When you paint over a previous painting as you no longer rate it! Then you wish that you hadn’t?
Acrylic painting by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Aeolian harp, Alpenglow, dendrology, gibbous moon, Il Bosco Che Suona, luthier, Magnificent Sorella, master craftsman, Mother nature, musical instrument maker, Pale di San Martino, terroir, topography, Val di Fiemme, violin
btristan Predazzo (TN) 5 Sept, 2009.
L’abete di risnanza gives you wood
from the Val di Fiemme, the Magnifica Sorella.
In that forest of harmony is Spruce,
cradled by Pale di San Martino;
warmed in turn by Alpenglow and then chilled.
Prolonged, reduced solar activity
narrows its rings; matches them to your wrinkles.
Your belly has developed fine grain lines;
your voice has a sylvan modulation.
You haunt Il Bosco Che Suona,
a seasoned genius, skilled in selection.
Work is a divertimento for you.
The gibbous moon is your precise signal
to select the slow-maturing timber
to be quarter-sawn; air-dried in your shop.
The vibrating air, combined with your breath,
creates singing sap, needles, resin,
responsive, like an Aeolian harp
and the terroir gives you vine ash for your reds,
which stain your hands, transforming you to live tree,
bridging the gap between man, instrument,
climate, topography, dendrology.
When your master craftsman fingers relax
and your touch becomes lighter and lighter
and Fortune fells you just where you have stood,
for aeons, those in your shadow will grow,
more vigorously for having known you
and your arcane method of fusing strength
with Mother Nature’s flexibility.
They will internalise resonances
from tonewoods subject to your discipline.
Autorotation will spread all your skills.
Though, in the beginning was Man and Tree
and an inhospitable mountain range,
now Nature has been given her own voice.
The unspoilt church William Morris was inspired by when he founded the Society for the Preservation of Ancient Monuments. A gem, sadly attacked by heartless lead thieves a couple of years ago.
Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart. All Rights Reserved.
Photograph by Alfred Stieglitz, 1918 (Wikipedia)
If I paint Ghost Ranch enough, then God
will give it to me. Well, that was the pact.
I loved The Black Place; those brooding Badlands
and that sun with its tonal harmony.
I strove to get to the heart of all things,
for, as Thoreau once said, Nature will bear
the closest inspection. So, I observed:
repeatedly, intensely, like Cezanne,
with his ever-changing Mont St Victoire.
I would portray Death’s bleached beauty; a cloud;
Bear Lake; Canna leaves; winter Cottonwoods;
a blue Morning Glory; arroyas’ curves.
I would prick out river beds from airplanes –
some would say from a divine perspective.
My adobe wall shut distractions out.
Every day I would draw cool well water
from my own depths; would mix it with pigment,
till horizons narrowed through declining
vision. Cerro Pedernel retreated
and my skylight became a small white dot,
an oculus to stars’ proximity.