Weather Diary - Day 8 (Monday March 27 2006 Sun 59F)

'On Simplicity'

It is a glorious Monday morning, and I am pumped. It is as if I am enrolled in a course of study, a course of study of all the things I love.
Art-wise that is.

Yes, here I am in this day, on Ocracoke Island, in the midst of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage, ready to begin the day. A day which follows a routine, a rhythm spurred by my proximity to the sea, influenced by the ebb and flow of the tides.

Tea. Spiritual Reading. Walk. Coffee Shop. Three Hours of Art.  Lunch. Short Walk. Read. Nap. Two Hours of Art. Evening Art Prep. Long Long Walk and Sea Study.  Supper Prep. Beer.   Supper.  Evening Art.  Kick Back.  Bed.

Perhaps it is the fact that I am away from life's usual distractions, but it actually seems manageable to be able to immerse myself in my work. All of the wheels are turning in order to give me the space and time to do this.
In a moment of anxiety, of feeling the pressure to produce some decent work, (in the days before I arrive here), I spend time accumulating and listing all of my art ideas, starting points, exercises, visual material, to ensure that I don't find myself with nothing to do.  But those fears are unfounded. I have so much to work from in this place, that I will draw from it for years.
I am (finally) in the midst of practising my art.

And all wrapped up in the idea of practise, is the concept of order. Not being the most organized person, order at least gives a wayward daydreamer a pattern to follow. And the notion of order reminds me of the monastic life of which I have a deep interest, a life of routine and spiritual study and simplicity.

I read an article on abstract expressionist Agnes Martin. I can't get enough of her work, her life, her imagery. Imagery which is simplicity writ large, (if that's not a contradiction in terms), composed of soft graphite lines, grids, and subtle colour fields. Simplicity, order, pattern, organization of space. Minimalism.
I am drinking in the systematic patterns of Agnes Martin. I see washes and delicate lines which come from within her, from a place not of intellectual analysis or study, but from deep within. These works are personal, spiritual, simple and spare. They are intuitive. Peace and joy.

I  am seeking this simplicity.

Regular daily life - so often fraught with complication, desire, abundance, selfishness. While I'm here in this place, I vow to follow a simpler way, perhaps easier here as I am on my own and immersed in my work. But I want to carry it home with me, for the simplicity to stay in me, and for the work I do to come from this place deep within.

Chester and I head for the sea after a day filled (for once) with satisfying work and few breaks. He is bounding ahead, up and away along the boardwalk toward our first glimpse this day of the sea. We are rewarded by  jewel-toned blues and turquoises glinting with golden end-of-day light. Regular gentle waves, a reminder of rhythm and simplicity.
As I take in the whole wide-open scene, I see the sea, both delicate and vigorous, and  think of Agnes Martin, her work, my own work, and the place deep within.

Weather Diary - Day 7 (Sunday March 26 2006 Sunny 56F)

'On Childhood'

Sunday Service - 11 A.M.

So reads the sign in front of the
Ocracoke United Methodist Church.
As I am on a spiritual journey as well as an art pilgrimage, and as I need all of the influences I can get on the subject of spirituality, and as I am eager for social contact as well as inspiration, I go.
I am slightly apprehensive, knowing very little about the NC church-going experience. I wonder if my assumption that it is similar to ours is merely wishful thinking.
But it is lovely. Quite a large congregation (comparatively speaking), lady minister, (good speaker), lots of singing, (slightly different slant on the hymns, some of which I know), a few smiles and welcomes directed at me.
And children. It is almost always more interesting for me when there are children present. Some are sitting very quietly between parents. Some participate in the music. Others are running around outside.
I spend a fair bit of the service just taking it all in, especially the southern-style wooden church itself, which puts me in mind of another church on the other side of the world, and as this completely occupies my thoughts, I daydream.

I am four, and the youngest of four siblings. My ambitious parents take us from Toronto, Ontario to Auckland, New Zealand, where we live for sixteen months. We travel by ship - I am impressed enough by these events to carry them with me through life. But it is the sense of smell which is strongest, and this I can conjure up at any time. The ropey tar-like salty smell on deck, the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked dinner rolls in the dining room, the wafts of tropical flowers, frangipani, as we watch little islands pass in the south Pacific, the smell of paper and rubber and children in the playroom, the wood and linen and soap smell in the dim light of a sleepy cabin.
We arrive.
I begin school in Auckland, on my fifth birthday, cementing the place in my memory forever.  I tie my own tie (school uniform), begin to read, learn to play 'knucklebones', and foster a lifelong love of hot-meat-pies. (Oh, and of course, lamb.)
As a family, we sail our little boat in the bay, swim, picnic, hike. We attend church in a small plain wooden building, where I gaze longingly at the bare feet of local children, (as we are forced into proper shoes). Our home has no phone or television, but with an enormous garden, quiet street and lots of children to play with, here we run barefoot. When I am told that we are moving back to Canada, I cry.
I am heartbroken. After all, sixteen months is a big chunk of life when you are five. (And no one gives me a straight answer about the likelihood of finding a hot-meat-pie stand in Canada).
My parents, for the rest of their lives, remember it as an amazing adventure, but I think of their hopes for a less materialistic life and equal society, and wonder if disappointment has a role. We settle easily back into Canadian life,  and within a couple of years, our much loved baby brother is born.
What remains of that sixteen months?  A tiny bright flicker within me.

