Artist's Almanac: June 2008

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And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
    And over it softly her warm ear lays.
 

- James Russell Lowell
 

We can all agree on this: it is the most perfect spring anyone can remember. With an uninterrupted succession of gorgeous bloom and no late frosts, summer may yet fulfill spring’s exuberant promise.

The peonies droop their drowsy fragrance and the roses rival the gardens of England while the mockingbird, from his jaunty perch on the peak of the roof, trills his endless variety of song. Suddenly it changes to his chipping war cry and growl as he sights the cat stalking across the lawn in search of a young nestling. He practices a swoop, claws extended, as the cat dares him, just once, to come too close. I would hate to choose between my cat and my beloved mockingbird, which sings to me all hours and will sacrifice his life in defense of his young.
 

Betty Boop	Queen Elizabeth
Midas	English Garden

Even when most beautiful, nature is stalked by death and darkness. Every artist knows this, and finds light in his paintings only by contrasting it to the darkest dark. And there is nothing blacker than a black crow, the avian type of original sin.

This morning I was awakened by a commotion of crows. So was my wife, and by the time I dressed to investigate, she was at the front door, clapping, to scare them away. What sounded like a hundred was no more than a half-dozen, which flew away flinging curses over their shoulders at her.

Nothing curses like a crow. They themselves are a curse to American farmers, whose freshly planted corn and tenders shoots are their favorite foods. The pioneers, depending on corn for their survival, placed bounties on their scalps. They are enemies of all created things and who of us has not seen some small bird chasing vainly after a crow with an egg in his beak? Even artists and poets, like Poe in The Raven and Shakespeare in Othello, shunned them as ominous. Beethoven used bird song in his Pastoral Symphony and Vaughn Williams celebrated The Lark Ascending, but no composer ever dedicated music to a raven or a crow.

I have never even photographed, much less painted, a crow, but I have hunted them since a boy. Audubon, who, for the sake of completeness, had to include a crow and a raven in his catalogue of American birds, pictured the crow with a sickly shine and the raven with unkempt feathers, thrusting his body forward to amplify his ugly croak, like some dirty old man. I had rather eat crow than paint one.

Crows are very intelligent birds. Hunters will tell you that they can count them entering and leaving blinds, know whether they are carrying guns, post lookouts, celebrate mourning rituals, and that they have an elaborate language of calls. The expert hunter knows their calls of warning, mourning, cursing, harassing and ‘come quickly’. The best of these I’ve ever heard was perfected by a boyhood friend who used only his voice, pitched from the back of his throat through cupped hands. In moments he could put them thick over our heads one time only for only one shot.

Later this morning they were back again in the thick cedars across the street where they had a hawk or sleepy owl cornered. Like Senators grilling an energy executive they cursed and cawed as I practiced my rusty skills and crept with loaded shotgun toward them. The black creatures were in the blackest of trees, a thick cedar, and I had to cross the street to get a better vantage.

That did it. Using their diving escape flight they slid silently through the tight limbs, followed by a large bird I took to be an owl or hawk. They trailed him a mile away where they continued their cursing, which now included me.

When I returned to the quiet patio the mockingbird reiterated his love for his mate in the grove across the way, as the rooster up the hill triumphantly announced yet another day. The privet extended its blooming reach across another two feet of the pasture and from the river below the thrum of the barge tow headed upriver with a load of coal assured me all would be well and we would have electricity, lights, and air conditioning to get us through another hot summer. For now, the crows are gone and I enjoy the sounds, light, feel, taste and fragrances of early summer.

Events

• Art In The Garden - A Garden Party to Benefit Cragfont – Castalian Springs, Tennessee, 5-8 PM, June 14th 2008, see below
   

• Fall Into Art – Hendersonville High School, October 3-5

    
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