Arthur Rackham - Illustration for "Till Eulenspiegel"

I am an admirer of Arthur Rackham and am often to be found scouring places for his work. It's great fun to get lost in the online galleries of museums and dream of one day seeing the works in person. I stumble across this beauty of his in the Metropolitan's gallery. I have never read the story it's from, but now I must see if I can get my hands on it. How terrifying and haunting the figures are. I wonder if the fact that it was done right in the middle of WWI had anything to do with the darkness and fear in this painting.

Arthur Rackham,  Illustration for "Till Eulenspiegel", watercolour, pen, ink, and guache on paper, 1916

Dreaming of Dreaming

With all the business of the holiday season, I've been dreaming of doing this:

"The Siesta" by Frederick Arthur Bridgman

Zephyrus

Flora and the Zephyrs by John William Waterhouse, via saveflowers1

Standing by the lake a few days ago, I felt a strong, warm wind rush across my face and blow my hair about. It was Zephyrus, the warm west wind, herald of spring.

The Bridge by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sommeraften ved Skagens strand, P.S. Kroyer, 1899. Wikimedia Commons.

The Bridge

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

   As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

   Behind the dark church-tower.   

I saw her bright reflection

   In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

   And sinking into the sea.   

And far in the hazy distance

   Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace

   Gleamed redder than the moon.   

Among the long, black rafters

   The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

   Seemed to lift and bear them away;   

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

   Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

   The seaweed floated wide.   

And like those waters rushing

   Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o’er me

   That filled my eyes with tears.   

How often, O, how often,

   In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

   And gazed on that wave and sky!   

How often, O, how often,

   I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom

   O’er the ocean wild and wide!   

For my heart was hot and restless,

   And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

   Seemed greater than I could bear.   

But now it has fallen from me,

   It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

   Throws its shadow over me.   

Yet whenever I cross the river

   On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean

   Comes the thought of other years.   

And I think how many thousands

   Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

   Have crossed the bridge since then.   

I see the long procession

   Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

   And the old subdued and slow!   

And forever and forever,

   As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

   As long as life has woes;   

The moon and its broken reflection

   And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

   And its wavering image here.

Anne Girl

L.M. Montgomery's character of Anne Shirley has always held a special place in my heart. As a girl, my imagination was captured by her, and not just because she had red hair and lived on Prince Edward Island; she had flaws like me, such as being too stubborn, holding grudges, and being a little too romantic. I loved nature, and she loved nature. I hated certain boys, and she hated certain boys. I fell in love against all my protestations, and she did too.

No surprise then that I sat down to paint something pretty, and what came out, quite by accident, was Anne Shirley. I didn't realize it until I'd painted the last strand of hair, and then I said to myself, "Well, if it isn't Anne Shirley." She has the red hair, perfect little nose, and flowers in her hair.

Rather appropriate I think, with fall coming on to astound us in all its wild, red glory.

Memories of Summer, Hopes for Spring, and Snubbing Lady Winter

When I'm not hoping for snow and enjoying grey skies and hot cups of tea, I'm plotting what I'll plant in the spring and remembering happy summer days. I found myself yearning for some warm summer colors, so I sat down with my watercolors and had a bit of fun.

Photo: Me

Photo: Me

In general, summers where I live can be unbearably hot (not the 85 degree 'hot' that northerners imagine is unbearable; I mean 104 degrees fahrenheit or more), but there are perks to them; magnolia blossoms, star jasmine, honeysuckle, and gardenias scent the night air and cause me to feel intoxicated, to the point that I'm ready to vanish into the night in search of the fairies who must assuredly be responsible for the other-worldly vapors.

Photos: Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Honeysuckle_.jpg , http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Magnolia_flower_Duke_campus.jpg , http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Trachelospermum_jasminoides1215878198.jpg

There's also the rivers and lakes that I do so enjoy. Even if I don't feel like swimming, there are so many wonderful things to see and find; dragonfly nymphs, pretty stones, moss...

Photo: Me

So until I get a winter wonderland for at least several days in a row, I'm going to snub Lady Winter and plot my garden and dream of summer nights, since I'm not to have my fair share of snow.