It’s 6.30am ( but still feels like 5.30am due to the hour change on Sunday ) and I’m sitting by the window where it’s just light enough to write. The early-morning quality of light reminds me of other times I’ve waited for the day to creep from dark to light.
I can just make out the vibrant burst of yellow Forsythia bush and a few pale daffodils.
A trim woman in a dark trench-coat hurries across the street being taken for her daily walk by her terrier. Somewhere a diesel engine clatters into life. It’s 6.45 now. The heating creaks warmth into cold pipes and the house stretches and yawns, waking.
Twice as much light falls on my notebook. It’s a lovely feeling sitting here trying to capture the start of the day in words. It feels like 'real' writing, not just 'thinking out loud'.
I have a colour print of a small painting by Charles Sovek, an American impressionist-style painter who sadly died last year. It is a sprig of yellow Forsythia in an opaque glass bottle set against a blue background.
Twice as much light falls on my notebook. It’s a lovely feeling sitting here trying to capture the start of the day in words. It feels like 'real' writing, not just 'thinking out loud'.
I have a colour print of a small painting by Charles Sovek, an American impressionist-style painter who sadly died last year. It is a sprig of yellow Forsythia in an opaque glass bottle set against a blue background.
Right from childhood, yellow has been my favourite colour, and blue my second. The combination of the two makes a stunning contrast and this painting sings out to me. Like any master he has made it look simple but the handling of the blues and the opaque glass is expert and it appears loose and natural as though the painting were dashed off the brush. Makes me want to cut a sprig from the bush and paint one of my own.
I’ve been reading about abstract painting. I like the depths multi-coloured abstract painting seems to have. A lot is left to the individual’s own perception, or subconscious responses, to supply a ‘meaning’ -like when you look at Rorschach ink-blot.
Does a painting have to have a meaning? Is that our expectation? A similar question came up in a post recently -should a haiku have a title?
Maybe the painting was just an experimental combination of colours and strokes but as we the buyers, viewers, appraisers of art, like things to be labelled, paintings are always named.
Likewise a haiku can be written to express a feeling or a combination of words that surfaced from the subconscious. Maybe readers would prefer to read the verse and decide on their own meaning? It’s also more of a challenge for the writer to evoke the understanding in the reader of the feeling, thought s/he wants to share.
There was a soft quality to the dawn light that enabled the day, full of possibilities like a weekend before it’s begun. Now the full light has arrived and its sharp definition imposes structures and limits. “Forget dreams," it says, "This is the real world.”
I’ve been reading about abstract painting. I like the depths multi-coloured abstract painting seems to have. A lot is left to the individual’s own perception, or subconscious responses, to supply a ‘meaning’ -like when you look at Rorschach ink-blot.
Does a painting have to have a meaning? Is that our expectation? A similar question came up in a post recently -should a haiku have a title?
Maybe the painting was just an experimental combination of colours and strokes but as we the buyers, viewers, appraisers of art, like things to be labelled, paintings are always named.
Likewise a haiku can be written to express a feeling or a combination of words that surfaced from the subconscious. Maybe readers would prefer to read the verse and decide on their own meaning? It’s also more of a challenge for the writer to evoke the understanding in the reader of the feeling, thought s/he wants to share.
There was a soft quality to the dawn light that enabled the day, full of possibilities like a weekend before it’s begun. Now the full light has arrived and its sharp definition imposes structures and limits. “Forget dreams," it says, "This is the real world.”
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