the cassandra pages

19 Years

Today marks nineteen years of continuous blogging here, and I find myself at a loss for words. Partly because it doesn't even make sense to me that I've done this for that long; partly because Cassandra -- like nearly everyone else -- failed to predict the tragedy unfolding in the Ukraine with its huge ramifications for the world's political future; and partly because -- also like nearly everyone else -- I am weary, and unable to package things up into any sort of comforting explanation or pretty picture, either for myself, or for public consumption.

But that's all right. There are times in all of our lives when we simply have to let go of and be still, finding consolation and strength in the simplest things: a raindrop hanging on a branch; a cat playing with a ribbon; the clouds traversing the sky; damp earth emerging from the snow.

Day by Day

Snow on the terrace. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 4, 2022.

A friend posted a cartoon the other day - you may have seen it - that was a variation of the little fish being eaten by successively bigger fishes. In this one, the earth was the little fish, the next bigger one, with its mouth open ready to grab the earth, was COVID, which in turn was about to be devoured by THE WAR, and then by the biggest one of all, CLIMATE CHANGE. It would be amusing if it weren't such a perfect illustration of all of our nightmares.

Coping, I freely admit, has been harder than ever as we watch the unfolding of a brutal war on our screens, and wonder, for the first time in many many years, about the possibility of a much larger conflict, and even nuclear war. I grew up during the Cold War, when the "Iron Curtain" was a reality in Eastern Europe, when Germany, and Berlin itself, were divided and people who tried to cross borders were shot, when the idea of speaking to a Russian or meeting a Russian in real life was something of fantasy. Even arts or sports exchanges were extremely rare. When the term "glasnost" became associated with Mikhail Gorbachev in the mid-1980s, I had already lived more than 30 years with an entirely different idea of what the Soviet Union represented than a 35-year-old person must have now. At that time, we were involved in a Vermont initiative called "Bridges for Peace" that helped facilitate some of the first citizen exchanges between the US and the USSR, and while we didn't travel to the Soviet Union ourselves, I remember the preparatory meetings, and the first gathering where we welcomed a group of heavily-chaperoned Soviet citizens, heard their impressions, and had a chance to ask questions. One person remarked on his astonishment at the size of our grocery stores and the amount and variety of food available. A few years later, there were visits by Russian musicians and choirs; each time, it seemed, they had a little more freedom, and acted more relaxed, so that eventually we could simply be people together sharing meals and an art form that we all loved.

The Iron Curtain fell, the Soviet Union broke apart, but the West has changed too. We take so much about our present lives for granted; we are so complacent.

Porcelain doll with broken hand. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". March 7, 2022.

I've felt heartbroken by current events, as well as frightened, and not just for the Ukrainian people. Even if it is contained, the ramifications of this war will be felt by all of us, and who knows where it will end: are we, in fact, going back to the Cold War years? Will all the diplomatic, economic, and collaborative progress of the last forty years be lost? What about nuclear containment? What kind of weapons will be unleashed? Will nuclear facilities be protected, or will there be another horrific event like Chernobyl? Will the conflict spread to Eastern and then Western Europe? It's unthinkable. The scale of the risk is so much greater and more complex than the well-meant but naive yellow-and-blue flags and sunflowers cropping up all over social media. If you send aid, please do it through established and reputable channels where it has a chance of getting through.

It is a very sober time: a time when I feel called to silent reflection, learning, and meditating on history and on the present, as we still deal with Covid and climate change and all the other pressing problems of our personal and shared lives that seem dwarfed by each day;s news. I haven't been able to write much, but I've tried to draw. I hope you are finding ways to cope, and would be glad to have you share your thoughts.

Manon, sleeping. Fountain pen in sketchbook, 9" x 6". February 24, 2022.

 

Ash Wednesday, in this Time of Perpetual Lent

Lent begins today: the Christian season of repentance, reflection, and renunciation. I went to the noontime services at the cathedral, and when the priest came down the aisle with the bowl of ashes, I rose -- but only reluctantly -- to receive them. It probably would have been more honest to stay in my seat.

