WIND AND SUN, SNOW AND ICE, WHAT CALMING PARADISE
The artist might find the wind too strong, the sunglow too intense this afternoon, beating down upon this basking old woodland, of gnarled, venerable friends of the earth. Tall pines seem more immense this moment, poking high into the azure sky. The snow mantle is a sea of twinkling prisms, and the ice appears so deeply black against the enclosure of sculpted white. The painter might feel intimidated by all the truths in this clearly exposed winterscape, where vulnerable creatures of fur and feather, emerge starkly to their predators. They have no place to hide in this stunning light...... with just skinny grey shadows bleeding-out from leaning birches that can not possibly conceal prey from adversarial pursuit. It is free of dishonesty. Free of interpretation....."it is too clear, too exposed, too demanding," poses the irritated artist, as he packs up his kit, and trudges back out the path toward the cabin. Possibly fearing he might also be exposed and hunted. Yet in this bestowed honesty of winter landscape, is the poetry of reclamation. It is the place in this universe, where imperfection is irrelevant, as all is beautiful in the grand merging chaos we see, the amazing sense of order and selection we can not see.....but suspect of nature’s defiance to reveal all inner truths,...... of seasons and evolutions, until by the grace of her first green sprouts that push toward this divine light, we are exposed to its new reality.....the first cascade of water to crack this ice-covered slope, flowing heavier each melting day, into a powerful cataract to force change upon the entombed lowland. Nothing stays the same. Even now in this frozen moment, ice crystals fracture like glass against glass, from its own magnification of light and heat. It self destruction for the regeneration of something else. It does not interest the painter, who cherishes the rage of wind and snow, the inherent art of the winter storm.
It is a calm not wasted on the watcher in the woods, who consumes the peace and tranquility as the thirsty wanderer lusts for the oasis pond. I have arrived just now in a place of raw perfection that asks nothing of the voyeur but acceptance and passive enjoyment. There is no expectation for any random interpretation, whether by paint and canvas, or by heart and imagination. I am able to lean back against this towering evergreen, and feel so very small in this great old world, a mere speck of contrast in this illumination that radiates in a glow, more intense than I have ever witnessed. It pains the eyes, to look out over this brilliance, reflecting back like glowing spears toward the sky, and not feel the ache deep in the skull. This hollow of landscape usually presents in mid February, as poetically dull and listless, the mantle white having deteriorated in the mid-winter melt, to earth tones and slithering black creeks, winding down along grass-covered knolls.
It is a vibrant place, in this contradiction of deep silence, and suspended animation, where for a time, even my pulse seems to have ceased. Yet I sustain to watch the afternoon sun mature, and this yellow glow turn golden, the shadows become tarnished silver,...... and the warmth I felt earlier, has been compromised by the chill wind coming off the frozen lake. It is a precious opportunity afforded me, to watch the mature season slowly losing its grip over the wildflowers and curious creatures of the earth, suspended precariously beneath in their frozen habitat. The coils of new ferns ready to emerge into the sunglow sometime soon. It is, as I feel today, a bright hope eternal that I might, by nature’s grace, evolve here yet one more spring,.... to be a part of this grand revival.....this grander illusion. As the artist may return to capture a more contrasting nature, to his liking, alas I shall remain here in spirit, to cast poetry onto his palette, as silver onto gold paints subtly dull but historic. My footfall now crunches in the hardening snow. Farewell.