I am back in the little wooden Ocracoke church.
'Shall We Gather at the River?' and it is over. I make my way home to Chester, past the reds and pinks of the azaleas, past the one and only Ocracoke School, ('Home of the Dolphins'), the playground, the outdoor basketball court, the coffee shop, all singing and ringing with the high birdlike chirp of children. I am welcomed by Chester, (as if I'd left him for a month), and we head for the sea, the beach, and more of childhood, on this soft and sunny and memory-laden day.

Weather Diary - Day 6 (Saturday March 25 2006 Partly cloudy 54F)

On Colour

Vermilion. NaplesYellow. Pale Turquoise.WarmWhite. Olive Brown.
Five of the oil pastels nestled in my toolbox, just for days like this. When the light is so sensuous, so tangible, that getting it all down is my only consideration.
I remove just these colours - Olive Brown (earthy, elemental), Warm White (soft, clean), Pale Turquoise (bright, fresh), Naples Yellow (sunny, creamy), and my fire, my soul, Vermilion (so rich, red, blood-like, that it is practically a living thing) - and spend the day with them, and a 14" x 17" pad of 110 lb. acid free white paper, 100% recycled.

Some hours later, on a dog-walk around and about the village, (a dog- walk strictly due to necessity), I manage to reconnect with old friends. They are the owners of the hotel where we have stayed at times in years past. ( Doug and I, that is, not Chester, it being a 'no pets' establishment.) They are a lovely couple, originally from inland NC, and now on this island and in the business of running a hotel with their son and daughter-in-law. We exchange phone numbers, and they tell me not to hesitate to call on them in an emergency, or if I get myself in a 'tight'. She and I chat for some time. She's interested in the art I'm working on, and mentions that, sometime, she would love to have some watercolour paintings done of their place. The hotel accommodation is made up of several charming older buildings. I am both keen and willing to give it a shot.
 I have (luckily) brought with me a beautiful little travel box of watercolour paints, (as I felt they may come in handy at some point), and an 8" x 10" block with 15 sheets of good quality hot press watercolour paper. She tells me that she will find  some photos for me to work from, and we make a plan to have tea at my place.

Well.  I have arrived.  Now, I'm (almost) a 'local'.
I have friends (plural).  I have a project.  I have social plans.  I am ecstatic.  I'm not sure I qualify as a hermit anymore.

It is this course of events which leads to the opening of the little travel box of watercolour paints.

And, oh, the colours.

I realize that, with a range of (some 50) colours, I can capture every subtle shade and nuance of this glittering light-filled place. It is like opening a box of chocolates.
I pore over the wooden box with its slatted dividers, each tiny compartment holding a half-pan, a little square of paint. But, the names intrigue me as much as the colours themselves. The colour names are a whole different language, a painter's language, a language with a deep, long history:

bismuth, gamboge, cobalt,
antwerp blue, potter's pink, alizarin crimson,
indigo, sepia, ochre,
burnt sienna, terre verte, caput mortuum

And so begins my love affair with watercolour - incorporated into the mix, into my daily rhythm.

Weather Diary - Day 5 (Friday March 24 2006 Light Rain 50F)

On Process

Happily, five days into my pilgrimage, I fall into something of a routine, (a routine I imagine to be the influence of the tides), and with that, a satisfying rhythm. It is a routine that goes beyond the early morning spiritual reading, beyond the daily beach walk, beyond the actual art making, although these elements are part of the process in a space and time of virtual solitude.
I, in need of some regular social interaction, incorporate into the ebb and flow a daily visit to the local coffee shop. Here before 8 a.m., I pick up the day's 'Virginian-Pilot', an excellent cup of coffee, and boundless attention for the dog.
On this day of typical coastal North Carolina weather, of a rain so gentle it is almost mist-like, several men are gathered at the entrance, deep in conversation, and I hesitate, negotiating the least disruptive path around them. But Chester (as always) becomes the centre of things, and is petted and fed morsels of muffin and bagel, much to his joy. (This is instantly imprinted on his memory.) He gazes up into one friendly pair of eyes, tongue lolling and saying, 'I will never forget you!' And he means it.
They are teachers, construction workers, plumbers and wait-staff, I gather from the conversation. We sit in the shelter of the porch, me with the crossword puzzle, Chester at my feet, and animated conversation all around.
This will do.
As I listen, drinking it all in (along with the coffee), I see my time on this beautiful little island being buffed like beach glass, into a smooth, rounded, satisfying shape. I am nudged softly into remembering my devotion to the concept of 'process', a concept long thought about in relation to art making.

