I had never been to the Seattle art Museum, so when I was greeted by the pungent smell of paint and the vivid flashing of six precariously suspended cars, I was in awe. I had stopped in the first gallery that caught my eye, in which an intricate porcelain figure pointed a quizzical finger toward her deity in the sky. Marveling, I dreamily walked around the large room where a knight’s suit, effigy of a mouse, and black canvas greeted my curious eyes. Eager for more, I walked down a ubiquitously lighted hall where paintings of all genres hung to the neighboring walls, including an eccentric canvas of a moose on a pink background, and a beautiful piece in which the creator incorporated a 2d painting with a 3d ladder.
As I walked further on, my interest increasing exponentially, I got to the George De Forest Brush exhibit. The first painting I saw was of Dr. Silvester Gardiner in 1772. The immense detail to value and composition blew my mind away, and the mood and character of the man was caught perfectly in that space and time. I had almost felt like I was in the room with Gardiner as he stared back at me rather mockingly. I walked to the opposite partition to an oil on canvas of the Puget Sound. The climate and geography of the painting reminded me of Whidbey Island, allowing me to make a connection to the stunning piece. There was many more Oil on Canvas paintings, the main attraction being the life and ritual of Native American Indians. The Indian paintings gave me an inconceivable feeling that I was one of them, walking around in their moccasins to tend to hunting, cooking, or telling ancient legends by a scorching fire. There was one canvas painting called “The Weaver” 1889, in which a dedicated Indian weaved in the confined space of a diminutive hut. The detail was amazing, including the change of value and color while combining all the elements. The painting itself was an unfathomable sight laid out before me, a whole attitude and world caught within the tiny limits of a brittle wooden frame. It looked like someone had walked into the hut of one of these pious humans, and out of amazement and appeal, took a photo. Although all of these pieces lured me to ponder their nature, one I was particularly drawn to the most was The Moose Chase, 1888 by George Brush.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
My Name Is Caspian
I pounded a hoof angrily upon the dirt path, temptation and anxiety hanging above me like an ominous cloud. As I was weighing my options and getting a broader view on the situation, a tall square faced man walked down the path from behind me, a slight skip in his step. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and his eyes were dreamily staring at the road. The way he walked reminded me of a fishers bob, and I realized that for such a hefty man he had quite a graceful walk. I turned around to face him, curiosity now replacing my other emotions. No one ever traveled this road, not when I had been here.
When he saw my large shadow he abruptly stopped in mid step and looked up at my looming figure. He stumbled backward, quickly regaining his equilibrium. Maybe it was the way I was intently eyeing him, or my kind face, but he immediately knew that I meant no harm. A smile slowly spread across his lips, blue eyes glistening in the dim light. Even though I didn’t fully understand human, I managed to make out a few of his words.
“What’s a nice roan like you doing out in these parts?”the man said. He extended a long hairy arm in my direction, and my natural instincts were to shy away but something prevented me from doing so. As his callused hand touched my thin coat, I outstretched my neck and curled my upper lip. This man smelled different. Before he could stroke my neck, a rustle was heard nearby. I startled, but when I heard the familiar sound of a faint gasping, I knew it was just The Runt.
The Runt (so I called him) was a small feeble man, and a man I could hardly call him. He was weak, frail, and had the tendency to squeal at small things such as a wolf howling to the moon or the eerie screech of an owl. He had a small tuft of grey hair jutting out of his narrow scalp, and sagging jowls that hung like a caterpillars nest in spring. His eyes reminded me of the ocean on a cloudy and stormy day, cold and unforgiving. His ways were so unlike mine, barbaric and mean. He destroyed almost anything that didn’t have a purpose, and knowing no other humans besides him, I thought it was normal of their kind…until today.
“Who a Yeou?” he said to the large man, warily inspecting him from head to toe. Brambles stuck out from underneath The Runts permeable overcoat, and willow twigs managed to find their way into the bottom of his trousers. When the man didn’t answer he asked again, and louder.
“I am Bartlebee, and this must be your horse?” He gestured toward me with a nod of his head. I was starting to understand their body communication, and made the conclusion that he was talking about me. The Runt looked at his hands, than back at the man.
“Aye, so?” The man looked confused at these words.
“Do you ride him?”
“What else would eye do with em?”
“Do you travel much on him?” Now The Runt was annoyed, and pointed a stubby finger at the man.
“What’s yeou proddin me foa? He’s moine, na tend ter ya own business.” The man smiled apologetically, and made one more glance my way before returning to his graceful, bobbing walk down the small path. The Runt stared him down until he was out of sight, and then turned to me with his eyes full of hatred. I remembered the kind eyes and smile of the male human, and compared it to The Runts malicious glare and menacing scowl. My decision had been made, I was to leave. Making haste, I barred my teeth at the man and broke off into a gallop, down the path the man was heading. It felt good to finally feel the wind on my face and see the blur of the world around me, to feel my hoofs lift off the ground and return again, only to repeat the process. I reached the man slightly after the small bend; he looked not a bit surprised to see me. Without a word, we ran together until the path ended and there was only a small trail, which we continued on until we broke into the steady waves of the hills. Here we rested until the sun began to set, than continued at a hurried walk. The whole time we could hear the cracked screaming of The Runt through the trees.
When he saw my large shadow he abruptly stopped in mid step and looked up at my looming figure. He stumbled backward, quickly regaining his equilibrium. Maybe it was the way I was intently eyeing him, or my kind face, but he immediately knew that I meant no harm. A smile slowly spread across his lips, blue eyes glistening in the dim light. Even though I didn’t fully understand human, I managed to make out a few of his words.
