Garden bounty is just beginning—the basil is bushy, the beans are blooming, and the zucchini is racing for the fence line. Every evening I have to leaf through the tomatoes to grab anything that looks ready to ripen before the raccoon family makes its nightly rounds (or the squirrels get to work in the morning). I don't have a lot of sunny spots for food growing, but I'm lucky to have generous friends with productive gardens. This cute tomato chick was a gift from one humorous friend, and it got me thinking about creating stories with vegetable animals for my grandsons. I'll have to keep my eyes open at the market this summer to see what shows up—a gourd giraffe, perhaps, or a rutabaga rhinoceros? No reason why grown ups can't play with their food!
Metamorphosis
My camera gets a good workout when I’m in Vermont. With the ever-changing sky show, the mountains, the meadows, the wildflowers, and the butterflies, I spend a lot of time looking through the lens (and I didn’t even mention my grandsons!). This year I got a special bonus as our visit coincided with the metamorphosis of dragonflies. We were noticing more and more of the insects lying around looking a bit stunned, and my daughter-in-law took her curious boys on a search for the reason. She discovered a shady, grassy spot behind the picnic table where dragonfly nymphs had collected, and we got to watch in amazement as the insects emerged. I didn’t know anything about the dragonfly life cycle, but it’s fascinating. The eggs are laid in the calm water of a lake or pond, and when the nymphs emerge underwater, it can take from one to four years for them to develop. When a nymph is fully grown and the weather is warm enough, it crawls out of the water onto a stick (or, in our case, a picnic table leg) and begins to gulp air to expand its body. This causes the outer skin to split, allowing the dragonfly to pull itself out. It takes a while, and once it’s out it has to wait for its wings to fully unfurl and harden, making it vulnerable to predators (and small boys). When its wings are dry, it heads out over the water to find a mate and start the cycle over again. It was a miracle to watch the process over several days, and the grown-ups were as impressed as the kids.
Though I’m no expert, I’m guessing that these were wide-tipped clubtails (genus Gomphus).
Polly's Peonies
Although we celebrate the summer solstice when we’re in Vermont, I always feel that I’ve been transported back to an earlier time of the year. It’s not just the cooler weather, though it does feel strange to be dressed in my winter layers to welcome the arrival of summer! Trees are still wearing their spring green, and gardens are full of flowers that bloomed weeks ago in Virginia—lilacs, bearded and Siberian irises, and my favorites, peonies. The farmers up the hill from our cottage have an enviable garden that sits in full sun behind their big old house. For decades the garden has thrived on the loving attention of Polly and careful inclusions of cow manure dug in by Dexter. Neither of them is up to much of the work now, but the plants keep right on singing. When I paid a visit before leaving, the peonies were overflowing in their beds. Light pink, dark magenta, white, and red—varieties that probably can’t be found in any of the fancy plant catalogs. Polly has always been generous with her flowers, and every year I come home with peonies to photograph in my studio. It’s a bit of a squeeze getting them into our packed car, but I’m willing to ride home with the jar on my lap! It’s worth it to have the sweet scent of peonies in my house for just a few days in June.
Moonlight in Vermont
As the sun went down on the longest day of the year, the full moon rose, spilling its bright light into the lake. Pushed by the wind, clouds scooted across the sky. I was reminded of one of my favorite songs (I can hear WIllie Nelson's gravelly voice crooning it):
Evening summer breeze
Warblings of the meadowlark
Moonlight in Vermont
The Rabbit Hole
Just as the hot weather is starting to take hold in Virginia, I find myself putting the winter layers back on to survive June in Northern Vermont (last night’s temperature was 42˚). This is our annual summer visit to the Northeast Kingdom, a place we’ve been returning to for more than 30 years. With our own business and intense creative lives, my husband and I were coming here to “unplug” before the plugging in included emails, cellphones, and the internet. We love the countryside—the mountains, meadows, lakes, and farms that make up this sparsely populated corner of the state. When we turn off the dirt road that surrounds the lake and drive down the rutted lane that leads to our rental cottage, we feel that we have dropped down Alice’s rabbit hole into a magical world. Only this world belongs to scolding robins, and mother ducks parading their broods, and loons floating serenely as they scout for fish. Suddenly we can hear the wind speak in all its voices—from whispering rustles to howling storms. The clouds parade past us—sometimes striding, sometimes sprinting—their reflections magnified on the surface of the lake. Here I can float in a kayak, read on the beach, take long walks, and pursue butterflies and wildflowers with my lens, indulging my need for solitude and the comforting connection with nature. It takes a couple of days to get into the rhythm of it, so ingrained is the habit of response and the need to be always doing, but it’s good medicine for the spirit. In a few days the rest of the family will arrive, and the delight and energy of grandsons will also be good for the spirit—still magical, if a bit more boisterous!
