october muse

'oktober' by elsa beskow

'autumn in the mountains' 1903 by adrian stoke

ernest biéler (1863-1948)

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william clarke rice. harper's magazine, october 1903

ota janecek 1919 – 1996 czech painter, sculptor and illustrator

newlay wood, horsforth, leeds by john atkinson grimshaw, 1861

 edward robert hughes 1832-1908 'with the wind

'autumn morning' by john atkinson grimshaw

'bocca baciata' by dante gabriel rossetti 1859

'autumn leaves' by john everett millais 1856

'autumn' by sophie gengembre anderson

glorious gloria

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writing days

I blew off everything today to work on chapter fourteen. I have twenty tasks barreling down upon my head, but I blew off all to work on my manuscript.

Good for me! Administer pats on back!

Some will wonder at my life of ease and indolence, and find it incredible that still I can't seem to finish my novel, find time to write.

Sometimes I wonder at it myself.

It does come down to sitting down and doing it.  But despite my privileged circumstances--and I call them thus, because even though I live just above hardscrabble in America, my life contains greater luxury and comfort than any medieval princess--I am distracted beyond description.

Every call to my attention merits more of my time, energy and consideration than the thing I call my heart's desire--my writing.

Every wail for help, 'Where's the scissors?'

'The green sweater?'

'The vanilla?' (On the spice rack, at eye level!)

His Magnificence wonders why I can't wash my dishes as I use them; he is intent on domesticating me and cultivating in me some civilized habits.  When I say, 'I'm on a writing tear! I can't stop a moment lest I lose momentum!', he thinks I am being a scoff-work.

Really, the dishes can wait.  The telephone bill can wait.  The dentist can wait.  The ancient Toyota's oil change can wait. It all can wait, until I finish chapter fourteen.

the woods

Extraordinary animation by Rima Staines and haunting music by Polly Paulusma.

The summer sun plays on the ground 
I feel it in my leaves  
The sap is rising up my veins  
There’s pollen on the breeze
I saw it all crystal clear 
I know who brought those children here
The badgers tried to keep them warm  
The foxes gave them milk  
Woodpeckers tried to hammer a home  
The spiders spun them silk
I saw it all crystal clear  
I know who brought those children here
No path out marked out with round white stones  
No Guardian Angel to lead them home 
Find them quick  
Research before they disappear
The bracken folds down into mulch  
The mushroom sprouts and spore  
The berries swell and ripe, now burst  
To carpet my forest floor
I saw it all crystal clear  
I know who brought those children here
Lost and lonely, here all is still  
If you don’t take them, the earth surely will  
Find them quick  
Research before they disappear
The winter wind howls through my arms  
My brooks begin to freeze  
My secrets now lie blanketed  
Beneath the moldering leaves
I saw it all crystal clear 
I know who left those children here

the lost earring--by stephen mackey

Stephen Mackey, a self-taught artist, is one of my favorite contemporary fairy painters.  You may know his work from greeting cards or children's books. He definitely has a bit darker and more quirky side to his creativity, as seen in this intriguing short animation.

women who must paint

I believe all of us are touched by the MUSE now and then.  All of us can access creativity, if we desire it sincerely, and make the appropriate propitiations ETC.  Even if your creativity is perhaps as everyday as baking cookies or organizing really beautiful filing cabinets, you are still honoring the MUSE.

source: the hermitage

Then there are those whose lives are devoted to the MUSE.  Given over to the quiet delirium of creativity with every cell of their body.  Whose every breath seems somehow influenced and given to the creative life.  Tiny embellishments to every mundane detail. Grand sweeping acts of creation performed with shocking confidence. I am breath taken by their passion, their wildness. Their bold individuality. These people inspire and fascinate me.

source: the hermitage

We could make a long list of famous artists of this kind, but then there are also the hidden artists, marginalized people, those who create through the years with no hope or interest of recognition. Sometimes they are considered mad, visionary. Foolish. Dangerous.

 source: the hermitage

Sometimes these are artists who don't have studios or much money for art supplies. I'm humbled by those who create with what they have or can find, discarded or recycled items, or boldly paint or mosaic or whatever right on their walls, doors, porches. They quite often 'recycle' the awful of their lives and remake it into something beautiful.

source: the hermitage

I honor their passion, their strength. They who have, no matter their humble circumstances, have served the MUSE.  It strengthens me and encourages me to soldier on with my ART, whatever my daily discouragements.

source: the hermitage

On that note, I came across this blog post on the hermitage, an enchanting blog by touched-by-the-wild artist Rima. 

She tells us the story about three old women, in different countries, who in their latter years began painting their houses. Not decorous eggshell white. Not tasteful little watercolors of flowers in a vase. But covering the interior and sometimes exterior with wondrous and fantastic imagery.  

Wild, dreamy, magical images.  Wolves and princesses, flowers and trees, angels and demons. Anything from within their fevered imaginations spilled over in paint on every surface of their dwellings, the only spaces under their direct control. And made something beautiful, for the world to marvel at.

 

source: the hermitage

 Why did these old women break free from convention to paint?

After years of hardship and repression, what wild spirit made them break free?

goldfish salvation

No goldfish were harmed in the making of this art...