Words + Images

Step 1:  Use stencil to cut butterfly images from old catalogs.

Step 2: Adhere butterflies to card stock with glue or double-sided tape.

Step 3: Use glitter glue to decorate and embellish (optional).

Step 4: Let everything dry.

Step 5:  (This is most important!)  Write note inside card and send to a friend.

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The story I believe is this:  In 1920s Florence, a competition was held to portray the Madonna and Child.  This is one of those works, a tryptich unsigned, that was created for the competition.  The Madonna and Child reside in the central panel, while angels, one is rose and the other in blue, are located on either side.  My favorite parts of the images are the eyes and hands, as well as the use of color.

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Once, long ago it seems, I wanted to move from New England to Savannah.  I visited and after the experience, at the prompting of a friend, I imagined what it would be like to live there.  My muse would have been very happy.  But I begin to think my muse can be happy in many places.  😉

***

A Savannah Morning

5:00am. The door bell rings. Its’ the deliveryman signaling that he’s dropped off your paper. In Boston, it was a signal that if you snooze, you just might lose your newspaper. But you’re not in Boston anymore. There’s no mad rush along Habersham Street by students from the School of Design to pilfer a free newspaper. You can lie back and indulge in the morning.

Like New Orleans and Paris, Savannah purrs with indulgence. People stroll from point a to point b. They do not rush. People savor their food … for hours. No gulping allowed. Conversation is welcome, not abhorred. Fine art, fine fabrics … you rub your cheek against crisp cotton sheets that have a thread count that’s pure indulgence and you know this is the right place for you to be. For the moment.

Linked to indulgence is appreciation and you most certainly appreciate the small house on the outskirts of the River District. Formerly a gatehouse, it is small and narrow. You know if you don’t stay on top of the clutter, what the realtor described as “cozy” will quickly become “claustrophobic.” You might have walked away except for the gardens.

The shadow garden trembles on your bedroom wall. An effect of the sun shining through intricate fleur de lys and butterfly ironwork gracing your windows. When you took the city tours, you understood the pride that local African Americans expressed about the lace-like designs accenting homes throughout the River District. But now as you wake each morning, you actually *feel* the pride in the artistry of slaves, illiterate and shackled but finding freedom of expression in new forms.

The hollow haunting music of wood chimes lures you from the bed to the window and the real garden. The chimes hang on the ancient magnolias and oaks trees, and the more recently-planted dogwood. They create a symphony in the light morning breeze. A bit of perfection in a garden that is far from perfect.

The flowers you’ve planted haven’t … well, flowered yet. There are a lot of bare spots with little labeled sticks in the fresh turned soil: A few veggies. Some sunflowers. Morning glories and sweet peas planted so that the tendrils will climb the wall separating you from your neighbors. Petunia and marigold plants tucked into red clay pots. If it ever rained, the garden would be a riot of purples and pinks, reds and gold. This morning like every other you realize how spoiled you were in the wet Northeast.

Your eye settles on a robin pecking away at crumbs on your cheap wooden table. That’s where you have coffee in the morning. Speaking of which … you rush down the stairs. Starbucks French Roast soon permeates the air. You grow just a bit impatient waiting for the coffee to drip into your mug. Its summer and your window of opportunity is short. Soon the humidity and heat will rise forcing you indoors to work. But until then, you can sit at your table beneath the oak tree and let your muse listen to the wind as it speaks through the chimes and the rustle of leaves.

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“One of the great delights of poetry is that when you’re really functioning, you’re tapping the unconscious in a way that is distinct from the ordinary, the customary, use of the mind in daily life.”

Stanley Kunitz, The Wild Braid

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She may be more famous for Mrs Dalloway and Orlando, but it is her Blue & Green that I love the most.  Imagine that.

BLUE & GREEN

GREEN
THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets­their harsh cries­sharp blades of palm trees­green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It’s night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green’s out.

BLUE
The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral’s different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.

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I have a “thing” about the color blue.  As I have written in the past, growing up in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains has certainly shaped my color-love.  And, then there’s the fact that my mother loved all things blue.  One of the items she treasured most in life was a small cobalt blue candy dish that my father gave her.  Every now and then I tinker with a neverending essay about the color blue, and I usually start by searching the internet for images that will both inspire me and ground me.  A search for “blue butterflies” introduced me to the website of Peg Steunenberg.  A visual treat for sure.  http://www.pegsteunenberg.com/index.html

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The Cats’ Arabian Nights was first published by D. Lothrop of Boston in 1881.  It was written by Abby Morton Diaz and illustrated by a number of artists.  I found the book in a small antiques shop while traveling through Virginia.  The images hooked me more so than the book’s  story which is a feline rendition of the classic Arabian Nights tale.  Since returning to Boston, I have begun to research the author (who had strong and important Boston connections) and the illustrators. It has been much easier to find information on Ms. Diaz, e.g. http://womenshistory.about.com/library/etext/bl_townsend_diaz.htm

Of all the illustrators listed in the book, Lizzie Lawson intrigues me most.  Her images moved me to buy the book.  I think because her drawings seem filled with such emotion.

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I was browsing in the Curious George bookstore in Harvard Square when this book called out to me.  The story is sweet and simple, about a young child trying to find Mama.  The smoky hued illustrations depict a Korean town circa 1938.  Written in both Korean and English, I bought it as a gift for a young Korean American friend of mine but I think its quite suitable as a gift for anyone of any age who enjoys being transported by words and images to a different world.

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