Rosslyn Redux

Tag: Watercolor

  • Catherine Seidenberg: Artist

    Rosslyn by Catherine Seidenberg
    Rosslyn by Catherine Seidenberg

    I wrap my digital arms around friend, neighbor, artist, and gardener extraordinaire Catherine Seidenberg for this memorable birthday gift. Thank you!

    Catherine’s whimsical black and white watercolor of Rosslyn’s front facade offers a chance to reflect on the past decade Susan and I have spent reinvigorating this quirky property and an invitation to daydream about its future. The matched tree hydrangeas are a nod to a pair of similar (though far older varieties) hydrangeas that flaked the entrance columns before we excavated the front of the house. The older plants were transplanted with an excavator and now thrive astride a gate in the garden behind the carriage barn. The view to the right of the house, beyond the stone wall, reminds me of photographs of Rosslyn in the 1800s when the rolling hills beyond the carriage barn and ice house were far more open than today, a sea of apple orchards and green pastures dotted with grazing sheep.

    [Sometimes a post is born, neglected, orphaned, left unpublished in blog purgatory. Sadly this is one such case, despite the fact that I’ve enjoyed this painting daily from its perch above the fireplace in my study. The following update reminded me that Catherine’s painting was never properly celebrated, so I conjoin the two newsworthy items here to showcase the multidisciplinary creativity of artist Catherine Seidenberg.]

    Craigardan Artist-in-Residence, Catherine Seidenberg

    After two years assisting with Rosslyn’s vegetable and flower gardens Catherine moved on to new challenges. She notified us this past spring that she was returning to ceramics, and would be spending much of this year in Keene, NY as the Craigardan artist-in-residence.

    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)
    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)

    HARVEST PLATE RESIDENCY For ceramic artists who wish to participate in Craigardan’s delicious celebration of the farm, the food, and the plate.  9-month Winter residency. The 2017 Harvest Plate Resident: Catherine Seidenberg (Source: Craigardan)

    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)
    Craigardan Harvest Plate Resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Source: craigardan.org)

    If you’re in the Adirondacks (or near enough to swing through Keene, NY) I encourage you to meet Catherine in mid-September.

    Slide Talk: a conversation with harvest plate resident, Catherine Seidenberg (Friday, September 15, 2017, 5:30 PM to 6:30 PM) Meet artist-in-residence Catherine Seidenberg, view her ceramic work and learn about her beautiful processes.  Catherine is our summer Harvest Plate Resident, crafting all of the tableware for the fall benefit event, Dinner in the Field. (Source: Craigardan)

    Susan and I are looking forward to the fall benefit!

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  • Ric Feeney’s Watercolor Painting of Rosslyn Boathouse

    Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2019 (watercolor painting by Ric Feeney)
    Rosslyn Boathouse, circa 2019 (watercolor painting by Ric Feeney)

    Watercolor artist Ric Feeney shared this beautiful painting on Facebook recently, and of course it caught my eye as it featured Rosslyn’s whimsical boathouse/dock house.

    Feeney captioned the post: “Finished this 17 x 26 watercolor of early spring with the Champlain Ferry approaching the Essex dock.”

    There’s something almost cinematographic about the Essex-Charlotte ferry approaching the Essex ferry dock from the north-northeast. Our boathouse, centered in the foreground, appears jollier (color saturated and slightly vignetted with a hint of sunlight) than the ferry boat, the Old Dock Restaurant (red roof near right hand side of the image) and Begg’s Point, both visible behind the ferry dock.

    Over the years we’ve collected many artists’ interpretations of the boathouse, each a fresh perspective, a new chapter in the timeless tale we call Rosslyn Redux. Much as I have attempted to narrate the property’s story, an inspiring retinue of painters, photographers, and artists drawn to other media (i.e. Mary Wade’s wood and stone creations) have curated and showcased their own experiences with Rosslyn, especially Rosslyn’s boathouse.

    You can enjoy more of Ric Feeney’s watercolors at ricfeeney.com.

