhelmed and in awe.
