The Edge of the Town, Winter Morning (#94)
Frosty musings, plus early 20th Canadian landscapes to contrast with my 21st century views.
This morning, like every day in every month ever, is a new sheet from the pile.
A new opportunity for you to conjure precious magic from the snowy ether.
The trail ahead is borderless - a blank piece of paper - and you freeze, unsure of what to write or sketch. You don’t want to carelessly mark the perfection of the unmarred white blanket in front of you. But then, you remember: It’s limiting to make your art “too precious”. It’s constricting to save the good paper and the quality inks for the perfect moment of inspiration.
So you take a step into the corn snow. Then, another.
Crunch. Crunch.
If there was a sunrise to be had today, it still would not be roused from its’ slumber. No one is awake, but while you walk in solitude, you’re not alone; your thoughts follow behind you, their cacophony carrying clearer and farther in the cold air that swirls around you.
You brought your earbuds but unlike other strolls, you deign to put on a playlist or a podcast. You want to hear what your brain has to say to you today. It’s so chatty - still; it had a lot of say last night, too. It nudged you awake anytime you felt the weight of your eyelids - like the sleepovers you used to have when you were young, when you’d lay there with a friend, pausing in a nighttime game of conversational Chicken, before one of you would start whispering again.
These thoughts giggle less, though. And they’re heavier and you feel their weight, lugging them along on your walk.
Crunch. Crunch.
It’s hard, isn’t it?
It’s hard to not lay down in the weight of thoughts and accumulating wet snow.
It’s hard not to make your art supplies too precious but also to see them as the treasured gifts they are - fresh powder or freshly-pressed pulp.
It’s hard to stand in the swirling snow, mindful of each insistent flake, and let it fall around you instead of trying to bottle each six-pointed star for future and endless accounting.
But you press on. Because - rather than your raucous brain - the inkwell that serves your art or your ledger is your steady heart.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Weekly Segment of SciArt
Sitting alongside my thoughts this week is a book currently under review for The Miramichi Reader. J.E.H. MacDonald Up Close examines MacDonald’s art by getting into the gritty details of chemical and physical composition of his choice of painting supports, ground layers, and paints. It’s weirdly fascinating and beautifully illustrated with microscopic cross-sections of his work - a purple circle of art and science! (Stay tuned for the review - I’m halfway through reading it.)
MacDonald was a founding member of the “Group of Seven”, an artist collective who (along with Tom Thomson) defined Canadian landscapes in the early 20th century - creating “…a distinct Canadian art…through direct contact with nature”1. They were advocates and practitioners of plein aire sketching, so these winterscapes must have been bracing productions!
The Group of Seven. https://thegroupofseven.ca/
I’m so glad I saved this today - a storm is pounding Halifax and this was an excellent cozy read!
Oh Bryn, another wonderful page from the Campfire Notebook - thank you!
Loved these lines most of all:
The trail ahead is borderless - a blank piece of paper - and you freeze, unsure of what to write or sketch. You don’t want to carelessly mark the perfection of the unmarred white blanket in front of you. But then, you remember: It’s limiting to make your art “too precious”.
🙌🙌🙌