  • Easter Color

    Happy Easter to you from the Adirondack Coast where our seasonal reawakening is picking up pace with each passing day. And since spring is synonymous with the reemergence of vibrant lizard-like amphibians — most notably the red eft and the yellow-spotted salamander — it feels appropriate to substitute creatively died Easter eggs for a watercolor tribute to these brilliant wild neighbors brightening our day with their own unique Easter color if we take the time to observe them.

    Easter Color: Red Eft & Yellow-Spotted Salamander

    If you do any hiking or biking in our area this time of year, you’re quite likely to come across fluorescent orange-red salamanders making their way across roads and trails. Although most of us refer to them as red efts, they are actually adolescent eastern newts.

    The eastern newt (Notophthalmus viridescens) is a common newt of eastern North America. It frequents small lakes, ponds, and streams or nearby wet forests… The striking bright orange juvenile stage, which is land-dwelling, is known as a red eft. –Wikipedia

    I assist them across roadways during my bike rides to ensure that they don’t meet an untimely end in transit from shoulder to shoulder.

    Dissimilar in appearance but similarly vibrant in Easter color and pattern, the yellow-spotted salamander is another startlingly, beautiful amphibian that you just might spot on a damp afternoon.

    The spotted salamander or yellow-spotted salamander (Ambystoma maculatum) is a mole salamander common in eastern United States and Canada. –Wikipedia

    So, in lieu of an Easter egg hunt I bid you a happy, healthy holiday (with a basket full of good fortune in your wildlife wanderings.) I hope you spot some Easter color, whether salamanders or otherwise!

  • Homestead Haikus

    Homestead Haikus

    Homestead-grown Asparagus (Source: Geo Davis)
    Homestead-grown Asparagus (Source: Geo Davis)

    I often refer to Rosslyn as a homestead, but I’m aware that might mislead some of you. No livestock. That’s probably the biggest deviation from most self proclaimed homesteads. No chickens. No pigs, sheep, or goats. No milk cow. No 160 acre land grant (though we’ve slowly grown Rosslyn’s acreage to more than a third of that historic sum.)

    I’ve long longed for ducks. Hatchlings, then ducklings, then juvenile ducks, then mature plump ducks waddling around gobbling grubs and beetles and vegetable garden pests. Susan’s been a staunch bulwark against this homestead addition citing coyotes and hawks and an inadequately envisioned long term plan. Perhaps one day, some day. For now I celebrate wild ducks (“Common Goldeneye Ducks”) and safeguard the mallards (“Make Way for Ducklings” and “Mallard Jacuzzi”).

    But ducks or no ducks, our homestead is not about livestock. There’s abundant wildlife, and our vegetable gardens and orchard provide plenty to eat for our family and friends. Throw in farm shares with Full and By Farm, plenty of supplementary victuals from Hub on the Hill, and nourishing ourselves offers bountiful satisfaction.

    At Rosslyn, homesteading is less about producing everything that we eat and drink, and more about living as responsible stewards in a property presently and historically endowed with sufficient grounds and outbuildings for homesteading while honoring the homesteading tradition in as many ways as practical for us. I’ll revisit this idea soon, endeavoring to articulate more concisely our personal vision of Rosslyn as a homestead. For now I’ll shift to a few homestead haikus that might better — for their ample vantage despite minimalist format — illuminate what I’m trying to convey.

    Homestead Highlights 

    Bookended between
    asparagus and apples:
    skinny-dips, bonfires.

    Brookside Dissonance

    While ambling brookside,
    celestial cacophony, 
    a murder of crows.

    Apropos Tomatoes

    Green Zebras, Black Krims,
    early cherry tomatoes,…
    December daydreams.

    Now about those ducklings… I might bring up the idea again this spring. Wish me luck!

  • Peach Haikus

    Peach Haikus

    Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)
    Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)

    Today’s a day for peach haikus. With blustery storm incoming, our team concerned about balancing inclement weather reports with an ambitious 4-day scope of work, and the sort of bone-deep chill that shivers the bones and shakes the confidence, I propose that we take a micro-vacation. How’s that? Let’s flip the calendar back to sunny August when Rosslyn’s peach trees offered up sun warmed fruit bursting with nectar. A pair of summer-soaked watercolors and a pair of poems just might take the edge off and remind us that similar joys lay ahead. I hope that you enjoy these peach haikus.

