but it takes a certain brave leap to do it,
stepping into that unknown relationship with the world - and one's self -
and letting something land on the page.
Here is what landed as I wandered around Ireland in October.
Each time I drew (sometimes just for a few minutes) I felt better, more engaged with my life.
and each object I spent time with reflected back some quality in me.
The words I added revealed why I had chosen that thing to be with.
My drawing process takes some courage to enter,
stepping into dialogue with a resonant object .
What is my connection to it ? Can I meet it ? Will it meet me ?
I finally jump in, the pencil touches the paper, begins to move
as my eye touches the object - eye and hand joined.
And then some magic happens.
I am with this world, the world is with me,
reflecting who I am and why I chose this thing.
I know it now - I know myself.
The world and me together.
I wandered around the Archaeological Museum in Dublin one afternoon,
gazing on the ancient shapes - waistbands, necklaces, earrings
that seemed scaled for enormous bodies - who WERE these people ?
I stop in front of a simple mount (perhaps for a belt or clasp ?)
and trace the pattern - settling in . . .
Time stretches out and then suddenly it's five minutes to closing.
I gather three simple strong forms on the page -
At the Decorative Arts Museum I walk into the Asian gallery
and pause in front of this cheerful bird. I bring the shape into the sketchbook.
The next day I take the train west to Galway and walk on the promenade along the wide bay.
There are people swimming in the frigid water ! I point this out to an elderly woman as we
both stand under a shelter waiting for the rain to pass. She says, in that lilting Irish way,
"Oh yes, I swim everyday. Keeps me healthy. Never get a cold !"
My impression of her completely opens and changes.
The rain stops. I see a high hill in the distance and decide to walk there -
As I find my way along the rocky beach empty of people I being to worry that the tide will rush in
and I'll be trapped. Then I worry that I'll stumble, sprain my ankle, not be able to move.
When I make it to the top of the cliff and lean over the edge I worry that the ground
will give way under me. So many worries carried along !
It is windy, cold and bright up there. I open the sketchbook and catch some of the moving lines
with my pencil - no time for color (will add that later ) just a moment of touching the page.
I pack up and head back down the hill. The ground does not give way,
the tide does not entrap, the rocks do not throw me off.
I make it all the way back to a warm cafe just as the sky opens and the rain starts up again.