Process. A series of stages. The course of becoming.

Because it's not really all about the 'Finished Product'. It's about becoming something, about the journey, all of the small steps as well as the grand events, all of the learning, the trials, the practise, the imperfection - all that leads up to the finished product - the successes, the happy accidents, and the hurdles.
Oh yes, the hurdles.
All part of the process too.
The struggles and missteps, the blots, scribbles, awkward areas and bad colour choices, the messes made, the impetuous decisions, the paper crumpled and thrown across the room, the canvases left to mould and rot, heaved onto a funeral pyre, the tears and frustrations. All of that too, all of the mistakes, heartache and disappointment, all of that, all of that EFFORT, somehow becomes the very fibre of the fresh clean presentable finished product, whether the finished product is an artwork, a novel, a life, or a self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage.

Heavy thinking for 8 a.m.

Chester and I amble back to our little cottage in the mist-like rain, a rain that doesn't make the world grey somehow, but soft and gentle and pastel.
This is the day I really begin to work.
Now I am ready.

Weather Diary - Day 4 (Thursday March 23 2006 Sunny and Cool 54F)

On the Wind

I am up at 5, awake due to the departing (invisible) diesel truck. It will be another two hours before Chester rouses himself, so I, instead of going back to sleep, embark on my early morning routine:

• Make cup of tea. (In the microwave. The gas stove scares me, so I ignore it, not wanting to burn down the cottage.)
• Gaze out onto the dark empty road. (No lights, no one.)
• Take cup of tea back to bed.
• Read.

I decide to use this time in a monastic way, (as in  monk-like study), and so begins my regime of spiritual reading.
It is a comfort, this routine - book, bedside lamp, steaming cup of tea, snoring dog. And a challenge, as I hear a series of unsettling gusts of wind in the slowly lightening wide world.
The wind.
In Ocracoke, trees don't grow to a great height, being buffeted around by whatever blows in off the Atlantic. This a.m., these stunted trees sound as if they are being bent double.

Spiritual reading is one step in the process for me, the process of art-making. I am hoping that some morsel of this reading will stick in me, and so influence my drawings. A tall order perhaps, but everything here seems to have an effect. Ideas seem to flow out of me in a natural and organic way, and everything that I feel seems as crystal, sharply defined. After a couple of hours, I climb out of my book. It is a day for a long leg-stretch - fresh, windy. The wide open Atlantic is beckoning to Chester (now stirring) and me. The art will wait. I am in need of colour.
It is a less than ten minute drive to the stretch of beach which calls us. Having parked, we walk along the sandy boardwalk, climbing up and away toward the shore, a definite chill in the air, but a manageable wind. It is only when we are over the dunes, the second after the sea comes into view, that it hits us. Like a slap, the wind pushes us back. I gather myself and try again, finding that by walking south, we are at least partly sheltered. (Chester, surprisingly, seems unbothered by the wind.)
The sand, normally a smooth and undulating blanket, is now pock-marked with a hard shell-like crust, and stings my bare legs as tiny pellets travel at breakneck speed across the expanse of beach.
But, the sea - I can't drag my eyes from it. A chaotic churning caldron, it has nothing in common with the rhythmic order of yesterday. I have no desire to be within twenty yards of it for fear of being grabbed and hauled into its depths.

This is a short walk.

But, mission accomplished. I do my best to etch the (ever-changing) hues in my mind, and although they are interpreted, muted, softened, in the hour before I actually begin my drawing and get them down, the flitting colours, the feel of the wind, the spirit of it all, is there.

