Obstacles

Through K Howell 2011 Pastel on Paper 21 cm x 14 cm

      Summer is here. Vegetation is rich and luxuriant. There are midges. Humans accustomed to several layers of clothing throw caution to the wind and expose their torsos and legs to the briefly magnificent sun. This is all very distracting. Disturbing. Sometimes frightening.
     A good time to retreat to the trees.
     Looking at this quirky beech, contemplating obstacles, I remember Robert Frost. The best way out is always through. While patience and persistence are very admirable, they're not terribly exciting qualities to cultivate. But three seasons later, I'm still rewriting. Is this wise? I've no idea, but certainly it's an education. The earlier draft is a bit bloated, dizzy with sun, running naked in several directions. Oblivious to the aesthetic implications of its activity. Sigh.

What the Cat Said

Where Birds Belong K Howell 2011 Pastel on Paper

      I'm slaving away over my artist's statement in the brief window of time available, marveling at just how ridiculous it looks in black and white, wondering if I need to start again, when Distraction strikes. A cat has materialised and seems to be in difficulty. I move my feet. He looks offended, and offers up a self contained pile of recently ingested organism.

"Must you?" I ask.
The cat narrows his eyes.
Do I detect a judgmental tone? (cats speak in italics in my world.)
"I hate it when you do that. It's such a waste."
Philistine, says the cat. I am exploring the nature of birds. I am examining them from many angles, observing their behaviour.
"Stalking."
Whatever works. The cat lifts its paw, and licks it.
Then I play with my material. Expand the possibilities. Toss it about. I separate out the bits you'll find most interesting, that's skill, that is. And I leave them where you will be sure to appreciate their qualities.
"The livers camouflaged against the carpet by the window?"
You noticed! That's a Duchampian triumph of Context over Content!
"It's quite off-putting."
You might want to watch your step in the kitchen...
"Why don't you do something useful with your life?" I ask.
The cat blinks. Looks down at its offering.
I've done my bit, mate. I've remade this material into something new.  Make an effort yourself.
"And what about beauty, you murdering wastrel?"
Axiomatic. The cat flicks its tail and walks off.
Artist's statement? What the cat said.

A Pigment to Dye For

 A Peeling Tree K Howell 2011  Pastel on Paper 14 cm x 21 cm

      Outside it smells of sun and elderflowers. To be honest, I'm avoiding updating my artist's statement and find I'd much rather contemplate the etymology of cyanide.
     Deep blue is a good place to begin. I tend to substructure studies with blue. This elder tree is typical.
      Elder trees are the source of so many good things. As we all know from our diligent study of the Harry Potter text, the easily hollowed elder branch makes a fine and powerful wand. Fragrant elderflowers are followed by richly purple berries, both of which can be made into Very Nice drinks. Drinking the essence of tree has benefits. Elder syrups can be effective treatments for colds and flu. But obviously you want to make sure the seeds and stalks are removed, as they contain cyanide-producing glycosides. A more conclusive cure.
     The body is perfectly capable of detoxifying small amounts of naturally occurring cyanide. The idea is to avoid ingesting quantities. I try to remind child number three of this guideline, as when there are pears in the house she tends to eat them in their entirety and look at me blankly when I ask what she did with the core.
     When Prussian blue pigment was accidentally maufactured around three hundred years ago, the name ferrocyanide was also invented for the 'blue substance with iron' produced as components of the dye. Prussian blue pigment was used for blueprints. A working plan in blue.

     Back to the beginning, it seems. This means I have to write a statement now. Curses.   

Extremity

Extremitree K Howell Pastel on Paper 21 cm x 14 cm

     Passing this tree in extremity was an assault on the senses.
     Extremity is a word one can imagine a line of wizened men chanting whilst they relentlessly dock the tails of dobermans. Its rhythm is even and soothing, but it means the End of something or distressingly adverse conditions. 
     Moderation is something we are encouraged toward. It beckons like a scrolling supermarket conveyor belt or a moving sidewalk. Such steadiness is sinister. 
     Extremes are dangerous, cliff-edge and unpredictable. Always interesting. 
     Take Grayson Perry. I used to appreciate his work, but having spent time with his Pot and Print in Manchester City Galleries, adoration becomes an understatement. His careful blend of craft and whimsy, the mundane with the outrageous in life and art is so very admirable. Long may he continue.
     Julian Schnabel says some people must go to extremes to get the world in balance for themselves. Any thoughts?