“What’s a nice roan like you doing out in these parts?”the man said. He extended a long hairy arm in my direction, and my natural instincts were to shy away but something prevented me from doing so. As his callused hand touched my thin coat, I outstretched my neck and curled my upper lip. This man smelled different. Before he could stroke my neck, a rustle was heard nearby. I startled, but when I heard the familiar sound of a faint gasping, I knew it was just The Runt.
The Runt (so I called him) was a small feeble man, and a man I could hardly call him. He was weak, frail, and had the tendency to squeal at small things such as a wolf howling to the moon or the eerie screech of an owl. He had a small tuft of grey hair jutting out of his narrow scalp, and sagging jowls that hung like a caterpillars nest in spring. His eyes reminded me of the ocean on a cloudy and stormy day, cold and unforgiving. His ways were so unlike mine, barbaric and mean. He destroyed almost anything that didn’t have a purpose, and knowing no other humans besides him, I thought it was normal of their kind…until today.
“Who a Yeou?” he said to the large man, warily inspecting him from head to toe. Brambles stuck out from underneath The Runts permeable overcoat, and willow twigs managed to find their way into the bottom of his trousers. When the man didn’t answer he asked again, and louder.
“I am Bartlebee, and this must be your horse?” He gestured toward me with a nod of his head. I was starting to understand their body communication, and made the conclusion that he was talking about me. The Runt looked at his hands, than back at the man.
“Aye, so?” The man looked confused at these words.
“Do you ride him?”
“What else would eye do with em?”
“Do you travel much on him?” Now The Runt was annoyed, and pointed a stubby finger at the man.
“What’s yeou proddin me foa? He’s moine, na tend ter ya own business.” The man smiled apologetically, and made one more glance my way before returning to his graceful, bobbing walk down the small path. The Runt stared him down until he was out of sight, and then turned to me with his eyes full of hatred. I remembered the kind eyes and smile of the male human, and compared it to The Runts malicious glare and menacing scowl. My decision had been made, I was to leave. Making haste, I barred my teeth at the man and broke off into a gallop, down the path the man was heading. It felt good to finally feel the wind on my face and see the blur of the world around me, to feel my hoofs lift off the ground and return again, only to repeat the process. I reached the man slightly after the small bend; he looked not a bit surprised to see me. Without a word, we ran together until the path ended and there was only a small trail, which we continued on until we broke into the steady waves of the hills. Here we rested until the sun began to set, than continued at a hurried walk. The whole time we could hear the cracked screaming of The Runt through the trees.
Monday, April 13, 2009
A Stunning Incident
"Brother, alas, what have you done to my azealas!" Shouted the distraught wizard who stood over a large broken pot. In his hand lay a ripped pink petal speckled with small purple spots, traces of brown whittling away at the flowers smooth surface.
"Solomon...I didnt mean too it wa-"
"NO! No no no no Merlin, no no." Solomon was now on his knees, his arms above his head, banging on an invisible door, his long grey hair and beard hanging to the ground.
"My precious flowers," Solomon sobbed, tears slowly forming miniscule puddles onto his lap. "All my hard work...GONE i tell you, GONE!"
Merlin did not know what to make of this wretched tantrum Solomon was brewing, for wasnt it just a pot of flowers? Couldnt he plant more?
"Brother, forgive such a shrivled soul as mine! An old wizard fool like me happens to trip some, no? You can just make some more with a simple spell or brew."
Solomon looked up at his brother from behind his shaking shouldiers, his eyes as red as the tip of his worn hat. His lower lip was trembling uncontrollably, along with his hands which were still clutching his cloak so hard that the tips of his aged knuckles were white.
"Spell? Brew? A POTION! I THINK NOT!" In a rage the belligerent wizard swiftly smacked his brother on the cheek with a loud SLAP, and hastily fled from the room, realizing the wrong he had done. Merlin stood in a daze, his cheek stinging like he had been stung by a hundred bees, the sound of his brothers hand on his cheek resonating throughout the corners of his mind like a musical triangle.
Merlin was more Stunned than mad. This unuaual behavior was not like his brother, He had never really cared about flowers, pots, nor plants come to think of it. Merlin had made up his mind that something was wrong with Solomon, something was not right.
***To be Continued***
"Solomon...I didnt mean too it wa-"
"NO! No no no no Merlin, no no." Solomon was now on his knees, his arms above his head, banging on an invisible door, his long grey hair and beard hanging to the ground.
"My precious flowers," Solomon sobbed, tears slowly forming miniscule puddles onto his lap. "All my hard work...GONE i tell you, GONE!"
Merlin did not know what to make of this wretched tantrum Solomon was brewing, for wasnt it just a pot of flowers? Couldnt he plant more?
"Brother, forgive such a shrivled soul as mine! An old wizard fool like me happens to trip some, no? You can just make some more with a simple spell or brew."
Solomon looked up at his brother from behind his shaking shouldiers, his eyes as red as the tip of his worn hat. His lower lip was trembling uncontrollably, along with his hands which were still clutching his cloak so hard that the tips of his aged knuckles were white.
"Spell? Brew? A POTION! I THINK NOT!" In a rage the belligerent wizard swiftly smacked his brother on the cheek with a loud SLAP, and hastily fled from the room, realizing the wrong he had done. Merlin stood in a daze, his cheek stinging like he had been stung by a hundred bees, the sound of his brothers hand on his cheek resonating throughout the corners of his mind like a musical triangle.
Merlin was more Stunned than mad. This unuaual behavior was not like his brother, He had never really cared about flowers, pots, nor plants come to think of it. Merlin had made up his mind that something was wrong with Solomon, something was not right.
***To be Continued***
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Jones Soda
Hey everyone, check out some of my awesome pictures on Jonessoda.com! just go to photo gallery and type in sidneigh. Vote for some of my pictures!
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