After two years of a pandemic that has taken so many to an early grave, and convinced most of us of our mortality if we didn't accept it before, I felt resistance to this reminder, symbolized by the ashes and the accompanying words "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return." In a time of aggression and horrific war, I do not need a reminder of the human lust for power and too many rulers' disregard for life. When we are told that we come from the dust of the earth, and will return to it, I already know all too well the intense pressure the earth is under because of human behavior, and what the future is likely to hold because of climate change.

Furthermore, all of these things are related. Like many of you, I've been reflecting on the failures of institutions and governments, as well as the behaviors of individuals, for two years now. I've felt helpless, and also tried to see where I could be of help, extending myself to others, and feeling immensely grateful for the people who have extended themselves to me. Many of us have tried to do this, and a lot of those efforts have been successful: building and nurturing supportive relationships and groups who have met and sustained each other in creative new ways.

What we do not need right now is guilt, and unfortunately Lent tends to go either in that direction, or toward the superficial, as if giving up chocolate is really going to melt human hardness of heart. Sincere reflection on how we can be more courageous, more loving, more open to each other, and more aware of the interconnection of all living things is always needed and welcome. But as I looked around the sanctuary today, the people I recognized in the pews were people who already do this, and try to live their lives responsibly and lovingly.  These are not people who think vaccines should be withheld from poor countries, or people who don't recycle and drive massive vehicles, or who support white supremacy, or think that despots who want to overthrow legitimate governments are admirable.

And yet these are precisely the problems we are facing, along with many others. What would make me feel some movement this Lent, instead of turning to individuals and saying "This is on you, admit your faults, repent," would be to hear our institutions and governments say, "We have been reflecting on how we have failed in our tasks and our mission to you. We have been self-serving, short-sighted and hypocritical, and we want to repent, to reform, to change, to do better."

You laugh, and you're right to laugh: it will be a cold day in hell before that happens. Our apparent powerlessness in the face of so much that we know is wrong has been one of the most sobering lessons of this time in history. Look at what is happening in Ukraine at this very moment.

And yet. Change seldom comes from above, unless we are fortunate enough to nurture and support truly visionary leaders. Most of the time, we must try to work outward and upward, starting with ourselves, then moving to small groups of like-minded people with passion for justice and change, and then banding together into new institutions, or working to shape and hold accountable those that already exist. Unless we do that, the status quo will prevail, because institutions and governments are not nimble and flexible, but heavy, ponderous, and stuck in their ways, and so they tend to focus on self-preservation rather than change.

If churches clearly stood for justice and "the dignity of every human being", as we proclaim in our baptismal covenant, and were seen to be working openly toward those goals, I think we would actually attract more people. In the case of my own church, we have had active ministries for the homeless, for social justice and the environment, for anti-racism, for the LGBTQ+ community and for young people. We have taken part in the Truth and Reconciliation process with Indigenous Canadians about the abuses they suffered, which, to this former American, was a remarkable example of humility, listening, admission of wrongs committed, and desire to change -- but we're not very good at letting the outside world know about any of this, and our inability to meet in person until recently hasn't helped.

In the public sphere, democracy is threatened everywhere, even here in Canada; all we have to do is look to our southern neighbor to see what could happen. The rest of the world, which once saw America as a bastion of democratic values, sees the hypocrisy, as do those Americans who have been marginalized: the pandemic has shown just how unequal that society is, and how dangerous a hyper-emphasis on personal freedom can be, over the shared good of all. Rather than truth-telling, I'm afraid what we see is perpetual myth-making about American exceptionalism.

But, in the end, change still has to start with me, as with each of us, and it needs to come from positive energy, love for others, and passion for shared goals, rather than guilt. My practice this Lent will be to try to meditate every morning, to discourage feelings of helplessness and despair, and reflect instead on what I am being called to do next -- which may simply be a continuation of what I am doing now; I don't know. I will also bring some of these thoughts to a small group of which I am a part as we reflect together. I think this process of discernment is perhaps the real purpose of Lent, as we seek positive movement in ourselves while the earth moves toward spring.

A Brief Comment on the Truck Convoy

First of all, I would like my US and international readers to know that the news about the truck convoy protest, as reported in Canada, is quite different than what I have heard is being reported through some other media, notably Fox News.

