“...it is a serious thing
just to be alive on this fresh morning
in this broken world.” ~ Mary Oliver
November has arrived, the month that quivers between fall and winter. Here in the mountains of North Carolina, we've had an Indian summer with a long dry spell, warm days, golden leaves. I bought large pots of marked-down jeweled plum chrysanthemums from a garden center, hauled them home in the truck's front seat and plopped the big pots on the front porch. Luckily, because the weather has been dry, warm, bearable: I've been able to extend painting time on the front porch, rather than having to move paints, tables, easels back inside for winter. Yes, I know. It's coming!
The mums rode home up front with me: the seat overflowing with color and spicy scents, the overhead drive home filled with gold, crimson, blue; corn stalks low in dusty fields, a reminder of long-ago childhoods. All things change, as does life, art, our perceptions of things. Yet, truth remains the same. Something to think about.
Here is a new painting, still in progress, but nearly completed...inspired by colors from a fall day, the hint of a storm on the horizon. Shades of lush plums, blues, and images live in those endless depths. Like the changing sea, skies overhead hold multitudes. And, so do we.
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