Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 58

Thinking of Thingvellir

Thingvellir, Iceland. In the far distance you can see Skjaldbreiður, ("Broad Shield"), the prototype for all shield volcanos worldwide.

 

Standing in the main rift, Almannagja, which marks the eastern edge of the North American tectonic plate.

Three years ago, this past weekend, I was at Thingvellir, the great rift valley of Iceland. It was my 59th birthday, so I'll always remember the date. A lot happened that day that changed me. Even though we didn't witness an active volcanic eruption, we were surrounded by raw evidence of the earth being born in the not-too-distant geological past, and by a kind of beauty I had never before seen. Something happened that shook up my sense of time and solidity, and of my own identity within it. It took me a long time to understand why I felt so captivated by the strange forcefield that is Iceland, but one result was the reawakening of my own artistic creativity: not just because of wanting to express what I had seen and felt, but because I had a renewed sense of myself as an intrinsic part of the creation that is always happening, a link in the human chain of becoming, creating, and passing away that mirrors events in nature.

Three years later, I've got an unfinished but fairly extensive book manuscript, a lot of directly-related artwork, and seem to be back on a track of sustained drawing and painting. I'd hoped to go back to Iceland again by now (and we will, eventually, who knew we'd go twice to Mexico instead?) but, more importantly, it has become for me a kind of spiritual island, an Avalon in the middle of the far northern ocean, both real and mythic. I visit it in my thoughts, and feel sustained and encouraged by what I discovered there.

Lake Þingvallavatn. Charcoal on prepared paper, 30" x 22".

 

Mexican Faces (2)

What am I looking for in these faces?

Often I don't understand the reasons I'm drawn to a subject until much later. But I think I'm reactioning to the world and the news: reminding myself of the ordinariness and beauty of human lives, the stories in each face; our individualism, our commonality.

There's something monumental and timeless about the Mexican people. These qualities touched me: maybe I want to look more closely.

Mexican Faces

Lately -- well, really for the past couple of months -- there's been almost no time to draw or paint, but I did get it together to do this charcoal drawing on Monday. I've been wanting to do a series of drawings of Mexican faces, and this is the first of them.

It felt very very good to have my fingers become sooty, and to see the tones emerging on the paper.

 

Already bundled up

It's unseasonably cold here in Montreal. We haven't turned on the heat yet, but we're definitely into the fall wardrobe. I had to wear gloves yesterday morning, biking downtown to sing - seems awfully early for that - and there's a frost warning for Thursday night. Typically for our city, as I wandered around in the underground yesterday between services, I saw people wearing parkas, wooly scarves, and hats, and also plenty of young people with bare arms and tiny skirts, though often with tights and ankle boots. My leather coat is as far as I've been willing to go so far - it's still September!

There's color in the trees, but I'm still anticipating an Indian summer with lots of warm days ahead. (Hold that thought, please!)

Is Writing Becoming More Important or Less?

Page from my London/Iceland journal, fall 2011.

Things have been so busy around here, between work deadlines and getting ready to launch J.'s new book (yes! at last!), that I haven't had much time to blog. But here is a question for us to ponder. The other day during a break, as we sat in our studio drinking coffee and talking about the books we're reading and the things we've been writing, J. asked me: "Do you think writing is getting more important or less so?"

I thought that was a pretty profound question, and I don't know the answer; I'm not even sure what I think. He elaborated to say that what he meant was that as communication moves so much more toward the visual, and away from reading and writing words, do writing and reading actually gain in importance or lose ground? As your exposure to computers, the internet, social media, tv, visual advertising and mass media, and short-form/sound-byte content have increased, does it make you want to read and write more, or less? Has your own capacity for taking in information one way or another increased, or decreased, or remained unchanged? And how do you feel about it?

What do you think?

"At the limits of audibility"

from a letter to a close friend:

I'm sleeping better now, and yesterday had the joy of singing all day. Why do I feel reluctant before going back to it in the fall, when music is the place ​ -- that country completely without borders --​ where I feel the most sense of "home?" In the morning: Lassus, Pitoni, and John Tavener's "Lord's Prayer;" in the afternoon, Orlando Gibbons and a big anthem by ​Charles Villiers ​Stanford on the same text as one of the Gibbons pieces, "G​lorious ​and Powerful God."

