Catching up a bit here. I’ve been back in the UK for three days now but I think that my spirit is still brooding over the Atlantic somewhere.
This house portrait was the last piece of art I made in Austin:
I lived in this house for the last five years. Latterly it became more of a family home with tenants but there was a time when it housed many artists and friends, sometimes many at once.
In those times we told stories in the attic, made art in the bedrooms, played music in the yard, pondered on the porch and perfected crafts in the dining room. We raised children, made children, smoked pipes, built walls and learned to deal with “critters” of all kinds. We gardened and cleaned and cooked and hosted. We soared some and fell some but gosh-darn-it we tried. And tried — and that’s a glorious thing in itself. We held on through dark nights, dart nights and cheered one another through celebratory, shining glimpses of our best selves. It was a full and fun season that accomplished all of the boosting, bearing-with, brightness and boldness that only community life can.
That season ended a couple of years ago now and the house became much quieter. And in the solitary nights of deep heat, deafening crickets and sleeping children, I cut and I cut and I cut. I paper-cut my way into English forests and autumn nights. I cut a path; it’s a mystery, even to me but it’s true nonetheless.
My love runs deep. It was here that I was believed-in and given room and encouragement enough to find my feet, my way.
I leave her with pockets full of seeds and fruit that will perfume the rest of my life I’m sure. And the lives of others too, I hope.