Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Provincetown 44

Letter #12

I spent all day and all night on this one. I just finished it a few minutes ago. It is based on a letter I recently received from Allen about cutting down a mulberry tree in our yard. I thought the letter was so tender and affecting that I just had to work with it. It took me longer to do this one because I usually start out with images, not text. It was harder for me to have the text first. I tried several different arrangements until I came up with this one.

All of the collages I have done at Provincetown are done inside a Stonehenge Book of all cotton acid free pH neutral pages. The book is double wire bound. I have also been doing pen and ink pieces (mostly text) on the back of each page. I consider what I'm doing to be journaling more than anything else.

I don't expect you to be able to read the text in the collage (I took words directly out of the letter he wrote to me), so here's what it says:

Letter 12

I cut down that low hanging mulberry tree, the one that fought so hard to make it through the winter. It fell to the pace of one's last breath. Two baby birds fell out of their nest and three little brown bats hung onto tender limbs smaller than a toothpick. That evening as a pink sky was fading to purple, I checked & the bats were gone and the ants feasted on baby birds. There is a lot of life and death in a single mulberry tree.

1 comment:

ggw07 said...

Thanks so much for sharing this. Allen is a talented writer too!




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Northwest Ohio, United States
"I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me. . . Take the soft dust in your hand--does it stir: does it sing? Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun? Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?. . ." --Conrad Aiken


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The Secret of Hurricanes : That article in the Waterville Scout said it was Shake- spearean, all that fatalism that guides the Kennedys' lives. The likelihood of untimely death. Recently, another one died in his prime, John-John in an airplane. Not long before that, Bobby's boy. While playing football at high speeds on snow skis. Those Kennedys take some crazy chances. I prefer my own easy ways. Which isn't to say my life hasn't been Shake-spearean. By the time I was sixteen, my life was like the darkened stage at the end of Hamlet or Macbeth. All littered with corpses and treachery.

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