Hermit Diary 52. A New Year Begins
It snowed last night, softening and muffling the city on an already quiet New Year's Day. This morning the roads and sidewalks had been plowed, but the park was covered with six inches of soft new snow. I put on my warm coat and headed out through the banks left by the snowplows, immediately getting snow inside the cuffs of my boots, but happy to be out in it. The only colors anywhere were the red and yellow stems of dogwood, and the occasional glimpse of a bright hat or parka through the trees.
I took a few photos on my way back, and, late this afternoon, tried to capture the mood of the morning.
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I can't say I feel exactly happy as the year begins, though like most of us, I'm hopeful for the long run while mourning what we've lost, and remaining keenly aware of the suffering of so many. For a while, 2020 is going to feel like a continuation of 2021, and here, where cases are rising and the hospitals becoming overcrowded, it's difficult not to be deeply discouraged about the government doing too little, too late, and people not following the necessary precautionary measures. Now the city is in semi-lockdown, and I'm hoping that schools and non-essential businesses won't reopen on the 11th as planned, but we shall see.
Doing something creative is my way of insisting that life continues to more forward, and I didn't want to let today go by without making an attempt. Setting up my palette and water, mixing the colors, and watching a brush stroke on plain paper become a tree, a branch, or a person, are parts of a process that I love, and which grounds me, even when I'm struggling with pictures that present a lot of problems or aren't working out very well.
Before starting this painting, I wanted to wet the paper on the watercolor block, and so I reached into my desk drawer where I knew I'd put a couple of sea sponges. The one that my hand found was very dry, and when I wet it under the kitchen tap, and rubbed the little dried cells as they expanded, I felt grit inside it, which turned out to be tiny pink shells. This was a sponge I had found on a rocky shore near Palermo, Sicily, as we were on our way to the airport to fly home, and I had never used it before for painting. Today, when I had soaked it and squeezed it out, I raised the little sponge to my nose -- and it smelled of the sea. All the better to help create the wetness of dark tree bark, and an expanse of northern snow.
I've done a few other interior sketches and paintings during the holidays, which I'll show you some other time. Best wishes for a happier, healthier, and more optimistic New Year to all of you, and thank you for continuing to visit these pages and contribute to this ongoing conversation!
