Things aren't always what they seem, even to the eye. The hand and eye usually propose something of a dream, a re-presentation of the intent. Increments are not captured in a camera, or painting, but the imagination knows what to provide. Only with time lapse photography do we see the unveiling of life. Ours is a Fleeting Floating World.






Even though there is beauty in the winter wood, in all it's earth tones and simplicity, during and after the snow, this spring it came to me why the early spring is so beautiful.

























Walking in the soft rain, the patter of drops from leaves and needles, more than from the sky, varies in volume and in pitch so that standing still and barely moving my eyes I hear depth and space. Looking then at the points of bud appearing on cherries, honeysuckle, dogwood, viburnum, increase by the hour, those points of green redefine the surrounding forest space, which for the most part had become flat, as the days of winter generally concern us elsewhere. Now the blend of bark and dry things take on a new visual, a new depth, a depth of field as everywhere these buds are slowly moving into leaves, and for my eye, they create depth where before we had forgotten, or only dreamed of the coming spring. These buds are in my senses, as if inflated by the wind, a secret celebration, musicians and painters alike, rejoice in life returning. So masterful is nature, many must try to capture this moment in tones and in paint. Some succeed. Perhaps the actual value is in becoming a part of this moment, shared with the autumn leaves, when in a measured amount of time, will no longer be. The attempt to express our feeling for the beauty in some way is life itself.




















With the factor of time, even on a Sunday, and the scattered showers, I turn to a camera rather than an easel, attempt to capture what caught my eye on a walk. A canvas I imagine would be more expressive of the sidelong glance, the haze of green appearing around the dark wet tree trunks could be created in paint, and received perhaps better than the photo that seems to fall short in it's exactness. Noticing this encourages me to get out the french easel in time, and render the imaginative sense of color. Even though it would lack the complexity of the forest floor, it would appeal more to the eye and the imagination of the viewer the way that paintings do, at least for me as in the early work of Mondrian, the sublime paint more therapeutic than the harsh reality of the photo. Still, meandering the wood and using my eye as a painter, I am making offerings to the alter of beauty, and I am refreshed.