This year, the garden seems to go on and on. Here is a little tour of flowers, fruit and foliage filling the garden on November 11. Even as the leaves fall, next year’s growth appears.
More next time, after this week’s big concert.
Text and media of “Garden 11/11/11” ©2011 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved
The speed of light is the same for all observers, no matter what their relative speeds. Einstein
Tonight the air is crisp and cold and the sky is bright with winter stars and a growing half moon. Cassiopeia and the Big Dipper float over the roof of the house and Orion the Hunter is rising in the southern sky.
The “more than half” moon is bright enough to cast shadows across the dark tangle of the garden and thread between the almost leafless trees. The four seasons seem an inadequate description for the ongoing flow of changes that I notice in the garden; it morphs from moment to moment each time I step outside. As I set up my camera for a long exposure, I think of a card that a friend sent describing the thirteen moons of the native American tribes. What is this moon tonight? Harvest is over and winter will arrive soon; perhaps this is a liminal moon, a threshold between the season that has ended and the one yet to arrive.
The lyrics and melody to “Light” (See blog post Fire and Light) run through my head and keep me out in the cold night gazing up at the sky. “Gathered on the waters, reflected by the moon, even once removed, its power streams into the night. Light . . .” The piece is being premiered in ten days and I am preparing the visual media that is part of the performance. Solar flares, clouds across the moon and the water, light sifting through trees and clouds – the images and the music are inextricably intertwined and indeed, this piece was born from nights spent just like this, in the quiet of the garden filled with light.
Here is a sneak preview of part of the piece, with a MIDI soundtrack sans sung lyrics. The lyrics to the clip shown above:
Light, Light, Light. . .
Gathered on the waters,
reflected by the moon.
Even once removed, its power
streams into the night,
Light, Light, Light . . .
Words and music by Lynn Emberg Purse, ©2011, All Rights Reserved
Text and images/media of “At the Speed of Light” ©2011 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved
I stood on a hill in Dunoon, Scotland, in the middle of March many years ago. Powerful winds brought a succession of rain, sleet, snow, hail, and sunshine over and over again in the course of an hour – a microcosm of the turbulent transition from one season to another. The change of seasons this week in Western Pennsylvania was less compressed – spread over days rather than minutes – but otherwise not so different. The week began with a warm evening on the deck, listening to what surely would be the final cicada and frog chorus of the season. Gusty winds brought cold temperatures and days of rain, followed by an enchantingly beautiful misty morning immediately followed by a snowy morning, all in less than a week.
Though I’m reluctant to acknowledge the end of the gardening season and the coming of winter, I must admit that I love the turbulent changes that the seasons’ transitions bring. There is a certain security in knowing that one season will follow another, an overarching stability of structure. But the passage from one state to another is filled with chaos, unpredictability and extreme fluctuations. It is this push pull of change and stability that fascinates me, and it seems to be at the heart of my artistic endeavors as well. Achieving a balance between the familiar and the novel, the security of what has been done and the adventure of exploring new ideas, is an ongoing dynamic in my work, and perhaps in my life as well.
A video celebration of nature’s transitions in my garden, set to the music of “Falling” from “Three States of Being.”
Here’s another take on the idea of transitions as passages, courtesy of Margie Strosser.
All text and images of “Turbulent Transitions” ©2011 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved
This morning, heavy mist lay across the garden. Beautiful, mysterious, quiet . . .
All photos ©2011 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved
Please do not reblog
“. . . the report of my death was an exaggeration.” Mark Twain
It is late October and copious rainfall, mild temperatures, and a few sunny days have conspired to keep the garden green, glowing, and full of flowers. I expected the garden to be withered with frost by now, an eerily beautiful place of spent flowers, blackened leaves, and winter weeds. I had planned for it, in fact, complete with a melancholy video to document the season’s end. But when I went to record the demise of the garden with my cameras, I couldn’t find enough source material to make my point. Still attached to this idea, my expectations got in the way of my observations and I felt frustrated and stuck. Expecting an end, I found a reprise instead.
A musical reprise is a repetition of an earlier theme or song with some changes that reflect the development of the narrative line. The October garden certainly is in the middle of its reprise. The end of the season is near; perhaps in days, a hard frost will claim its due. But for the moment, the garden is repeating its performance of roses, zinnias, salvias, and ageratum amongst the autumn theme of goldenrod, asters, and grasses. Plants are tall, blooms are colorful and fresh, and everything is swaying in the gusts of wind that leap up from nowhere, showering the beds with a flurry of colorful leaves. A final flourish that has challenged my expectations and reminded me to pay attention to, and appreciate, the unanticipated beauty that is before me.
All text and images of “October Reprise” ©2011 Lynn Emberg Purse, All Rights Reserved
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