I have never been a poet--I have trouble finding words that rhyme for limericks. I even have trouble reading it--I have to slow my mind down and concentrate, which I often do for the exercise of it. When I make the effort, I am rewarded with the insight or comfort the poet has to offer. I like da Vinci's statement that painting is poetry. I wonder if he would like my paintings and what I could learn from him if he were here to teach me.
This painting, Cuttings, is of very ordinary things. One day I set cuttings from house plants in front of the window that had glass bottles on the sill and a spider plant hanging from above. I am fond of bottles and I enjoy drawing and painting them; they are works of art in themselves. Later I walked through the kitchen and the light outside was rare--one of those foggy days where the sun is about to burn through. I took some pictures; in the painting I rearranged the bottles and added the gauzy curtains. Except for the pop of red in the angel wing plant it is almost monochromatic, making it soothing. The picture won a ribbon at the fair and I think it is the last still life I have painted. It is poetry.
CWCW: I mopped the kitchen, started this week's laundry and went to physical therapy at the pool.