the cassandra pages

A Greek Landscape for Earth Day

On this Earth Day, I could have written about Iceland, where new earth is being born this very minute. But instead, here is a painting of an elemental landscape in Greece, one that's probably existed in various forms for as long as human beings have gathered fruit from trees and fish from the sea: stony soil, an olive tree, the sea just beyond. If we listen, maybe we can hear the tinkle of bells on the collars of sheep and goats, herded into a hollow just beyond the picture frame... In Mexico, perhaps the olive would be replaced by some agaves. These are the sorts of natural and agricultural landscapes of basic sustainability that exist all over the world, which are threatened by climate change, and which we must protect. 

As I painted and thought about these things, I enjoyed knowing that some of the pigments I was using came directly from the earth too, and that water -- the most basic substance of all -- was the medium in which they were dissolved. But the connections go far deeper than the food we eat, or the elements we use in our daily lives.

For instance, it's iron that gives its red color to the earth that was at my feet in this picture, and there's an iron molecule in the center of each hemoglobin molecule in our blood, which is why it appears red.

Most of the time, we don't even think about these interconnections. But actually we are creatures of the earth, just as much as the old olive tree with its roots in the rocks: it's true on the macro level of our interdependency for life itself, and it's true on the micro level of the smallest cells in our bodies.

When we spend our lives in paved-over cities of concrete and steel, surrounded by digital screens, it's a lot harder to understand who we are, and where we come from, than it is for the shepherd who herds his sheep across this hilltop every day, or the farmer who gathers the olives from the tree and presses them into oil for his salad and his fish. I think, though, that we do all have some innate sense of connection, whether it's the awe we feel when watching a volcano being born, or the peace that comes from watching the ocean, or being in a forest or on a mountaintop. 

I feel more hope for our earth than I did a year ago. It's tenuous, but I do feel it, along with a great love and longing to be out in the natural world, where I always find myself again.

 

Learning from a Sketchbook

 

I don't use sketchbooks to make a record of my life, though of course they become that to some extent. For me, sketchbooks are a way of working out ideas and techniques, exploring compositions, and delving deeper into what I see around me. When I go back through past years, or even past months, I can often see a progression or evolution, which wasn't necessarily evident as I worked, and this is extremely helpful. Sometimes there's an obvious ending, or a breakthrough into something new. That's why it's so important to keep a sketchbook as a practice, not judging it day to day, but keeping going, filling the pages -- and then, later, revisiting where you've been, and getting a clearer idea what direction you want to pursue.

Sketching while traveling became something important to me in recent years, but during the pandemic, as my world seemed to shrink, drawing was solace, meditation and companion. I didn't have a specific goal, except to try to keep at it and learn something. 

In this video, I take you on a guided tour through my sketchbook from October to early April - what was I doing, what works, what doesn't, and what does it tell me about where to go? It's nine minutes long, so you'll need to settle in and look over my shoulder, as it were...or you can skip through it using the time slider to the right of the PLAY/STOP button.

View the video full screen for best effect, and please tell me what you think!