Second, a large majority of Canadians are appalled by the protesters and the support they have received from outside Canada, particularly the US far right. Many Canadians are baffled as to why it has taken so long for the police to clear the blockades.

The right to protest is enshrined in Canada, and especially in Quebec, where I live. In Montreal, there are protests and demonstrations all the time, and the city and police know how to handle them fairly peacefully. I'm sure that the initial hope was that the truckers would leave peacefully on their own. However, we should all realize that if this were a protest by Indigenous or other minorities/people of color who blocked city streets, transportation routes, or the supply chain for goods, action against them -- including arrests -- would have been much faster. And it is clearly true that, as in the January 6 2021 Capitol insurrection in D.C., some members of the police and military sympathize and identify with these mostly-white, mostly working-class, mostly-male protesters, some of whom were armed and ready for violent confrontation.

We must not close our eyes to this glaring example of inequality and preferential treatment, which is now typical of most nations in the West. And as Canadians, it's crucial that we see it and speak up swiftly against it, as well as condemning hate speech, far-right ideology, and the influence of foreign money in our domestic affairs.

 

Lights on at 1 pm: Winter Solstice

The shortest day of the year was a sunny one in Montreal, at least for the brief daylight hours. I started this quick watercolor after lunch, and noticed that the park lights came on at 1 pm! It's 3:45 now, and the sun is going down - there are just some last rays on the tops of the trees, and white snow on the ground that looks as though it might stay. If I ever forget how far north we live, the solstice reminds me.

The day may have been sunny, but the mood in the city definitely is not, as we battle an Omicron surge that is frightening in its speed and intensity of transmission. Many restrictions have been put in place already by the province, including closing the schools, and our mairesse, Valerie Plante, has declared a state of emergency from her home, where she is isolating after testing positive herself. The hospital emergency rooms are already near capacity.

My Christmas wish to all of you is to that you won't disregard the threat of this variant. The behavior you've adopted that has kept you safe so far is probably not enough to avoid infection. Please get a booster if you're eligible; wear a high-quality or a double mask; keep your social contacts and your errands in public places to a minimum. The exponential rise in cases we are seeing here is astounding, and half or more of those admitted to hospital are now double-vaccinated people.  Booster roll-out has been slow in Canada; here in Quebec only the elderly have received third doses, and people above 65 have just recently become eligible to make appointments -- the virus is taking full advantage of that fact. (My own appointment is scheduled for December 27.) And while hospitalizations are about a third of the level they were with the first wave, and deaths are still fairly low, the danger is not just to the elderly or vulnerable, or the unvaccinated. A two-month old baby died of COVID in hospital here last week. Please, be very cautious, and if you live in a place where Omicron has not yet hit, think very carefully about your holiday plans, who you will be seeing, and what it means to love them, because with this variant, everything can change in a week or less. This is one year when the pressure or desire to visit one's family should take a back seat to protecting them. I say this particularly to my friends in the U.S., many of whom still seem oblivious to what we are going through up here -- and it's not even the worst of it yet -- or what people in Europe are going through.

So it will be a different Christmas, once again...we have a tree, and lights, and the smells of baking; there's snow outside and warmth inside, but the holiday will be a quiet one. I'm sure we'll check in with friends and family via zoom. My daily task is to keep my own spirits up, and to face the seemingly-interminable pandemic, and uncertainty about the future, with courage. It's not easy for me, and takes conscious intention. Today before I got up I thought quite a bit about gratitude. Later I baked a complicated cake, made some five-pointed origami stars, wrote letters, took a long vigorous walk in the park, and still, I felt the presence of discouragement and anxiety in the background. The predictability of the solstice is ancient and steady, though -- and I took comfort in that.

Christmas Fruit, and Breakthrough Color

I don't have many words to offer today, but I do have some color. This bowl of fruit was declared off limits for one evening, when I did the watercolor, and then was very quickly eaten over the next days. Pomegranates and clementines seem like the most festive of all.