    Peach Haikus

    As I’ve mentioned previously, recent years have drawn me toward the humility and mystery of haiku. Through brevity and minimalism blossoms a microscopic world. An invitation to disconnect from the hurly-burly for a while in order to immerse ourselves in a moment, a fragment. And often that miniature moment actually contains something immense, universal. A bit like gazing into a small drop of water that appears to amplify the world around it like a gnome-scale snow globe. Minus the snow. We’re trying to conjure summer vibes after all.

    ·•·

    Peaches This Year

    Few peaches this year
    but plump, nectar swollen with
    best flavor ever.
    — Geo Davis

    ·•·

    First Peaches

    Summer’s first peaches,
    sunshine soaked and siren sweet,
    seduce all senses.
    — Geo Davis

    Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)
    Peach Haikus (Image: Geo Davis)

    Peach Haikus in Mid-December

    There’s something decadent about peaches in wintery months. Once upon a time it would have been an impossibility, of course, but in this brave new world it’s possible to purchase peaches year-round, harvested faraway in warmer climes. And yet, no matter how reputable the source, there’s simply no comparing a snow season peach to the fresh-off-the-tree variety we enjoy in mid to late summer. The colors are almost impossibly saturated, and the sweet treacle that drips from lips is an indulgence on par only with fantasies. Even the aroma of a sun soaked peach pulled from the branch is an extravagance. Store bought winter beaches often have no smell at all, or only the subtlest of ghost-smells, like a facsimile transmitted too many times, diluted with each new iteration.

    And yet, perhaps, just maybe these images and these peach haikus will conjure for you a recollection so tantalizing that your optimism will rebound, incoming winter will settle into a less ominous perspective, and your enthusiasm for next summer’s fruit will revitalize your spirits. Hope so!

  • Apple Still Life

    Apple Still Life

    Seven Apples, an apple still life, August 10, 2022 (Source: Geo Davis)
    Seven Apples, an apple still life, August 10, 2022 (Source: Geo Davis)

    Sometime seven apples, five ripe edibles and two depicted in watercolor, are perfection. Rosslyn’s curious combination of real fruit and facsimiles (the latter painted by a dear friend, Amy Guglielmo, nearly two decades ago) are subtly playful. A self reflective still life, if you will. A juxtaposition of food and art.

    I’ll admit that a decent dose of sentimentality pulls me here. A delicate illustration conjured by a close companion of many years. And plump apples tempting. Granite agonized over, tiles attentively paired by my bride and me, installed by Elaine Miller in the August days of Rosslyn’s lengthy rehabilitation,…

    But there’s another poignancy as well, and it’s rooted in the illustrative rendering, liquid pigments now dried onto, into paper. A photograph of a painting of apples. Next to real apples. A verisimilitude vignette. As I endeavor to untangle my Rosslyn narrative from our Rosslyn narrative; to distill my poems and stories and essays and homemade images from the property itself (and her many artifacts); indeed to separate myself, ourselves from the ecosystem that has been our home and our life for so long; there is something in this vignette that resonates deep within me despite the fact that I still can’t quite define it. Perhaps clarity will accrue in the coming months as I reexamine the memories and relics of our sixteen years at Rosslyn. Partly a poetics of place, perhaps. But what else? Why?

  • Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣

    Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣

    Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣(Source: Geo Davis)
    Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣(Source: Geo Davis)

    In the days since publishing “What Makes a House a Home?” I’ve been fortunate to enjoy follow up exchanges with many of you. It seems that we all have some compelling notions of homeness! Thank you for reaching out and sharing your often personal stories. I’ve mentioned to several of you that I’d like to dive in a little deeper if/when you’re inclined. This inquiry is foundational to Rosslyn Redux, and I believe that the objective is less to answer the question and more to propagate more questions, to seed wonder and reflection.