I've included a clip of the Tavener for you.​ The music, almost too simple (which is where its difficulty lies) is marked "At the limits of audibility." We sang it after communion, and it was one of those moments when we sang as one body​. I think everyone was glad to be back together, doing what we do.

During the afternoon rehearsal, as we were singing from the chancel, a visitor came up and stood near the director's podium until we reached the end of one of the Gibbons pieces, and then spoke to the choir - our director seemed pretty put off at first; understandably, he doesn't want rehearsals interrupted by strangers, and usually when someone approaches the chancel while we're rehearsing, they turn out to be unstable, and need to be gently guided away by a verger. This man, though, spoke with authority and understanding.

"I've been listening to you for the past half hour," he said, "and I'm terribly sorry I can't stay for the service at 4, but I have to reboard a tour bus that is leaving soon. I just want to say that what you're doing is extraordinary -- the sound is very very beautiful -- I just walked into the church from the street and never expected to find people here, doing this. And I know: I am a choir director myself, from Switzerland. Thank you, thank you," and then he smiled at us, inclined his head to the choir and nodded to our director, and walked off. I caught a last glimpse of him standing by the side door in the dimness, where he could quickly leave for his bus; he was leaning against a pillar, head back and eyes shut, still listening.

Country

Lake Champlain from the western shore near Westport, looking toward Vermont, last winter.

City

A view of Montreal from the upper Plateau.

No judgement intended here: I find these "city" and "country" views equally beautiful.

Pine cones, rocks, butternut

Yesterday morning while waiting to go sketching with my friend I did a quck drawing at my desk. As is often the case, the areas that first caught my interest (above) ended up being invested with the liveliest line, the most energy, the most abstract interest.

Because the sheet was big enough, I drew the ceramic cup and the things in it. Although there's some liveliness in the pen point and pencil and feather, the composition becomes conventional and boring with that verticality right in the middle. I always like cropping, zooming, turning pictures upside down or sideways. A lot is revealed.

This drawing is so much better than any of the ones I did outside later on!

 

Contentment

Already, almost September, after a beautiful summer. In my weaker moments, I've complained that we spent too much of it in the city, but honestly, the weather in Montreal has been so lovely this year, the trees so green, that I've enjoyed nearly every day. It hasn't been hot - we've managed with fans and didn't even go to the basement to lug up the air conditioner and install it - but that's fine with me. I haven't gone to the botanical garden or walked on Mount Royal, and because of work pressures I've been in my garden less than usual, and in the studio more, but we've also gone to the market more often, and discovered some new treasures in Little Italy, along with many happy evenings and days with friends here, and friends who've visited. It's been a delight getting to know my new friend Priya who just moved here from India, and to think about what it must be like to see this part of the world through her eyes.

Happiness begins (I remind myself when I start to get nudgy) by wanting what you have. Even though I will always have the woods and wilderness in my heart, I've become a city-dweller for good reasons. Living in a fairly far-northern city like Montreal means dealing with weather, a short growing season, and constant change. People here aren't static, and although life is perhaps slower than in the U.S., they move, adapt, change; they are open to new experiences, and many of them consciously seek that out. The flow of languages in the buses and on the street has seeped into my own life and my own head; I'm studying Spanish on Duolingo, and working on my French there too; it astounds me how many of the people I've come to know here are bi-, tri-, and even more multi-lingual. Last night we sat with friends outside a cafe eating cornets of delicious frozen egg custard (like soft ice cream but richer, with eggs). Another group of friends gathered nearby, drinking coffee, petting a little Italian greyhound, their conversation moving seamlessly from French to Italian to English. Later, we stopped in the neighborhood park to watch tango dancers in a covered bandstand; it was the last of the weekly Tango Argentinian nights for the summer: slowly, the dancers circled the floor, the women elegant and strong; the men focussed, assured; their tango an expression of desire, tension, and surrender, of the bittersweet and beautiful dance of life between our beginnings and endings.

The world remains violent and troubled, and we are all very aware of that, but last night I was reminded how the peace and renewal I've always sought in nature are also available right here; I just have to look more deeply. Human beings are an intrinsic part of nature, and we too contain all of its silence and mystery.