Summer is alive with transition. We push our fingers into wet warming soil, carefully dropping tiny seeds. Watch as the first early summer shoots rise from the ground. Wait with anticipation as we tend with trepidation, fearing hail, marauders, weeding, supporting, watering, feeding. And, finally, late summer we reap. Grateful for the bounty bestowed.
The rhythm of the season, like the pacing of feet or a song of words, a steady progression yet filled with hesitation, tumbling, skipping, harmonics.
I find a small square house in a field. The building is painted on all exterior walls with an upside down view of the surroundings. At first glance I think I’ve found an electrical or outbuilding cleverly disguised.
Went to the National Gallery in Ottawa a few days back. Did a sketch of one of the Monet pieces. Okay, it’s a rough pencil drawing done while standing, jostled by the crowds of other onlookers, but it gave me a look into the techniques Monet was using.
Interesting how he drew to a single vanishing point. And if you look at the bottom, that’s his wife. Arm stuck out the back, wearing a turban(?) and neat bustle dress.
You see there was a distinct and slightly terrifying lack of bees in my area this year. My locust trees flowered, an event that normally attracts so many bees, standing next to the trees you have to shout to be heard over the roar.
A neighbor has one of those apple trees that fruits tastier and sweeter apples than others. He claims there were lots of flowers but no bees. There is no fruit.
So my painting/drawing is calling all bees. I hope you come back. We miss you.
I was awake early one morning this summer and when I got up there was a heavy fog on the ground even though the sun was quite bright. As I walked past the flower bed I was entertained by a busy scene of bees and a male ruby throated hummingbird feeding at the bee balm patch.