Dugout: Transportation From Transpiration to Exhumation

Dugout K Howell Pastel on Paper 21 cm x 14 cm

This tree trunk has all the potential to be transporting; lying on the forest floor, a waiting vessel.

The life of a tree depends on the journey of water through its vascular system. A tree trunk consists mostly of dead xylem tissue. (Botanists may want to look away now.) Xylem cells are alive when initially produced by the meristematic cambium, but when they  become functioning water-conducting cells, they lose their cell contents and become hollow, microscopic tubes with woody walls. Water is primarily pulled upward due to the cohesion of water molecules through the plant's vascular system from roots to leaves. As water molecules move out through the stomata (tiny pores) into the atmosphere, they are replaced by new molecules entering the roots from the soil. More or less.

When a tree trunk is dug out, most of the vascular tissue is removed, and the tree itself becomes a vessel for all kinds of journeys. Dugout boats are the oldest boats archeologists have found, probably because they preserve well, being constructed from a single tree. The Iron Age Poole log boat is a fine example. Early Bronze Age 'ship' burials (the Gristhorpe Man) prepared the departee with weapons and food for the trip, encased within a hollowed-out tree trunk. According to Gerald of Wales (Liber de Principis instructione c.1193), the body of the elusive King Arthur was discovered 'hidden deep in the earth in a hollowed-out oak bole' in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey.

 In Norse mythology Ask and Embla , the first humans, are brought forth from trees. From womb to tomb, there is growth and journey. Touch Wood.

A Centaur in the Compost?

Eroding Centaur K Howell Pastel on Paper 21 cm x 14 cm

     Transforming organic material into rich, useful compost takes layers and time. In the depths of the dark bin, the hourglass cores of apples, the coils of orange peel and the revolting string-and-seed guts of squash start to smell. Fungi and worms get very interested. A little warmth, a little water (or urine, for those with a dedication to superior nitrate-rich results), a lot of stirring things up and giving it Time, and there are Results. A substance which smells fresh with possibility,  quite suitable for sustaining lovely new plants. Such as - oh, pick one at random, say, purple basil. The metamorphosis from the sordid to the sublime makes the compost bin an interesting place to investigate.
     I tend to think we perceive the world based on the compost of our lives. Which isn't a limitation, we're constantly adding new things. And while you can't control what everybody else throws in, at least it's variety.
     So here's to aerobic bacteria, and the transformation of the mundane.
    

Stairs: A Case Study

Rise K Howell Acrylic on Board 92 cm x 122 cm

     I've been cleaning this painting up, preparing it for a new home, and stairs have been on my mind. 
     Stairways are the spinal column of our living space. They embody the ups and downs of our everyday existence, a constant reminder that every endeavour is made up of incremental efforts. The stairs seem to provoke a strop in the resident four-year-old, and I can only conclude that between the hours of 4 and 6 p.m., they seem insurmountable. Some days, I quite concur.
     Rise was informed by a visit to a garden-in-progress, and seeing the raw, stacked material for the stairs in place, it seemed an expression of longing and determination, a plan for the creation of a small paradise.
     Stairs are all about aspiration and challenge.

         
  It's a flight for a reason.

    
     Building the staircase was what Mircea Eliade would call an Ascension rite, a consecrating and determining activity that sublimates a profane space into a sacred one. (I'm hoping you feel a garden is a sacred space, and you stay with me on this one.) 
     Stairs, Jung says, symbolize the process of psychic transformation in which the contents of the unconscious are brought into conscious awareness. The stairs are an expression of the paradoxical wish to achieve an ideal form within the framework of human existence. Of course, the stairs also mean people can reach the top of the garden. 
       
     Shamanic traditions hold the tree as the ladder to the heavens. So there it is. Even when I try to digress, it always comes back to trees.