In spite of the fact that Quebec has an extremely high vaccination rate, cases are surging here as they are almost everywhere, driven not by Omicron - yet - but by infections among young children at schools and daycares, who infect their parents, who then take the virus to the workplace. Fortunately, hospitalizations and deaths are still low, and more and more of the 5-11 year-olds are getting vaccinated. Omicron is still a very small percentage, but increasing fast: it will explode, and soon.

It's all really depressing. I won't be eligible for a booster until early January. More restrictions are likely to be imposed, and in my opinion, far too late. The federal government of Canada is requesting that all international trips be cancelled, and it sounds like border restrictions will be re-imposed soon. "Rethink your holiday parties," is both lame and ineffective, but people are desperate to be with their families, too. Sadly, we had already cancelled our plans to be with my father in upstate New York today for his 97th birthday, and obviously we won't be seeing our American family members for Christmas. I have to just try not to think about what that means. Meanwhile, in the U.S. and many other places, people seem to be doing whatever they feel like, and counting on their vaccinations to protect them from serious illness. I hope it works, and wish them well.

So, all I can say, from this interior space where I will be for most of the next few months: color helps. And reading. I've been working on a new print, which you'll see eventually: the carving was complicated and absorbing, and the repetitive process of printing is calming. I've been grateful for it.

I want to think not about breakthrough infections, but about breakthrough color: the way primary red and yellow, and gamboge and intense cobalt blue and viridian push aside everything else we're obsessing about, and make us stop and look, make us feel something emotional and positive.

How are things where you are? And what's helping you cope this holiday season?

What Means "Progress"?

Still life with Persian miniature and Athena, watercolor and ink, December 2021

There are two groups of people for whom "pandemic time" has taken on particular poignancy. The young, because they can only measure time by the years they've already lived, have felt like they were being robbed of a huge percentage of their lives. And the old have felt that the pandemic took away what was most meaningful: human contact with those they loved - as well as the loss of freedom and choice that everyone has suffered, but which has felt particularly bitter for those who see the years remaining as few. The only difference is that most of us who are older have seen and lived enough to be able to cope with loss, change, and the need for patience a bit better than those who are young. Even for those who are still feisty and determined, some level of acceptance about what we can't change often seems built-in by the time we reach our sixties and beyond.

Nevertheless, for someone who has always tried to move forward in her work and understanding, I've found it extremely difficult to have a sense of progress at all. Yes, I hold myself to a rather rigorous standard in that regard. But it's been so hard, and required steely determination, to have any sense of momentum, to envision goals and work toward them, or -- for that matter -- to think about the future. For what is that future? When will it arrive and will it look anything like what we've left behind? And -- this is the worst thought -- will there even be a future for me, for you?

I'm grateful for a bit of Buddhist teaching here, which reminds me that all we ever actually have is the present moment. Where I have trouble is when I start feeling like I've wasted so many of those "present moments". I can get quite down on myself about this. But when I do remember that wisdom, I'm more able to use those moments wisely.

What we don't see, and can't see yet (in my opinion) is what this extraordinary time has actually been, and continues to be: a massive interruption of all of our lives that will never go 'back to normal" but will result in changed people, and a changed human society, in the same way that wars have caused massive change for those who lived through them. Humans always want to go back to "what was," but in this case, that's not going to be possible. Partly because, with the variants, it feels like we're back at square one - even though we aren't - and partly because so much has already changed, including ourselves.

A friend wrote me today that he has realized he simply cannot go back to the work he has been doing for the past 35 years. He said he was extremely sad about that for a long while, but that now he's letting go. Another friend, a voracious reader and thinker, writes that she has trouble concentrating on books or music, and what she finds most difficult is the loss of a sense that she is growing and learning. Recovering these aspects of ourselves is going to take work, thought, and not a small amount of self-love and self-forgiveness. We have to be willing to let go of our old habits, goals, and expectations; to grieve what's lost; and, in time, embrace and open ourselves to something new that we may not even be able to see yet.