    There are so many little forays into this residential quest, that I’ve decided to follow up with three follow-ups posts that intrigue me and that have been percolating with renewed vigor since sharing the previous post. I’ll jumpstart the three with a preliminary introduction of sorts, maybe more of a welcome, today in seeding the three questions as one. Is home a place, a feeling, or a relationship? ⁣I’m hoping to intersperse more narrowly focused posts on each of the three questions with progress reports on the icehouse rehab (It was a big day today!) and the boathouse gangway. And I’m hoping to hear from you if you feel moved to share your thoughts on any of the three. I suspect that many of us consider all three to be connected in some way to our ideas of home. More one than another?

    Is Home a Place?

    Obviously Rosslyn is very much a place. It’s an historic property in Essex, New York, on the Adirondack Coast of Lake Champlain. Pretty specific, right. Place, place, place. And to be sure much of what I showcase in these posts is a reflection on place, even the poetics of place.

    Two weeks ago I shared a tickler for this post on Instagram, a short reel offering an aerial view of Rosslyn that I filmed with my drone last summer. It feels meditative to me. Like a soaring seagull wondering, wandering…

    https://www.instagram.com/reel/ClB-1F8AFiK/

    I think for now, I’ll leave the question of home as place gently gyring in the updraft to be picked up again soon in another post.

    Is Home a Relationship?

    In the digital sketch / watercolor at the top of this post, the almost abstract blue green wash hopefully feels a little bit like a dream. Maybe a memory. Something fuzzy and abstract in my memory. It’s a barn, actually a barn quite near Rosslyn in the hamlet of Boquet. But it’s not necessarily that barn I’m depicting. It’s many barns including the barns at Rosslyn (carriage barn and icehouse) the barns at The Farm where I spent a few formative early years, and the barn(s) that I hope to one day, same day build or rebuild. In short, for reasons I’m still unraveling, homeness for me includes a feeling of an old, perhaps even an abandoned farm, with barns. More at that anon.

    Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣(Source: Geo Davis)
    Is Home a Place, a Feeling, or a Relationship? ⁣(Source: Geo Davis)

    Is Home a Feeling?

    Sticking with digital sketches / watercolors for a moment, that black and white image above was actually made a few years ago to represent Griffin, our Labrador Retriever before Carley. But like the barn, my rudimentary skills at representation allow it to merge into all of our dogs including Tasha, who we had before Griffin, and even Griffin-the-1st, a long ago predecessor and the namesake for our more recent Griffin. That’s a bit jumbled, but it’ll do for now.

    Why dogness as a way to explore homeness? Well, frankly, for me, part of the feeling of home is that it’s where my dog is. And when we’re migratory between the Adirondacks and the Southwest seasonally, our dog is with us, maintaining a sense of home even though we’re temporarily nomadic. More on that now soon.

    Is Home a Point of Overlap Place, Relationship, and Feeling?

    I’ll leave you with this follow-on because I find that it’s surprisingly challenging to tease apart the elements of homeness. Intrinsic to all three, is my beautiful bride, Susan. She is my home in a way that embodies place, relationship, and feeling. What about you?

  • Boathouse Illustration Revisited

    Boathouse Illustration Revisited

    Back on March 28, 2022 I shared a whimsical watercolor illustration of Rosslyn's boathouse including some of the process. At the time I conceived of the exercise as a way to exercise my rudimentary watercolor abilities while enticing the universe to hasten the spring-to-summer transition.
    Revisiting my mid-March boathouse illustration as a black and white watercolor. Aaahhh… the magic of digital! (Source: Geo Davis)

    Back on March 28, 2022 I shared a whimsical boathouse illustration including some of my creation process. At the time I conceived of the exercise as a way to exercise my rudimentary watercolor abilities while enticing the universe to hasten the spring-to-summer transition. Verdict is out on whether or not my efforts wooed the universe. But the practice was a pleasure, and I’m resolving to make time for more watercolor illustrations this autumn and winter.

