Who are you, Hyatt, with your brush, attempting to duplicate the things I have made.
Such is what I might hear if I were in the place of Job when, after all else has been heard, God speaks and declares himself, as evidenced in nature. To me the painter he might say:
You paint with white and call it light, but you know it’s only stuff of clay, not translucent, transparent, stuff of life.
Yours attempts to reflect the source; mine is the source.
You duplicate; I originate.
You combine; only I create.
Actually, mine surrounds, casting no shadow. It’s why you can’t see me.
Still, enjoy what you can.
And that’s what I did this morning, walking into the kitchen with the light coming through. I took pictures. Here are a few.
Anne preparing her morning ritual, slices oranges and tea. That island table a Santa Fe (NM) find, traded for a painting. The overhead baskets from everywhere, over time.
Same scene, in her years-ago thrift-store find, originally from Japan Air Lines.
Sink, counter, window and birds of clay, or metal, or wood.
Hard to know what’s outside and what’s inside, with the light bouncing back and forth.
The light so strong behind, all is in its own shadow.
Anne will look at this and say, “I must wash those windows.” But there’s something nice about the effect. Like a painting.
Through the window with reflections back and forth, the glass table outside merging with the wood table inside, rock garden behind, an abundant honeysuckle vine, and lavender plants waiting for their place in the ground.
More light. I told the artist/potter once that we had a plant in the piece we’d bought from him. He was slightly disturbed, I think, but hey, it’s all art, and looks great.
The stove, with an iron teapot found in Japan, and a segment of one of Anne’s framed prints on the wall behind.
Cutting boards and cutting tool.
Birds inside, this one from a long-ago Mexico trip. The house fairly overflows with such items from everywhere we’ve been (usually suitcase size).
A candle-holding rooster with light fore and aft.
Light, light, light. Would be fun to try and paint, but it would never be as good as simply this.
Light on the cruse of oil, the canister of tea, the breadbox, the cups from India, the spoons and such from everywhere.
Nothing staged in any of these, just the way things look in the light. (Though this could be a still life.)
Finally, breakfast, with more light. And more words from Job. (Another kind of light.)
_______
PS At church last Sunday I was asked to give a ten minute perspective on the current happenings, Covid and Race. If you’re interested, copy and paste the this link into your browser (my part is at minute 55): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4y_Nzj-UGoQ&feature=youtu.be
Our Lives Together
Its About Life
11:05 am
Absolutely beautiful! ✨🤍
7:03 pm
Speaking of Job, I’m enjoying Christopher Ash’s commentary/exegesis on that book. Recommend.
9:45 pm
Thanks, Dave. I’ll look for it. You obviously listened to my talk. Thanks for that, too.
6:01 am
Glorious, beautiful light, part of your life story in these wonderful images.
LOVE the glorious and beautiful and light-filled children of GOD, that live in this place. You, Hyatt and Anne. Gifts to the world and all those of us who know and love you and especially your creative impulses!!
6:32 am
Hello Hyatt,
I found your photos and comments so lovely and inspiring. At first I thought the photos were paintings, with the amazing use of light. It must be wonderful to both be artists together! Someone once said that home decor was the skin of a soul. I collect bird figurines and have one from 43 countries now. You painted two of my slides from Ivory Coast many years ago.
I thought you and Anne would enjoy this poem, which I came upon only a few days ago:
CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD
by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
FLOWERS preach to us if we will hear:–
The rose saith in the dewy morn:
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
The poppy saith amid the corn:
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.
But not alone the fairest flowers:
The merest grass
Along the roadside where we pass,
Lichen and moss and sturdy weed,
Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too,
To nourish one small seed.
10:06 am
Thanks, Carol, for the detailed comment, and the poem. Good quote about home decor being the skin of the soul. That’s new for me. As for the paintings, I don’t remember them. Send me a picture, especially of how they’re hanging, if they are.
9:26 am
Dad, great pictures and words! Hey, here’s a link right to your talk as well: https://youtu.be/4y_Nzj-UGoQ?t=3314
Thanks for sharing!
10:03 am
Thanks, Hyatt, and for the shortcut to my part in the service. I didn’t know that was possible . . . I should have asked you first.
9:31 am
It was good to see you speak. Do you remember you and I were in Toast Masters together? You used good personal illustrations and I did not catch a single ‘uh’. I’m just joking. You had very good points. The storms do make trees grow deeper roots.
Blessings,
Frank
10:04 am
Thanks, Frank, and yes, I remember those times, many years ago.
8:15 pm
An artist eye sees with such beauty and yet it is so beautiful!