The paintings in this post were done 17 months apart; the one at the top just a few days ago, the other in July of 2020. The objects on my desktop look pretty much the same -- the jars of brushes and pens, the skull - memento mori -  atop the carved wooden box, the bowl of nuts and pine cones, the Chinese fans and Mycenean cup. But when I studied the two paintings I did notice a significant difference: in the more recent one, there are images of people. I had moved both the Persian painting and the postcard of "mourning Athena" (a relief carving I love from the Acroplis Museum in Athens) onto my desk fairly recently, and I think it's because I wanted to see images of humans. All right, Athena is a goddess, but she is always portrayed as a woman, and the mood and attitude of this carving seem particularly appropriate these days. And the Persian painting of lovers, with its delicious colors of blue and lavender, salmon and pink, its soft pillows and patterned fabrics, reminds me of love and languor and gardens outside the window, in suspended, storybook time.

I wasn't comparing the two to ask myself if I've made "progress" in an artistic or technical sense. Actually I think the bottom one, the earlier painting, is probably "better". But I don't keep a sketchbook and do paintings solely to try to move ahead that way, or judge myself. It's also to keep a visual diary, which often ends up telling me things I hadn't realized. The newer painting says that I was missing people, and wanted them near me. Thankfully, this fall and early winter we've shared some indoor dinners, and it's been a real happiness to be together that way again. At the same time, there are friends and family members I haven't seen for two years, and that's genuinely painful; there are others who have left us who I'll never see again.

We need, I think, to be less concerned with progress, and more with allowing ourselves space and time to grieve, to accept change, and to start to think about what's next for us only if, and when, we feel ready to do that. In the meantime, in the present moment, let's look around ourselves and see what's there.

Still life with Snail and Mycenean Cup, watercolor and ink, July 2020

Drawing my way through a rough week

Bone. Pencil drawing, August 19, 2021.

For any of us who care about other parts of the world and the people who inhabit them, it's been a difficult and emotional week. I'm not going to get into any of it here. Suffice it to say that this blog wouldn't have been named what it was, back in 2003, if I hadn't foreseen much of the tragedy that would unfold as a result of American foreign policies -- though I fervently wish I'd been wrong.

Obviously we need to continue to do whatever we can to alleviate suffering and work for justice and for positive change, while caring for those closest to us as well. Our primary responsibility is to remember to take care of ourselves so that we have a chance of being able to help others. What does that mean for you? Have you ever thought about it in depth, and written it down?

The monastery garden at San Giovanni degli Eremiti, in Palermo, Sicily. August 18, 2021.

Many monastic orders follow a rule of life that not only gives structure to the day, but helps the mind find the stillness at the heart of everything. I've always been interested in this, and read a good deal about it. While I don't feel called to that degree of commitment or structure, I know from long experience that without paying attention to a personal set of basic practices, my anxiety goes up, I'm unable to concentrate or get things done, and I'm likely to experience feelings of helplessness and depression. I'm also a whole lot less pleasant to be around: cross, frustrated, impatient, and apt to blame those feelings on others. On the most basic level, I want to be a loving partner and daughter, and to keep in touch with family and friends to the extent I feel able. Now, with not only the world situation but the prospect of yet-another pandemic-restricted fall and winter, it's clear that self-care needs to be intentional.

A street corner in St-Lambert, Quebec. Fountain pen; roughly sketched on location and finished with watercolor later. August 16, 2021.

What this means for me (in no particular order) is maintaining a daily practice of drawing and/or music, so that I don't forget who I am, even if it's just fifteen minutes. It means taking care of some plants and flowers, and petting the cat: remembering that there's a lot of life that isn't human. Food is part of that category: paying attention to ingredients, and cooking meals that have some love and care put into them. Taking some time each day to read a good book, and to learn something new: for the past 18 months that's meant daily language-practice for me.  Making the bed, taking some care with my appearance, picking up the house, keeping things in relatively decent order. Getting some exercise, and trying to get enough sleep. And, both first and last each day, feeling gratitude and making a point of remembering specific things that I'm grateful for. I wish I could maintain a meditation practice but it doesn't seem to be in the cards for me right now: basic mindfulness, gratitude, and the contemplative practice of drawing, and following my breath during lulls in the day or wakeful periods in the night, seem to fill that niche.

Plants on the terrace. August 15, 2021.

Do I succeed at all of that every day? Of course not. But having a basic, thought-out framework seems really helpful in trying to keep some order, sanity and calmness in my life -- and when I forget, which of course I do, it's there to go back to.