Clafoutis
Local berries and fruits are starting to appear at the market, and that means only one thing—yummy summer desserts. Fresh strawberries require nothing to make them special except a little whipped cream or crême fraiche, though a friend recently delighted me by serving an intensely flavored yet unexpectedly light strawberry charlotte. I’ll definitely put that recipe into my rotation, along with crumbles, crisps, and galettes. My attention at the moment is on the short season for local cherries, and my very favorite way to prepare them—a clafoutis. Clafoutis is a French dessert that traditionally uses cherries baked in a batter. It originated in the Limousin, a province of south-central France, and the name comes from the word claufir, which means “to fill up” in the local dialect. It requires little preparation and results in a lot of flavor. It’s usually served warm. I’m including my recipe below, though there are dozens of variations on the web. Next up will be blackberry season, then peaches, and they are both perfect for a clafoutis. Technically, only the cherry version is supposed to be called a clafoutis; when other fruits are used, the dessert is called a flognarde. Whatever you choose to call it, it’s easy to make, impressive to look at, and always delicious.
- 2 cups of cherries (sweet or tart), stemmed, pitted, and cut in half
- 3 Tbs of brandy (optional)
- 3 large eggs
- 1 cup whole milk
- 1/2 cup granulated sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
- 1/4 teaspoon fine salt
- 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
- A pinch of nutmeg
- Butter to coat the pie dish
Soak the cherries in the brandy for a couple of hours then drain their liquid into the wet ingredients. Butter a pie dish (I use pyrex). Spread the cherries on the bottom of the pan. Mix together the flour, sugar, and salt. Whisk together the milk, eggs, and vanilla. Then whisk together all the ingredients and pour the batter over the cherries. Bake in a 350˚ oven for 35 to 40 minutes (it will puff up and get golden). Serve right away.
Maypop
It’s been a strange May in Virginia, with almost 10 inches of rainfall, the wettest recorded since the 1870s. Plants that I expect to see this time of year have held back, or else they’ve all come out at once when the hot sun finally hit them (like my roses). One that hasn’t appeared yet is my passionflower vine (Passiflora incarnata), also known as purple passionflower or Maypop. This native of the Southeast blooms generously, and its unusual flowers are attractive to the eye and irresistible to butterflies (it’s a host plant for the Variagated Fritillary butterfly). Bees love them, too. It’s one of my favorite blossoms to photograph, and I’ve just finished a new edition of passionflowers on different colored backgrounds (information coming soon). It was apparently given its name because its floral parts were supposed to refer to aspects of the passion of Christ (his suffering and crucifixion). I suspect this was the effort of a well-intentioned monk to distract his converts from the sheer sexiness of the flower! The vine always holds back until it’s good and ready in May (hence its name) and then makes up for lost time. I hope the heavy spring rains haven’t drowned it, but I just checked, and it still hasn’t popped (on this last day of May).
Rose Season
The sun has finally decided to stay for a few days, and the roses are popping. This is my favorite time in the garden, and I relish the morning ritual of picking blooms for my vases and my camera. In France, roses are everywhere from May though October (and beyond, if you live in the south). My happiest childhood memories come from the time we lived nears Orléans on the Loire River. Our house sat in several acres of walled park and garden, and the formal parterres that lined the lower paths were filled with 25 varieties of tea roses (we counted them!). My mother once made a spectacular hat out of roses for one of the many luncheons she attended. There is so much shade in my garden, that I can't indulge my lust for tea roses, but I've had a lot of success with climbing roses along the walls of the house. They only bloom once, but they're very generous. And if it doesn't rain too much or get hot too soon, I can enjoy my roses for another few weeks.