Weather Diary - Day 3 (Wednesday March 22 2006 Sunny and Cool 46F)

On Ocracoke

I am a sucker for redheads.
The young man behind the counter of Ocracoke's hardware store is pointing out the different sizes of tiny brass nails available in 1.5 ounce boxes. He speaks in a long slow North Carolina style, but ends each sentence with an uplift, and a little grin. He asks me if I am planning on doing some repairs (grin), and I say ha-ha but no, the brass nails are for my mixed media art.
I take an instant liking to him.
This is like no other conversation (limited) I've had so far on the island. 'Red' is apparently related to the silent woman who rings in the sales in the grocery store, (the other half of this retail establishment), but she is as non-communicative as he is effusive. He clearly has an interest in people, (right now me), where I am from, why I am here, and how I am liking it. We talk about other hardware specials, ( I know where to come if I need plumbing supplies), and about the island in general, the construction going on at the harbour, the post office, and the ferry service.
He is the 'go to' guy for all things Ocracoke.
This conversation spurs me to head for the harbour, and have a look through fresh eyes, on this cool but beautiful morning.
The village of Ocracoke, (off-season population, about 900), is made up of houses, cottages, hotels, shops, restaurants, pubs, churches, museums, community centre, ferry terminal, lighthouse and boats, boats, boats. A series of narrow roads built up around a harbour, the village lies right at the south end of the island. This leaves the long narrow northern reaches of Ocracoke Island with only a two-lane highway running up it like a spine, (the highway leading to the northern ferry connection), and the wind-blown dunes and vast stretch of Atlantic-facing beach virtually free of development.
In the village, the harbour, with the routine southern ferry activity, green spaces and views onto Pamlico Sound, is a draw for Chester and me, each for our own reasons. It is a bustle of activity, (Ocracoke style), and in March, mainly of the pelican, duck, goose and gull variety.
We are at Howard Street. Off and away from the harbour in the oldest part of the village, Howard Street is paved in oyster shells and dotted with old family burial plots, and a mixture of Ocracoke homes and cottages. Shaded by ancient live oak trees, Howard Street has, even in the middle of this glorious blue and yellow day, a bit of a spooky feel.
It has a ghost story to tell.
All is sand underfoot. You may have to scrape down an inch or two with an oyster shell, but all is sand.
Ocracoke Island is essentially a sand bar. At sea level, it feels every gust of wind, every nuance in the changing weather.

Being an island, it is alone when facing a storm.

Chester and I head back to the hardware, as I remember I need a 2" paintbrush. Before I enter, I see Red grinning at me through the screened window, and feel a sense of euphoria that someone so friendly, so completely uplifting, is on this island, in this place, right now.
"Here comes trouble!", he announces to all within earshot.

Weather Diary - Day 2 (Tuesday March 21 2006 Rain and More Rain 48F)

On Loneliness

I have rented a little cottage in Ocracoke village for the duration of my stay. It has a homey (if somewhat cluttered) feel about it. The cottage sits high off the ground, up on stilts. It is as if I were living in a tree. I look out across the quiet road to an empty overgrown lot. There is one beautiful old live oak tree on this lot, which fascinates me. I'm not sure why.
No one has been seen (by  me) on this road. Chester and I have set off on several walks in both directions, but there isn't a soul about, in spite of the fact that houses are dotted all along both sides.
It is, being March, before the lively season begins. But I know people live here. I hear a diesel truck start up every morning at 5 a.m., which sounds like it's in the next room. I have walked slowly up and down this road as dusk is falling to see if I can spot a returned diesel truck anywhere, but no.
Chester and I trek through the greyness and rain to the coffee shop to make sure there hasn't been an evacuation of which we weren't informed. (There are three people there, and no urgency.)
It is my first week here, and the upcoming days of my self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage stretch out like the row of pelicans perched on the pilings in the harbour.
And not in a good way.

What do I think I can do differently here?
Why do I have to be alone to work?
Why am I here at all?

I wrap myself in my misery, but mercifully it is short-lived.
Yes, I am lonely, but so is the majestic live oak tree across the road.
I will use this loneliness to my advantage. I will put it into my work. It will be an ingredient injected into my drawings which could not materialize anywhere else but here, on this island, at this time.

Loneliness as a drawing material - a red oil pastel. Blood red, I think.

I rearrange the clutter of furniture in the cottage. I lay out the tools of my trade; graphite pencils, coloured chalks, oil pastels, rulers, erasers, sharpeners, sticks, brushes, pads of paper, masking tape, paints. I seek out a little shop which sells fishing net, and hang a stretch of this over a window. I fasten all of my clippings, words, scraps of fabric and coloured paper - my inspiration - to this fishing net. My scraps are caught in the net, fluttering in the breeze, unable to get away, caught, sacrificed, but committed to a life (or death) of being the inspiration for the work done here in the next few weeks.
They flutter.
The sight of my inspiration fluttering in concert gives me great strength.
The sight of this has consumed my loneliness. And all are fluttering. All fluttering and waiting to be cleaned, gutted and filleted.

Then cooked and eaten.