Begonia. Pencil. August 14, 2021.

For instance, I hadn't been drawing every single day, but this week gave me a wake-up call to try to get back to it. There you have it: we can always begin again.

 

 

Gathering the Summer Fruits

Edge of a cornfield, central New York.

It hasn't been a normal summer for any of us, but it's been a whole lot better than last year, and for that I'm grateful. Vaccination proofs and passports in hand, we crossed the Canadian -U.S. border in July, for the first time in 18 months, to visit my father. My sister-in-law also drove over from Massachusetts to see us for two days, which was a special and unexpected pleasure. Dad and I were so happy to see each other again, and even though he's having trouble with his legs and back -- very difficult for someone who was always so athletic -- he's still doing remarkably well for his age. I wish I could say the same for the United States. I was shocked to see and hear the polarization expressed so vehemently, and often crudely, on lawn signs and in conversation even in the small rural towns we visited. The vaccination levels are nowhere near what they are in Canada, (but far better than the U.S. South) and with Delta the cases are rising fast, but people were acting as if the pandemic were over. It was, to say the least, pretty disturbing to witness what seem to be two distinct realities between our countries. Nevertheless, finally being able to see family and friends in person, both there and here at home, has made a big difference in my emotional equilibrium.

A corner of G.'s garden.

Last week we went out to the Eastern Townships to visit our friend G., which is usually an annual pilgrimage, but one that we missed last year. We enjoyed his gorgeous perennial garden, in the last flush of summer bloom, and shared a memorable meal of fresh sweet corn, tomato and basil salad, duck confit, and blueberries. While there, the three of us picked the black currants that the squirrels and deer had left on G.'s bush, and later that weekend I managed to eek out four jars of intense, deep purple jam, to be shared with G.

Picking black currants, photo by J. - my new favorite photograph of myself.

A few days after that we hosted a tiny candlelit terrace dinner party for our friend V., with just four of us; Julia Child's butter spongecake (French Cooking Vol 1) was the hit of that evening, filled with mascarpone cream and sliced Ontario nectarines and topped with whipped cream and more nectarines and raspberries.

Our terrace garden is mostly flowers and leafy plants, heavy on the begonias, but it's also yielded a bumper crop of grape tomatoes and non-stop herbs, of which I've especially enjoyed the Thai basil and regular Genovese basil and its small-leaved Greek cousin.

Of course some of these summer scenes and bounty have made their way into my artwork. I spent several hours one afternoon sketching the hemlock trees on my father's front lawn, above the lake:

And on the non-edible side of things, yesterday I did a painting of a branch of monkshood, Aconitum, from G.'s garden, and found myself struggling to find the patience to do that sort of detailed botanical painting after a long hiatus.

But I'd wanted to capture its fantastic shape - those dark blossoms that are so evocative of the monk's hoods for which they're named, and because it feels somewhat connected to G. himself, who lives an intentionally contemplative life. Monkshood has quite a history. The botanical genus name Aconitum (there are 250 species) is most likely from the Greek word for "dart," because it was used in antiquity and throughout history as a poison on arrow-tips for hunts and in battle. A couple of grisly anecdotes: in 1524, Pope Clement VII decided to test an antidote for this plant -- also known as the "Queen of Poisons" -- by deliberately giving aconite-tainted marzipan to two prisoners; the one who received the antidote lived but the other died horribly. And in 2020, the president of Kyrgyzstan touted aconite root as a treatment for COVID; four people were hospitalized before his suggestion was debunked.

So in the middle of the summer harvest, it felt rather exotic to learn all of that about a common plant of northern gardens -- in fact, there's quite a bit of it in one of the city's gardens in a park near my home.

I think the limitations of the pandemic have created greater pleasure in these small things; I find myself paying closer attention, and appreciating the first ear of corn, the succulent strawberries, the succession of bloom and the phases of the moon. I dreamt the other night that I had awakened at my father's house at the lake, and looked up through the bedroom window to see the sky glittering more brilliantly than I'd ever seen it, with millions of stars.

