The Seasons
The Poetry of Color throughout the Year
I’ll admit, I am easily swayed by the seasons. I blame my New England soul that craves the changes each season brings to overwhelm the senses. The deep colors of Autumn leaves, the frosty bite of a Winter’s morning, the first yellows of daffodils and forsythia in the Spring and the abundant greens of Summer. A painter who thrives in color, lives for this. I also blame the poets, my studio companions that have been with me from the beginning: Frost, Oliver, Neruda, Rilke. I turn to them so often to keep a romantic heart alive in a world seemingly designed to crush it.
My November Guest
Robert Frost
1874 –1963
My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Published in A Boy’s Will (Henry Holt and Company, 1915).
When I’m painting, I’ll turn to these poets for titles, for inspiration, their words giving voice to ideas that are discovered as I’m making the work. The wordless colors in paint come from what I see in the world around me but I also know they have deeper meanings. The poets help me find it.
We’ve had a lovely Autumn here in New England with warm days, cool mornings and chilly nights. The Fall color, while not the spectacle it can sometimes be, was still vibrant. The early-yellowed maples have at this point fallen and now only the deepest oranges and reds remain. A morning run and time in the garden has me gathering color that follows me into the studio. It can’t be helped.
For a long time now, my abstractions have been derived from the landscapes of my experience - places I’ve lived and traveled. But “landscape” is too general a term, “nature” is even worse and less specific. Over these years now, I’ve come to expect that my paintings will shift with the season. I need to see the color and have it fresh in my mind as I search for it in my mixtures on the palette. It’s cyclical and time passes. Maybe that is the real subject: the passage of time, life changing and my aging as an observer of the world.
When I am Among the Trees
Mary Oliver
1935 - 2019
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
Published in Thirst (Beacon Press, 2006)
My work carries some longing, nostalgia, hope and moments of exuberance. All things that the turning of the seasons brings to mind and makes us feel. I’m reminded of those I miss while acutely aware of how lucky I am to be in this place, in this moment.
A Confession:
The origin of my habit of gathering color lies in one of my favorite books as a child, Frederick, by Leo Lionni. It tells the story of a family of field mice who lived in a wall next to an abandoned farm. They all work hard to prepare for the harsh winter by gathering nuts, grain and straw - all except Frederick. When asked why he doesn’t work, he replies, “I do work! I collect sun rays! I gather colors! I gather words!”
When winter does come and the mice run out of food, they feel the cold and grow silent. And then they remember Frederick’s supplies. He tells them about the sun rays and they feel warm. He tells them about the colors and then recites a poem that lifts their spirits. This little color-gathering field mouse poet is the best example of what it means to be an artist that I know of.
We are in dark days, no doubt and they may get darker yet. I for one am gathering my colors and sun rays to sustain us in the cold winter.
Thanks for your patience as I try to get in a regular writing schedule again… something more than seasonal, anyway.
Be well,
-Michael