    You can click the back/forward arrows in the original Instagram post below to see some of the pre-finished phases.

    https://www.instagram.com/p/Cbqit9bOz6P/

     

    B&W vs. Color Boathouse Illustration

    So why revisit this potently pigmented image with achromatic ambitions?

    I’ve been experimenting for about a decade with black and white as a visual storytelling medium (carpemidlife.com and @carpemidlife). It’s part of a larger project stretching my comfort with creative risk — in poetry, essay, and storytelling and in photographs, collage, illustration, mixed media mashups, and even a little bit of video — as a way to repurpose midlife malaise into midlife motivation. One of the early decisions I made for focusing and structuring the project was restricting all image-making (and writing, for that matter) to black and white. We live in an era of magnificent digital imaging, stunning verisimilitude, oversaturated colors, and a panoply of intelligent filters, algorithms, etc. to augment reality.

    Make no mistake. I’m profoundly grateful to experience these magnificent modern advances in image making, but I find myself missing the granularity and character of the analog world. I explore this more at Carpe Midlife if provoked your curiosity. If not, I’ll return to the present context.

    So often in our sweet sixteen years as the stewards of Rosslyn, I’m drawn to the juxtaposition of old and new. In many respects rehabilitating Rosslyn and making our life here has blurred past, present, and future. History is alive. And similarly much of our quotidian existence is timeless. There’s a whimsical simultaneity of lives and times that infiltrates our lakeside lifestyle. And rather than resist it, I often find it enriching, even entertaining. And so I’ve come to playfully experiment, sometimes renovating that which is vintage or antique. Others times I accelerate aging. Or agelessness. And sometimes these shifts in perspective yield surprising, often refreshing new experiences.

    I was curious to see what might happen by repurposing a colorful new illustration as a colorless facsimile. Stripping away the cheerful colors, what remains? Is it an anemic phantom image? Does the emphasis change? The feeling?

    In my opinion there’s a world of difference between what I notice visually and what I feel internally in response to the black and white boathouse illustration at the top of this page and the color-soaked original below. What do you think?

    Back on March 28, 2022 I shared a whimsical watercolor illustration of Rosslyn's boathouse including some of the process. At the time I conceived of the exercise as a way to exercise my rudimentary watercolor abilities while enticing the universe to hasten the spring-to-summer transition.
    Original boathouse illustration watercolored cheerfully in hopes of hastening grey spring into technicolor summer! (Source: Geo Davis)

    From Boathouse-lust to Wonder-lust

    If you’re a longtime reader and you’re detecting a subtle shift in some of these recent blog and social media posts, you’re not wrong. You’re perceptive.

    There is a shift underway. Like so many whose views and lifestyles have evolved over the last couple of years — pandemic year and post-pandemic year (if we’re bold enough to assume the latter) — Susan and I have new stories to share about Rosslyn. We’re navigating a liminal space that is still unfurling it’s mysteries for us. As we find our way, I’ll share the experience. With a little luck, we will share the experience.

    But for now, I just want to acknowledge that this period of introspection and reflection and significant transition for us is undoubtedly woven into posts like this one. Sometimes familiarity and comfort are exactly what we need. And sometimes wondering and wandering away from the familiar and the comfortable can be just as important.

  • Backcountry Barns

    Backcountry Barns

    Backcountry Barns (Source: Geo Davis)
    Backcountry Barns (Source: Geo Davis)

    My mind’s been wandering to watercolor painting during recent bicycle rides. Wondering about watercoloring as a way of seeing and becoming acquainted and interpreting. Watercolor as a way of knowing. A way of storytelling.

    I’m hoping to make time this fall for a fresh foray into watercolor painting. It’s been a while. A long while!

    Just about everything I cast eyes upon is begging to be added to the list of images to paint. The orchard’s colorful fruit and lush summer foliage, for example. The Amish man, horse, and buggy trundling past Rosslyn early this morning, silhouetted against a magnificent sunrise…

    And Señorita Serendipity seems to approve of my plans. While brainstorming a punchlist of September/October watercolors, recent August skies appear to have been watercolored by the universe. Another portentous twist of fate: my enfatuation with bygone barns was concurrently satisfied during two recent bike rides, orchestrating the watercolor sky plus barn snapshots I was able to share earlier today with a “Backcountry Barns Haiku”.

