i'd love to say that i'm spending a few lazy summer days lying in a green canoe, book in hand, floating aimlessly about in the middle of some small hidden lake, staring up to the sky, listening to the sounds of the water lapping against the sides of the boat, to the birds above, to the breezes in the trees. but, no. i'm spending most days (shoot, every day) indoors before my studio table, banging and hammering away, twisting wires, drilling (yes, i've faced that bicycle again), molding, connecting, you name it. i'm not idling the hours, in other words, with one leg dangling out of a boat and one hand holding a book in the other. nor am i headed to some quiet weekend waterfront getaway, but i do have the privilege of looking out my living room windows whenever i want to see a mountain view that others drive hours and days to see - so i shouldn't be complaining. and i'm not truly complaining...i love my job - love working here at home, alone, being my own boss, not having to put on pantyhose (UGH), creating art full-time. but the pressure of an upcoming show is beginning to build, and i'm counting the days over and over and over again in my head until it begins. three weeks from tomorrow. yikes. and i'm wondering if they, whoever they are, will come into my booth, if i will have a booth when it is all said and done, if i'll have enough jewelry, if i'll sell out the first day, if i'll sell anything, nothing, if i'll be bored to tears. you know the drill. and when i am sick of myself by 10am thinking all of these thoughts, i remind myself to be.here.now. breathe. relax. live. relax. breatheeeee.
i made the necklace above (you may click on the photograph to get a much better, closer look) this past sunday (yes, i am working weekends too) after reading a poem sent to me by garrison keillor's writer's almanac. i already had the photo from one i'd snapped of a beautiful little place called hosea lake, outside of saluda, south of asheville; the rest of the piece just fell into place. that's how my work seems to create itself, i think - by working itself into being, out of everywhere, into whatever it wants to be. i don't feel that i work them out to be what they are, but rather that they create themselves. the poem follows, below.
Green Canoe by Jeffrey Harrison
I don't often get the chance any longer
to go out alone in the green canoe
and, lying in the bottom of the boat,
just drift where the breeze takes me,
down to the other end of the lake
or into some cove without my knowing
because I can't see anything over
the gunwales but sky as I lie there,
feeling the ribs of the boat as my own,
this floating pod with a body inside it...
also a mind, that drifts among clouds
and the sounds that carry over water—
a flutter of birdsong, a screen door
slamming shut-as well as the usual stuff
that clutters it, but slowed down, opened up,
like the fluff of milkweed tugged
from its husk and floating over the lake,
to be mistaken for mayflies at dusk
by feeding trout, or be carried away
to a place where the seeds might sprout.