Sunshine
The clouds parted—for one day only—but I took advantage of it to drive to Linden to meet friends and photograph among the vines. This has been the soggiest spring ever, and there have been few opportunities to leave the house except with an umbrella (definitely not with a camera). My garden is green but droopy, and the few delicate plants I put into my containers and beds during that brief April warm spell have now drowned. The ground is just too wet to work, so a day in the vineyard seemed like a good way to get fresh air and fresh perspective (a nice glass of wine helps, too). With my show up at Linden, I've had a good excuse to visit often, and this has allowed me to observe the growing season close up. The vines were still dormant until just a few weeks ago, but now they are fresh green and growing rapidly. In yesterday's sunlight the leaves glowed, forming straight lines of light that raced up and down the hillsides. Rain has made it impossible to mow between the rows, so wildflowers nestle at the base of the vines. Among the day's surprises were clumps of deep blue flax flowers (Linum lewisii). I had never seen this flower, and though I knew of flax from the uses of its seeds and fibers, I had no idea how beautiful it is. I'd love to plant it in my garden (one of those self-sowers I rely on). It's supposed to be undemanding and drought resistant, but if summer takes after spring, drought tolerance will not be necessary. Anything in my garden will have to bring its own sunshine!
New Editions
My prints have been displayed at Linden Vineyards for more than two months, and the warm response has been very gratifying. But the work of a show doesn't end once the frames are on the wall—there's still the follow-up. Nowadays that involves quite a bit of technical work, especially when it comes to maintaining a website. I've finally managed to get the website to reflect my new images, so I can officially announce three new editions: Conversation, Magnolia Grandiflora, and Tempestuous. Please check them out on the website (though I highly recommend a trip to Linden Vineyards to view them with a cool glass of their delicious rosé in hand!).
More Wonder
For months friends have been raving about the amazing exhibition that reopened the Renwick Gallery after its renovations, and I finally experienced it for myself this week. Appropriately titled Wonder, the exhibit features nine artists who have created room-sized installations out of unusual materials. Each of them inspires awe—from Maya Lin’s “Folding the Chesapeake,” a recreation of the Chesapeake and its tributaries in green glass marbles, to Jennifer Angus’ “In the Midnight Garden,” walls painted cochineal pink on which fanciful patterns have been created with real (dead) insects. The materials aren’t always obvious—giant stalagmites rising from the floor are created with stacks of notecards, and curving walls that could be Medieval gates woven from rough thatch turn out to be made from intricately-pieced recycled rubber tires. A ceiling is draped with netting that picks up projected colors and moves and changes as the air is disturbed, and colored string stretched between floor and ceiling is perceived as a rainbow as you cross the room. A giant tree is recreated out of small pieces of wood, and willow saplings are bent and woven into fanciful huts. Every room holds a discovery that challenges our perceptions—of space, materials, and the creative process. In an unexpected way, I got to share the excitement with our small grandsons by placing a prearranged silent Face Time call. With their two faces staring through my phone camera, I pointed the lens at the exhibits and walked slowly through the galleries as if I was taking a video (walking with your smartphone held out in front of you is such a common practice, no one notices!). While they were looking at the art, I was watching their expressions. The wonder was clear in the wide-eyed delight of the 18 month old and the shape of his lips as they formed one of his only words, “Wow!”
Wonder at the Renwick Gallery—some of the exhibits will close on May 8, 2016, but others remain until July 10, 2016.
Weeping for the maple
My beautiful weeping cut leaf Japanese maple is dying. I'm in shock. It had only started to look stressed last summer, and the knowledgeable friend I consulted thought the wet weather was probably to blame. But it has just leafed out, and only half of its branches show life—a dramatic decline. For 25 years I've watched this beautiful tree flourish in my garden. I counted on its graceful branches and lush foliage, its color shifting with the seasons from burnt orange in the spring to deep burgundy in the fall. In winter, snow-covered branches traced arcs and swirls in the air. I'm already thinking about it in the past tense, though it's not dead yet. I suspect it has a fungal disease common to Japanese maples, and it is probably too late to save it. But I'll do what I can. This tree was the formal anchor of my otherwise haphazard landscaping—a happy reminder that nature knows what it's doing. Now nature is reminding me that all things pass. Yes, of course, but I don't have to like it.
