Pheasants

Tags

acrylic painting, changing one's mind, game birds, pheasants, self-criticism

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

Luthier

Tags

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

Val di Fiemme Photo from Wikipedia

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.

Muscovy

Tags

birdwatching, Muscovy Duck, punk hairstyle, Trump hairstyle, wildfowl

Looking a bit of a punk. Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Children’s Sculpture at Kingham

Tags

children's art, Cotswolds art, Kingham Lodge, plastic bottles, re-cycling, Sculpture, sculpture in the garden

Made by children from Bledington School, from plastic bottles.

Cute Little Coot (newly hatched)

Tags

baby birds, birdwatching, coot, ornithology, pond habitat, twitchers

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Badbury Clump, Oxfordshire

Tags

Badbury Clump, bluebells, Cotswolds, Hill fort, native bluebells, Oxfordshire

Bluebells galore. Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Inglesham Church, Oxfordshire

Tags

Cotswolds, Inglesham church, lead thieves, Oxfordshire, St John the Baptist church, The Society for the Preservation of Ancient Monuments, William Morris

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.

Black and White Weekend

Tags

b&w photography, Cotswolds, Gloucestershire, Horcott Lakes, swan, willows

St Mary’s Church, Fairford

Tags

Cotswolds, Fairford, flag half mast, Gloucestershire, St Marys church

My walk today. Loved the striped lawn!

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Georgia O’Keeffe

Tags

adobe, Badlands, Bear Lake, Cerro Pedernel, Cezanne, Cottonwood trees, Georgia O'Keeffe, Ghost Ranch, Mont St Victoire, morning-glory, Stieglitz, Thoreau

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.