Risking the Edge

Risking the edge in studio practice has more to do with realizing who it is that stands before the canvas, brush in hand, than any intellectual explanation of one's work.

COME TO THE EDGE

Come to the edge.
I might fall.
Come to the edge.
It's too high!

COME TO THE EDGE!

And (she) came,
And she leapt,
And she flew.
__adapted from the Poem "Come To The Edge" by Christopher Logue

Dry Mountains in Early March

THE SOUND OF THE SEA

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And insipirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)



My mountain is very dry, the forest is crackling under my feet, the fire danger is officially "HIGH". The winds are roaring down and through the canyon and I find myself remembering the roar and mist of hidden coves on my ocean walks. Memory becomes such mystery to me. What my psyche soul re-members on this dry Colorado mountain in early March is part of the "inaccessible solitudes of being."