Self-Starters
As my father used to say, "Spring has sprung!" Suddenly the garden is in full blooming rotation, and all the tasks I was supposed to have finished before this (pruning, clearing, planting, mulching) are not done. Oops! Luckily, I'm surrounded by lots of self-starters, plants that determine their own fate and seed themselves. Violets have spread along most of the paths, and I have a beautiful patch of variegated vinca that is producing loads of pale blue blossoms in a formerly bare spot under a cedar. The brightest points in the garden now are provided by wood poppies that have wandered wherever they want. Officially called Celandine poppies (Stylophorum diphyllum), these are native wildflowers that love dappled sunlight (and I seem to have lots of it). They bloom so generously and require so little care that I am always grateful to find they have popped up in a new place. I've been reading a fascinating gardening book, Cultivating Chaos, that expounds the theory that enriching landscapes with self-seeding plants is a way to support a thriving garden ecology and create unexpected beauty. I certainly have plenty of unplanned beauty in my garden (and here I thought I was just being lazy!).
Silly Snoke
One of the many things I like about hanging out with my two grandsons is that I get to play. We are so serious as adults that we forget how silliness contributes to our wellbeing. The physical part of play requires a certain amount of stamina (and provides good incentive for staying in shape). The mental part—imagination—keeps my mind stretching in delightful ways. The older grandson just turned four, and he loves ridiculous songs, outrageous stories, and drawings of unlikely creatures, so I get to improvise tunes and rhymes, tell stories from spontaneous cues, and draw whatever happens to be on his (or my) mind when the crayons come out (and he doesn’t care how “good” any of it is, as long as we’re having fun). This is how the snoke was born. On our last visit, we were talking about animals and their habitats. Suddenly paper and crayons were on the table, and I was drawing what he described. Our creature, the snoke, was red with yellow spots, he lived in the rain forest, climbed trees, and his name was Patrya. The result of our brainstorming was a rough sketch, but it was all I needed to get my own imagination firing away. When I came home I continued to play (having just come out of preparations for my show at Linden, a bit of the absurd was just what I needed). I wrote a poem story then decided to make drawings, and the next thing I knew I was printing a book. I completed it just in time for my grandson's birthday. His mind has moved on to other topics (the extinction of dinosaurs is a big concern at the moment), but he was enchanted by a book about his very own snoke. It won’t win any Caldecotts, but I’m thrilled to have shaken out a few cobwebs and extended my range into the territory of the snoke.
Pinkbud?
It's called an eastern redbud, and its flowering is one of the loveliest markers of spring. An understory tree that never gets too big, cercis canadensis is a native to eastern North America, and as its Latin name indicates, has a range that includes southern Canada. I love everything about this tree, which grows in my own garden, except its common name. Its blooms are not red! The tiny pea-like flowers emerge before the leaves, and they cluster along the dark trunk and branches, outlining the tree in a delicate shade of pinkish-purple. When the heart-shaped leaves emerge, they are an unusual yellow-green that complements the fading blossoms. I suppose "magenta bud" doesn't trip so lightly off the tongue, but certainly pinkbud would be closer to the truth? I'll just have to continue arguing for more accuracy in the color description of plants!
Easter
Easter showed up on my doorstep with the arrival of my four-year-old grandson holding out a bouquet of magenta tulips. I can't think of a better harbinger of spring and renewal! The tulips cheered me all weekend, as did the antics of big brother and his 17-month-old sidekick, little brother. The tulips provided one of the more ingenious hiding places during the indoor egg hunt on a cold and cloudy Easter morning. The camouflage was so successful, it was the last egg to be discovered!