People here are still being very prudent, and not gathering in large groups; masks are required indoors, and everyone is bracing for the fall as cases due to the variants begin to rise, even though 84% of the population has had at least one dose, and over 70% have had two. As elsewhere, almost all the hospitalized people are unvaccinated, but there are breakthrough infections and we can all transmit the virus. Please get your shots and be careful, wherever you are.

Olive Trees at Epidaurus

When I began this pastel a month ago, I was thinking with longing about the silvery olive trees in Greece, billowing in the wind off the sea and the mountain tops. That was before the wildfires began that are now raging across the mainland and the Peloponnese, bringing enormous destruction, suffering and loss. Today I look at this picture with different eyes, and have been thinking of the legend of Prometheus, the Titan who stole fire from the Olympian gods and gave it to humans -- for that deed he was glorified by humans, but punished by Zeus, who chained him to a rock where an eagle continually preyed upon his liver, until Hercules freed him many centuries later. But it has taken three millennia for us to begin to understand the deeper meaning behind that myth, and why the gods might not have wanted man to have fire, and to start to recognize the results and the price of our selfish neglect of the earth and all its gifts.

--

This particular olive tree grows at the top of a hill in Epidaurus, site of perhaps the most perfect ancient Greek theater, and of the shrine of Asclepias: a sacred place of pilgrimage and healing for the ancient Greeks. I had climbed up all the steps of the theater to the very top, and then looked out over the back in the opposite direction, where there was a farmer's road and a grove of olive trees, whose leaves made rustling music in the wind.

In the pastel, I tried to capture that sense of restless, continual movement against the stony ochre-tinged earth and the tall mountains in the distance: the time I spent contemplating that scene remains a memory just as vivid as that of the theater and the surrounding shrine. Here is an early stage of the picture, after the first few hours of work:

and another, after a second session:

In the end, it took quite a bit of time to figure out where I wanted to go with this, and how to create a feeling of density as well as movement, where light played with obscurity and shadow. The colors changed too, with the hills and sky becoming a much brighter, clearer blue to complement the reddish earth under the trees.

Because pastel occupies a sort of middle-ground between drawing and brush-painting, it lends itself to expressive drawn strokes as well as rich color and texture that can be built up through layer upon layer. In this case it seemed to suit the way the olive tree grows -- all those tiny leaves that actually create a dense, thick mass of foliage that's dark on the inside, close to the trunk, and shimmery on the outer edges where individual leaves catch the light. As I worked, I had the sense of building something solid out of evanescent powder and pigment, some of which comes originally from the earth -- which is the strangeness of this particular medium.

Like so much of nature, the olive tree is an enigmatic combination of strength and delicacy, and yet it cannot withstand fire. In Greece, much of the land is covered with trees, and an unimaginable number of those trees are olives -- so surely they are burning.

The Greek poet George Sefaris wrote a poem called "Fires of St John." The title refers to the Christian practice, begun in Medieval times, of lighting fires on the eve of the feast of St. John the Baptist, who was described in the Gospel of John as "a burning and a shining light". His feast day is June 24, so it coincided loosely and conveniently with the Summer Solstice, when pagan elements like fire and light and water were already celebrated. The tradition of lighting fires on the eve of St John's feast spread throughout Christendom, and in rural mountainous regions, fires were often lit in a succession along mountain tops. In Sefaris' childhood village in Asia Minor, it was traditional for children to light small fires in the streets and jump over them for good luck. The poem also mentions Herostratus, a Greek arsonist in the 4th century BC who set fire to the Temple of Artemis in order to gain immortal notoriety for himself - a reason he confessed under torture. After his execution, it was forbidden for his name to be mentioned ever again, but instead, it's become synonymous with a person who commits a crime in order to become famous.

Here's the second half of Sefaris' poem:

It is the children who light the fires and cry out before the

    flames in the hot night (Was there ever a fire that some

    child did not light, O Herostratus)

and throw salt on the flames to make them crackle (How

    strangely the houses - crucibles for men - suddenly stare

    at us when the flame's reflection caresses them).

 

But you who knew the stone's grace on the sea-whipped rock

the evening when stillness fell

heard from far off the human voice of loneliness and silence

inside your body

that night of St John

when all the fires went out

and you studied the ashes under the stars.