I just happened on this old drawing today in search of something else, usual story, and remembered the sheer pleasure of drawing with a silver pen on black paper. Or white pen on black paper. It's such a change of thought for your brain to work that way, instead of always dark on white.
This is one of a series of little still lifes I did at a would-be artist friend's house when she complained she couldn't think of anything to draw. So I drew what was right in front of me on her kitchen counter. Then she thought, oh, I can draw anything, really, good, I will. Everything on earth is a subject. You really don't have to go in search outside of yourself. Your brain's waiting right there to get the chance.
Speaking of chance, can any blogista please identify this minute white flower of which we have quite a lot now. They grow all over, very close to the ground, flowerheads probably not more than a quarter inch across, easily missed on a walk. Best picture I could manage.
And, on the subject of names, I've had a couple of queries recently about the names of my blogs, Art, the Beautiful Metaphor, and Field and Fen. The first one is a play on Soccer, the Beautiful Game, which became very well known during a World Cup tournament a few years ago. It's an artform as well as a game. And since art is a metaphor for life, which is a metaphor for art, it works well. But you may have to think about it for a while. Sometimes people talk about art imitating life and life imitating art. Same basic idea, really. Except that a metaphor is a much deeper concept than an imitation.
And Field and Fen is really a joke name, making fun of myself, being so serious about writing my best and editing my best and generally doing my best for my little blog, now that I don't have editors to please and deadlines to meet. I just have to satisfy the All Demanding Me, since only my best is good enough for my readers.
It refers to those deadly serious people who write nature columns, with titles like Field and Fen, and From Misty Wold, or used to, in British national newspapers, all about hearing the first cuckoo, which triggers furious debate in the letters columns, and about frogs mating and all that. And birds pecking at the milk bottle caps on the front steps to steal the cream off the top. I often used to wonder if the writers lived in some comfy suburb of London, far from any fields and definitely far from any fens. Anyway, it's just a gentle joke at my own expense.
And, no joke here, Misfits box arrived early today, just after noon. And here it is.
All the produce is my $22 box, and the non-produce, the olive oil and salmon and sardines, are extras from their Marketplace, still at discount, and very very good.
My Friday night salad will be good, two kinds of lettuce, looseleaf, and romaine, with diced roma plum tomatoes. And maybe some celery. It's the first romain I've had since there were problems with it, but I think it's safe now. I used to buy it to share with my parakeets. I'd put a dripping big leaf in the cage, they were all over the apartment in the daytime, not caged, and they'd fly in, bathe on the leaf, grooming and shouting and generally having a great time, then eat quite a bit of it, then throw it about like a toy. They got their money's worth out of their lettuce.
The Greek olive oil came very well packed, a slight concern of mine about possible leakage was unfounded
Unwrapped left, wrapped, right
And this is responsible packaging. All the Misfits items are bio degradable or recyclable. No single use plastics, as far as I've observed. Even the ice gel pac is food grade and can be thawed and the contents thrown away safely without worry about poisoning anything. The bag can be recycled.
And after all the prep, a single handful of scraps to toss out back. Butternut Boy squirrel has his eye on that lettuce core there. It won't last long.
Today, lovely and warm again, great walk, kids out shouting and biking and hitting balls and generally being into it. Happy Weekend, blogistas all!
