This Week in Art and Gardens

This week was an interesting one in both art and gardens- really, art and kitchen/gardens but that is even more of a mouthful.
5 years ago I was part of a group that built a clay bread oven at the Catskill Native Nursery. It took 12 of us stalwart souls- or 24 soles as you will see- to build the oven over an exhausting 2 days of work. The expert who ran the workshop built the base out of stone and gravel but it was up to us to construct the beehive oven out of native clay, straw, plus blood, sweat and tears with a large side-order of advil. The clay was very, very stiff, not like the clay you might use for throwing pots or making sculpture, so mixing in the straw binder was quite difficult. We ended up putting a mound of clay and straw on a tarpaulin and attacking it with our bare feet. We pounded and stomped until the mound was reduced to a pancake. We then rolled the pancake back into the center by lifting and pulling the tarp. It usually took us 5 rounds of this to get the consistency we needed. Then we took fist-sized gobs of the mixture and working in rows, slowly built up the dome of the oven. That was the first layer. the next day we got to do it all over again to build the walls to the correct thickness (8") At the end of the weekend, I would have gladly agreed to have my shins removed, I hobbled around for about a week before the muscles recovered.
Why describe this process? Well, Diane- one of my bosses at CNN- has tried to do a pizza-making session every year since then but it has inevitably rained out. (the oven still does not have a roof over it so it can only be used in fair weather) She has cooked in the oven several times for herself and her partner, Francis, but not yet with a group of people. This past Sunday was our day. I helped tend the fire to heat the oven up. This can take 3 hours to do properly. Unfortunately, we jumped the gun a bit in our enthusiam and the oven was not quite as hot as it should have been so the pizzas did not bake in the proper 1 minute's exposure to the 700 degree heat. But it was still good.
The dough I made was overworked and therefore just too darn springy- it just would not hold a proper pizza thinness. But even so, I enjoyed it immensely and hope we can try again next season. Then it was back to work putting the nursery to bed for the winter. A nice respite from the usually quiet work of cutting back, sorting and binning.

On the art side, I mentioned below that I had done a piece for the recent "Small Works" show at the WAAM but had neglected to photograph it before running out the door to submit it. Well, I won't get the chance now to take the picture. I got a call on Saturday from the gallery saying that a Dutch couple wanted to buy the piece and they were going to take it with them- Sunday was the last day for the show anyway, and they were heading back to The Netherlands. So I wish it: "Vaarwel, weinig werken van kunst. Ga naar een goede thuis."
(Farewell, little art work. Go to a good home.)
I also picked up my piece "Prosthesis" and dropped off a small piece for the annual Holiday Show & Sale. The Holidays?... egad

The Ache for the Past

I started my summer "B" job this past weekend, working weekends at the Catskill Native Nursery from now until the end of the season. I knew I was going to be stiff and sore, feeling every day of my age and every moment of a long winter spent not doing much physical work. I was not prepared, however, for the heart-rending beauty of the birds and their songs. At my former home, I had planted and planted and planted just for the comfort and support of the birds and was rewarded with an abundance of song and movement. Now, however, I am living in town and while I hear a few English Sparrows singing in the morning, it is otherwise a desert. When I got to the nursery I was overwhelmed by the song and by the many bluebirds, tree swallows and other species flitting around. Oh how I have missed them.
Nostalgia literally means "the ache for the past." And it was literally an ache in the middle of my chest. The only cure for it that I can see is to be grateful for this small blessing- to be able to hear and see the birds at the Nursery, allow the sights and sounds to soak into me to sustain me for the intervening 4 days, keep putting one foot in front of the other and take the next right step.

Tis a Gift to Be Simple

I work at a northeast-native-plant nursery on the weekends and we are beginning the long process of shutting down for the year. It means a lot of repairs need to be done, herbaceous plants need to be cut down, pots need to be put into the bins where they will overwinter. Between tending to the needs of customers, I spent the day re-organizing the remaining pots of raspberries, currants, gooseberries and other edibles, finding spots for them in the bins, topping the bins up with the mulch that will insulate them. It was a day of many textures and sensations.

Most of the day the sun was out and the air was brisk and dry. The blue of an October sky is a blue even I, who dislikes most blues, cannot resist. The worms had been busy in the old mulch in the bins and had turned the bark mulch into a rich, dark, dense cake of castings. To my nose, the new mulch smells slightly of coffee and dampness- not an unpleasant aroma but inescapable. The texture of the new mulch is very friable and light. The stems of the black raspberries are bloomed with a waxy pale blue over rich purple. I helped myself to a luscious 'Autumn Bliss' raspberry. In the background, goldfinches were calling all day with their "zee-zee-zeet?" merrily feasting on the many seed heads from the summers' spent blooms. Bumblebees were still making the rounds- there are enough blossoms still around for them to do their work. One of the dogs at the nursery, an utterly charming Icelandic Sheep Dog, named Brinja, came by every once in a while to get her belly rubbed and then, in canine quid-pro-quo, insisted on licking my face and ears for me. By late afternoon, the sun had warmed the local fox grapes enough for them to release their heady fragrance. It was like drowning in a vat of hot grape juice- intoxicating. Unfortunately, the pulp of these grapes is insipid- and that is being charitable. At the end of the long day, when I just could not do another row of "socket pots," I headed home and stopping by a hardware superstore on the top of a ridge, sat and watched a glorious sunset for a few minutes.

There were many more delights for the senses- I neglected to mention the lovely colors of the sassafrass tree's three mitten leaves, the large display of 'Harrington's Pink' New England Asters, a few remaining Monarchs nectaring on the New York Ironweed... and on and on and on. A rich and rewarding day; and I am grateful for the chance to be present for its many gifts.