reflection’s for winter. Summer is for doing. (unless you’re George.)
Currently in the process of absorbing the following into my brain:
Studios, collections, spaces for exploration and discovery, permaculture, self-sustaining ecologies, learning ecologies, living lightly, living deeply, the connection between life and artistic practice, collections, our intrinsic need to touch natural materials, space and aesthetics, summer.
(all images linked to their original owners.)
It was a singular curiosity- there, three inches behind her navel, was a small, unusual gland. Though unconnected to any other part of her otherwise normal endocrine system, it was deemed benign from the get-go and so generally ignored. As she grew older, however, she began to notice an annual rhythm – So long as the ground was frozen, this gland rested between the rest of her organs, small, solid and exciting as a dried kidney bean, stirring only with a howling wind, or a silent road, or the hint of a minor chord. When the days lengthened and nights grew warm as skin, the heretofore globular organ would begin to pull and retract, like gum between a thumb and forefinger, until it reached the back of her throat, painlessly pulling though guts and lungs, thin and delicate and strong as a spider’s web. At the sight of the untamed and untranslatable, giant weeds and threatening disarray, the thread sounded a clear note, as though plucked- inaudible to anyone else and absolutely unignorable. Her head ringing with its barbaric YAWP, she found herself championing beautiful messes- hacking down orderly shrubberies, letting her garden’s edges melt and ooze into the bugle weed and ground ivy, cultivating edible weeds and reveling in wildness.
The garden in February:
The palimpsest upon which I’ve pinned my conviction that tomorrow’s coming.