Where the Wild Things Are

“And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.”
― Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are

The book, Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak both fascinated and frightened me as a child.

My favorite scenes occur as a forest grows in Max’s room. Then the banks of an ocean appear. Max travels solo in his boat, by night and day for almost a year! Or at least, what feels to be a year! (Some days are just like that.)

As a child, I could hide myself in those spaces and that imaginative solo voyage.

Max finally reaches a far off shore, after his long voyage … only to be confronted by giant terrible Wild Things!

Now looking back upon the story as an adult, I am even more so struck by young Max’s courage to stare down and shout at the Wild Things,

“Be Still!”

I am reminded that there continue to be many things out there that roar at us, no matter what our age.

Sometimes we have the words to face those Wild Things. And sometimes, we have to steadfastly seek them.

Either way, whichever might be true for you . . .

I hope you always have someone who loves you best of all.

Where the Wild Things Are
watercolor
12” x 17”

Why Dead Birds?

Five years ago, a yellow shafted northern flicker flew against the reflection of a building. I studied its markings and painted the macabre.

Most people know the check in one’s spirit that occurs upon finding a bird bereft of life. It isn’t quite right to see something which should be inflight asleep.

In a time before cameras, Audubon shot and killed the birds he painted and studied. And now those deaths on paper are coveted collections. Audubon himself took no pleasure in these killings and said, "The moment a bird was dead, no matter how beautiful it had been in life, the pleasure of possession became blunted for me." (Ornithological Biography, Volume 1)

Death is not foreign to me. I have known it as a reality. Life holds sorrows that sometimes come too early. And they shape us. Truly each encounter is significant and holds meaning. These experiences have taught me that death and grief are not an end but rather a tender step forward.

Through these fallen wings, I observe, learn and am able to speak.

P.S. Bird strikes are a very real issue impacting our planet’s bird population.

She Was a Drive By Story

I’m working on an architectural painting. Not my usual rodeo. But she’s a story I drove by. The building itself is a bit of an architectural treasure to me. Possibly the only remaining Charleston Single Home original to the time still standing in Florence I’d pass her while traveling between schools last year.

I imagine at one point in time, someone else traveled a similar route to earn means through which to build this structure. Or was it handed to them, a result of another’s labor? Yet, now it simply sits, empty and unused falling into disrepair.

Watching the physical work of past generations fall to the wayside gives me pause. To me buildings in disrepair are scattered across the rural southern landscape in abundance. Like crops that were left to die. And I always wonder whose home was this? Why did they live here? Why are they gone? Was theirs a life of joy or sorrow? Who will tell their story?

Edit: April 6

fImages of competed piece..

der Brombeermann

I grew up with folklore and fairy tales. 

A Brombeermann is the symbol figure of the town of Wanfried, Germany. Some say this dates back to August 30, 1608 when Wanfried became a "city". A stipulation for city status perhaps included a provision for Moritz der Gelehrte - The deliverance of blackberries in the mornings to his Schloß in Eschwege when he was in residence.

Another version includes a beautiful story.

I am reminded of mythology as I read it. You can find it in a book written by Wilhelm Pippart, first printed in 1939, titled der Brombeermann. Wilhelm Pippart was a teacher and to me his writing is delightful to read. Maybe because his writing reminds me of the manner in which I was told and read fairy tales, with vivid detail and on occasion rhyme.

In the introduction Wilhelm Pippart is referred to as a Heimatdichter. In English, a "regional writer" but the German word Heimatdichter denotes more a person who drafts prose, poetry and collects stories of heimat. The book is a collection of tales and poems featuring characters such as sprites, fairies, gray ladies and magical books set in woods filled with moss, waterfalls and flowering fields. 

Here is my brief and loose retelling in English:

A dwarf was watching over Frau Holle's jewels. (Her most favorite of the dwarves.) He was most intrigued by her pearl and diamond necklace. As he was playing with this magical strand, it caught upon a rosebush and broke. But where each pearl and diamond rolled - strawberries, raspberries, currants, blueberry and blackberry bushes sprouted. Blackberries in the greatest abundance. A spell had been cast.

The only way to turn them back into their original form was to gather them all by day's end and before the owl was heard. The dwarf quickly accepted this quest to make amends for his mistake. Frau Holle encouraging him to not lose courage and to arm himself with patience and endurance as he set out.

Quickly he set out upon his way, taking a cane basket upon his back to fill. He sprinted from bush to bush claiming the berries as his basket became heavier and heavier upon his back. Then at the end of the day. As dusk approached, every berry was in the basket except for one last full blackberry which remained. As he reached to pluck it from its height, the sun set and the owl was heard. Immediately the basket which had been full emptied.

This repeated itself day after day. The dwarf became ancient. Moss grew in his hat and throughout his knee length beard. His clothes became worn and tattered. The only thing which remind new was the basket he carried upon his back. 

Each day the dwarf kept his courage and went about his task only to be baffled by day's end. Throughout this time, berries fill the land, mimicing the reflective jewel tones found within the magical necklace.  

After a thousand years had passed, Frau Holle returned to the dwarf, now known as der Brombeermann- the blackberry man. Sharing his burden, she reached and picked the last berry before the owl's voice was heard. Immediately a ray of jewel like colors radiated from the basket, covering the land. Her necklace was returned to its original state. They say you could hear elves burst forth in song in celebration of the Brombermann.

It is now said that the people of Wanfried take upon themselves the diligence and perserverance of the Brombeermann. I suppose I love the story so much because it is a piece of home to me.

I'm sure many versions of this tale exist. This year, I had the opportunity to see and hear a portion set to music. A childhood friend composed a beautiful piece. It is written in the old dialect of Wanfried and was sung this year in the Evangeliche Kirche of Wanfried. Enjoy!