Wednesday, May 13, 2020

Pandemic Days and Trying to find Reality

"The Art Library and Back Corner of my Studio" wc and ink on Arches hot press paper 9 x 12

"Front Corner of Studio" wc, Tombow pens, Faber Castell pens, Arches hot press 4 x 8

The pandemic carries days and months flow together now.  Every sort of emotion is on display.. in our own towns, across our nation, in other our own homes...on the television, on social media.  They range from anger, to disbelief, from creativity to dismay, from despair to resignation, from fear to a kind of holy stillness.   

Garrison Keillor writes...

Old man in a black winter coat looking out on the rooftops of New York, and a slim blond with violin scars on her jaw, and we talk about the boxes of useless unused stuff in closets that should be dealt with, and it brings to mind a fit of shelf-clearing years ago, an old unread book I opened and found, pressed between the leaves, a piece of yellowed handstitching: “Elizabeth Crandall is my name And America is my nation. Providence is my home And Christ is my salvation When I am dead and in my grave and all my bones are rotten, if this you see, remember me, when I am quite forgotten. 1845.” A fellow writer, long gone, and the thought isn’t original but the stitching is perfect. The perfection is stunning.

Sometimes as I sketch around my home and yard...I wonder if this will be seen in some generation far far away in the future...papers yellow around the edges.  I am tempted to write in small small print..."when you see this, remember me. 2020". 

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