    Time torn, weatherworn
    byways by backcountry barns.
    Watercolor skies.

    After yesterday’s runaway rumination on wavy window glass (with a nod at watercolors), this quick post was practically born of necessity.

    https://www.instagram.com/p/CS9iHSCrE6a/

    I’m sure I’ve touched on this elsewhere over the years, but it’s worth acknowledging that barn architecture, especially minimalist barns, patinated with weather and time, speaks to something practically primordial in me. My earliest hope when looking for a North Country properties was to convert an old barn into a home. I looked at lots of backcountry barns, but I never made a match. Some day I still hope to explore the barn vernacular, perhaps in a modern and somewhat interpretive way.

    Until then I’m going to keep massaging this watercolor metaphor a little longer.

    Maybe once I dip my brush into paint this fall more meaningful observations will materialize. Perhaps I’ll be able to better articulate why watercoloring (and wavy glass, for that matter) are helping me decipher and describe my process, my pleasure, and my goals.

    For now, and for this post, I’ve returned to the Waterlogue app by Tinrocket to create this (and other recent) digital watercolors. I’ve always used the iOS version beacuase it’s a well tuned flaneur’s tool, always at hand, always handy for a quick “field sketch”. After snapping a photograph I usually import it into the Snapseed app by Google for some pre-watercolor tuneups to creatively manipulate the results in a way that will render a digital watercolor that suits my vision. Then into Waterlogue for some empirical playtime… And voila!

  • Orange Cucumbers

    Orange Cucumbers

    Orange-Yellow Cucumbers Watercolor Riff
    Orange Cucumbers Watercolor Riff

    Ever since I asked (and answered) the question “Why are my cukes turning yellow/orange?” I’ve been inundated with inquiries about orange cucumbers. Are yellow-oranging cucumbers safe to eat? Do they taste bitter? How can I use orangey-yellow cukes?

    While I’m flattered with your confidence that I can demystify your quandaries related to orange cucumbers, it’s time to go full disclosure. My gardening experience and perspective are super subjective. My actual *scientific* expertise is negligible. And my vegetable garden triumphs and fiascos are best regarded as anecdotal.

    Orange Cucumbers Riff

    Caveat emptor aside, I hope you’ll join me for a rambunctious riff on discolored cukes with no meaningful advice and no implied guarantees. After all, when knowledge is slim, lean into poetry! (Of course, your mileage may vary.)

    As green thumb inquiries 
    for vine ripe tomatoes 
    and full headed lettuce 
    ease then ebb, 
    fall fervor flows 
    to colorful corn kernels 
    and pompadoured pumpkins 
    with snaggletooth grins. 
    I’m tempted to revisit 
    the midsummer enigma 
    of cucumber cukes, 
    trellised or sprawling, 
    lush canopied and micro-spiked, 
    round and chubby-stubby 
    or curly-attenuated, 
    and ripe-ripening into pickles 
    or gazpacho or sandwich. 
    Knifing the crisp, crunchy 
    flesh on the bias, 
    or end-to-end slivered, 
    speared, crescent mooned, 
    this orange cucumber is 
    bellicose and celestial, 
    a bursting chrysanthemum, 
    a blazing headdress, 
    a sun dried citrus slice, 
    a September sunrise smeared 
    across a mountain 
    muddled horizon. 
    The oranging skin 
    is a warning:
    I’m overripe, 
    too mature, 
    untasty, even bitter,
    and I’m 100% unfit 
    for human consumption.

    Troubleshooting Cuke Coloration

    If freestyle riffing sans constructive takeaways isn’t what you need at the moment (i.e. a garden-full of cukes ready for mini jack-o’-lanterns), then you might prefer my earlier post:

    Recently the enormous fruit are discoloring from green to yellow to orange before we can eat them. Here’s the reason why.