Last summer at this time I was outside cutting down Japanese maple branches, perching along side vast white cotton paper, and arranging a decent composition. I tore through bottles of green, red and brown ink, throwing paint and then walking away and waiting for the sun to reveal the results. This summer the process has been less routine, as my recent art show had to be taken down, sales had to be made, and I had to be convinced to get back to the cupboards and hit the paints again. I have an idea morgue, a little file I keep with those concepts and possibilities that seem to plague artist's minds until they at least get them down in writing. The quest to embark on my next endeavor seems to bring me back to Scotland, a real beautiful and rugged piece of an Island that
consistently felt colder than the actual temperature revealed. Sometimes, late at night with my nose covered in feather quilts, I wondered if I had actually fallen prey to a conspiracy of Scottish thermometer trickery stretching from my beautiful manse in St. Andrews to as far away as our palatial apartments in Edinburgh. It was in these moments, these 35 degree mist that seemed to sit beside me at huge wooden tables spread with the feast of New York art supplies, that my mind did more painting than my hands. For once in a very long while, cups of hot tea remained untainted by quick mindless strikes from my paintbrush..this time I actually was drinking hot tea from top of the cup to the very end..not cleaning my red laden brush to prepare it for dipping into the next color. I had never seen tea remain tea colored for so long.. Perhaps I would have kept it and painted with its majestic sepia tones had I been back in the states..but I needed its heat to enter my body more than the paper needed to be adorned.
Beautiful writing!
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