A Through Line of Leaves

May 15, 2022

Diane Farris

Spring, 2022

The blog title expresses a central visual thread, running through the cloistered time, images of leaves, blossoms and branches, encountered and gathered on daily walks in the shelter of great oaks, as well as in Jacksonville’s urban landscape. Continuing themes that appear in the Close to Home portfolio, these forms persist in recent photographs and drawings - and as a circle of pines in a rediscovered children’s book manuscript. There are studies and still lifes; leaves dignified, dancing, in conversation. I have been grateful for their company and - after some life detours - I am grateful to return to the reflection and sharing that the blog invites.

Unexpected Amaryllis,2022

Chinese Bell Flower, 2021

Landscape with Leaves and Reflections, 2021

Pine Needle, Leaf, 2021

Gold Leaves, Reflections, 2021

One page of my sketchbook depicts an imagined installation, in which pictures of leaves start on the floor and go up the wall, ready to branch out at eye level. Part of that branching out and connecting has been the discovery of artist friends working with similar subject matter in painting, fabric, and mask making. It has been a joy and inspiration to come together again and share, like a surprised celebratory gathering of previously isolated forest remnants. My first blog entry during the pandemic was “Convened by Owls”. Now there is a sense of a community “Convened by Trees”.

Leaf Gesture, 2022

Oak Leaf with Shadows, 2022

The children’s book manuscript Zee’s Trees is inspired by those who offer a legacy of delight and comfort in - and stewardship of - nature to children. Gingko Pages (2010) is an image series of these unique and ancient leaves that appears in the Handmade Book Portfolio, as does the concertina Oak and Orange (2017), an ode to north central Florida. The “leaf through line” reaches from far back in my work, seen here in the Gingko Stack and Sculptural. I still carry black background fabric in my camera bag, but am more often drawn to the rich, subtle tones of natural settings.

Gingko Stack, 2010

Sculptural, 2012

In Florida’s winter, one looks deep into groves, where shafts of light delineate robust structures and complex rhythms. As spring whispers, a soft mist of green floats everywhere, promise of the impossibly abundant foliage and innumerable greens soon to arrive. This year, the presence of spring has been intensely poignant and welcome. There you are. As ever. Thank goodness.

**Still:** Stargazer Lily with Magnolia Leaf, 2022

Let Blue Speak (in a Paris Taxi)

July 19, 2021

When we moved to the prairie almost twenty years ago, I envisioned a blue gate for the fence that defines the “yard” – and a talented friend built it. Beyond the gate in these recent, cloistered months, we’ve witnessed cranes, deer, fawns, doves, foxes, owls, hawks, turtles, armadillos, cows, calves, large and rowdy woodpeckers, new oaks and tiny pines, abundant weeds - and a welcome stand of wild blackberries. (The portfolio Beyond the Blue Gate gathers images of Sandhill Cranes there - and further afield.) We’re always grateful when we open the newly painted blue gate to tend the garden, walk, play with the children and dog or wonder at the ever changing prairie.

Though my work has been predominantly in a muted or black and white palette, shades of blue keep turning up: in the work, on tables, in closets, on shelves, doors and gates and – recently – in dreams. In one, I was in Paris, attending an art opening with a dear friend. We entered a taxi where a lively group of people was engaged in reading a play out loud, a play in which each character portrayed a color: Red, Yellow, Green, Purple… They became shy and thought they should stop the reading now that we were in the taxi with them, but the dream ended with my encouraging them to continue, saying, “Let Blue Speak”.

It seems a good time to consider some of my own work and see what Blue has to say. There are turquoise thresholds (windows, doors, gates), waters and birds of many blues, a bright bench, blue dolphins and…

…the handmade book, Isabella Blue/Isabella Blu, about a little girl who adores Blue…until Orange flies by. This is my only bilingual book. Learning Italian is an ongoing project.

These two small drawings are of treasured marine blue and turquoise cups from dear friend Penny. They bring delight and beauty to shared “cuppas“.

I wanted to begin and end with water images, reflecting on the impact and meaning of water’s presence - and absence - in our shared world.

This Day

September 17, 2020

Last fall, before Cloistered Time (aka the pandemic lockdown), I began work on a handmade book with the familiar Rumi passage, “Let the beauty we love be what we do”. I had become dis-heartened; each day, our world felt more fragmented, our environment more imperiled. The Rumi line held an important reminder for me, a call from his 16th century writing, to attend to the present and to that which is – still – present, alive, simple and beautiful.

But Rumi’s preceding lines gave me pause: “Today, like everyday, we wake up empty and frightened. Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.” Reading and a generous library have always been reliable and sustaining allies in my life. In an earlier post, Books Breathing, I wrote about my deep involvement with reading, a reading community and books themselves. (An early handmade book on the subject, Book Time, was referred to in that post.) Further, I resisted owning “empty and frightened” as my morning state.

*The newspapers are the ones that were stacking up. The painter’s palette and beloved ceramic cup invite another focus. The cup folds out toward the reader.*

Still, the process of tacking ideas, images, words and pages on the studio wall to get started on this project was begun. I felt a need to honor the whole quote, with its emptiness and fear as well as its beauty. I had taken several photographs of newspapers stacked high at the front door and realized that my own “empty and frightened” times were associated with an increasingly urgent reading of newspapers, news journals and digital media, a burgeoning case of “You can never get enough of what you don’t need.”

Rumi’s admonition to open the day with music and beauty renewed a resolve to begin our days with nature, early light, a quiet coffee in a turquoise cup, readings on art and nature and returning to the rich, contemplative offerings of Marv and Nancy Hiles’ An Almanac for the Soul, a gift from dear friends Barbara and Charlie. The reading of excellent (and, yes, alarming) books continues, but is more intentionally placed within the day – and balanced by lyrical and steadfast company.

Labyrinths have been of interest and significance to us for a long time; we love sharing the path with others.

The title page of This Day presents the photograph Threshold, a frog on the brass handle of our front door. The close presence of creatures and plant life in Florida are a gift, an education and a responsibility. The frogs on the front door are delicate, sweet reminders that here and now, we dwell in nature. After the baby owls fledged in the early months of the pandemic, two orphaned fawns took up residence nearby, grazing in the neighborhood at all hours. (Wildlife Care has shared advice and wisdom, as they did with the owls.) We have had the happiness of watching this pair grow, consider being adopted by a shy, young doe, confront massive Sandhill Cranes and investigate a preoccupied opossum. And, there has been the inimitable joy of sharing them with the children.

So, This Day begins with opening a blue door, being encircled by great oaks and graced with visitors.