Owlish
When the bundle on a nearby branch first caught my eye, I thought it was a squirrel’s nest that had tumbled out of a tree and gotten caught there. I was on a late afternoon walk in my favorite urban wood, the sun was setting, and my brain was a bit confused by the recent change to Daylight Savings Time. I was only a few feet away, when I realized I was looking at an owl, or rather, he was looking at me. I jolted to a stop, and he remained motionless, blinking at me through those unsettling eyes. Here was a huge Barred Owl, unfazed by the human who stood in front of him. We watched each other for several minutes, and it seemed he was appraising me with as much attention as I was appraising him, only he was much calmer. I pulled out my iPhone and started photographing, which didn’t bother him in the least. At one point he whipped his head around to look behind him in that uncanny way owls have, and when he turned back, we continued our silent conversation. It was only when a dog came running towards the tree that he moved. He looked disgruntled rather than alarmed, as if he just hated having his reverie interrupted. Slowly unfurling his huge wings, he made no effort as he lifted off his perch and rose to the top of a nearby tulip poplar. I felt as if I had been released from a spell, and I continued my walk in a daze.
Tangible
Rushed down to Richmond to see the Rodin show before it closed last weekend. We are so spoiled with the abundance of world class museums in DC, that we forget there are wonderful museums in the neighboring states of Maryland and Virginia. The Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA) always surprises me. It has a wide-ranging collection of art and sculpture, a beautiful modern building that works in the landscape, and curious and knowledgeable curators who assemble interesting exhibits that challenge the mind while satisfying the eye. This year's presentation of works by Rodin is a good example. The exhibit, Rodin: Evolution of a Genius, emphasized his process, and it felt like looking inside the mind of the great sculptor. Though there were various versions of many familiar pieces, including the Thinker, the Kiss, and several Burghers of Calais, these were used at the end to illustrate the final stage of his process. On the way to the big pieces, there were rooms full of the smaller parts of bodies and heads he created with his restless fingers. These were worked and reworked, taken apart, stored, and brought out to incorporate into new pieces. His searching energy was palpable, present in the dents and folds he made on the surfaces as he worked the clay and plaster. Though I've always thought of Rodin as a big man with big ideas, I was struck by the tenderness that is so evident in his depictions of human forms and faces. It was hard to obey the signs everywhere that admonished viewers not to touch—his sculpted hands reached out as if pleading for connection.
Fast Forward
It’s happening again. Suddenly morning light is flooding the corner of my bedroom. Purple crocuses explode across neighborhood lawns and foot-high daffodils are blooming. The stellar magnolia buds are swelling, and I hear people asking about the cherry blossoms. With next weekend’s dreaded shift to Daylight Savings Time, I’ll be eating my late dinner before the sun goes down. And with the vernal equinox on March 20, it will be official—spring! Wasn’t I just shoveling snow off the driveway last week? I’m just not ready! When I installed my show at Linden Vineyards last week, the vintner and his assistants were busy hand pruning the vines. They were hurrying, knowing that all it takes is a few warm days (like the weather predicted for this week) to wake up the vines. Grapes have their own timetable, as does all of nature. What’s mine, I wonder? What’s the equivalent for me of pruning the vines? Well, I can start by cleaning up my studio after all the work on my show. Then I’ll just have to wait for what is dormant to reawaken. Maybe I’ll be surprised!
Installation
It’s exciting to install a show, even if it is a lot of detailed, exhausting work. I spent a long day yesterday mounting 30 prints of different sizes on the walls of the reception and tasting rooms at Linden Vineyards. Linden is one of Virginia's premiere winemakers, producing elegant French-style wines that express unique "terroir"—that enigma of soil, climate, and grapes that makes all wine individual to its place of origin. Nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, only an hour from DC on I-66, the vineyard is a small jewel. Although they have earned an international reputation for the quality of their wines, the Linden welcome is down-to-earth and friendly. They enjoy sharing their wines with visitors, and they enjoy sharing the walls of their beautiful facility with Virginia artists. I am privileged to have my work there until the end of June. If you have the opportunity, take a restorative drive through the Virginia countryside to discover my latest work and Linden’s delicious wines. Sipping wine while viewing art has to be one of life’s great pleasures!
Turning Towards the Light: Portraits of Flowers—March 1 to June 30, 2016
Be sure to check in with the Linden website to verify times and get directions.