As I was collecting images and scans of sketches recently, it was apparent that I have a fascination with church windows, specifically those which in any way resemble gothic windows. It has become sort of an obsession, not that this is a new revelation, I am simply offering evidence to that fact from my sketchbooks. One more way in which the sketchbook is a window to the soul.
Iron Wrought, the blacksmith furnished
Hammer blows formed soft iron bars
A twist of tongs
A curl is formed
The smith’s sweat sizzles on the hot metal as he labors over the forge. His hands cramp and his arms grow weary, bit still he hammers down. Blow after blow he dispenses
Untill finally his piece is finished, and into the brine it is thrust, singing, sizzling and steaming as it becomes entrapped in it’s final form. The iron hardens, and becomes a solid mass.
This iron now stands, enameled in years of paint, entrenched on the borders on an estate. Constantly guarding, in solidarity, the lavish wealth beyond it’s ornamented bars.
Somehow, the spirit of the smith is guarding too, his watchful gaze and careful eye meticulously observing every event that transpires beyond the border he described so many years ago. The salt of his sweat and the iron in his veins made him one with the border he had so carefully designed. I wonder if he is watching still as I carefully examine the seams and joints, tenons and rivets which bind together, to this day, the bars standing before me.
This house represents, for me, a longing and waiting, for someone to come along and pour their heart into it. Sadly, it will most likely continue to decay, eventually to be condemned, and torn down.
I have been reflecting on my transition lately. I still have no idea what I am doing, but I’m doing it to the best of my ability. That is all I ever can do, and I hope to always maintain that level of commitment in whatever I do.
I’m not normally one for holiday spirit, but I very much enjoy the changing seasons. I love waking up early on a morning when it has been snowing all night. When the air is still, and big snowflakes are falling silently to the ground, there is a pronounced peaceful quality in the air, and I cant help but smile to myself and think about how wonderful this season is.
And on the few breaks between classes and homework, he ate his depressing lunch, It wasn’t really a lunch at all, it was more of a series of increasingly more painful exercises of abusive nutrition. Not that there was and real danger of nourishment, not of the body at least. It was the oppressive lack of any good taste whatsoever. To make matters worse, in an act of self deprecation, he ate it in order from most interesting to least, saving the worst, cold, dry, gluten-free stuffing with no gravy, for last. It was the icing, or lack thereof on the proverbial dry, crumbly, unsweetened, cake.
I recently had the privilege of studying some of Andrea Palladio’s seminal work in Vicenza. The father of the neoclassical style, Palladio mastered the art of symmetry and classical orders, simple proportions, and elegant design that was functional and very pleasing to the eye.