Of Pies, Passions, & Pony-Penning,
A new painting explained, wild ponies, and fiction about the memory river
It’s getting to be high summer here. The black raspberries are at least two weeks early, and our blueberries are turning from green to a shriveled slate gray thanks to the unforgiving heat. On Sunday morning, I spent time on the steep bank of Lick Run Creek in my rubber boots harvesting raspberries in the bucket that Michael made for me. It is an old plastic hard pretzel barrel, which Michael drilled into and threaded with a bright yellow, thickly braided polyester cord. I can put it over my head like a giant necklace, and as I move around, slide over slimy creek rocks, or slip down the steep bank (which happens more often than I prefer to admit since I’m not an inherently graceful creature), the berries remain within the bucket, safe. While I wash them, I find gray-and-black, striped inch worms that fold themselves into tight arches in order to escape. Also, there’s been the occasional floating earwig. When possible, I return them to the grass outside and tell them that I hope they find what they’re looking for because it’s certainly not going to be located inside my house.
Around this time of the year, one also turns their thoughts to pies. Or at least I do. There hasn’t actually been a pie yet, but there will be. Yes, there have been cobblers, and there will inevitably be more cobblers, but fruit pies (with buttery crust and gooey insides) are in the near future, that’s for certain. In the meantime, I have quieted my eagerness for homemade fruit-filled pastries by painting them. In my newest painting, which is nearly finished and ready for varnish, I included a pie that might otherwise be cherry were it not for the giant red blooms that push vertically from the center.
What nonsense is this?
Not far above the flowers is the solar eclipse, which took place on April 8 of this year. April, according to the traditional Wheel of the Year, is when the Earth reawakens. This year, specifically on April 8, at 2:23 pm EST, the New Moon in Aries took place. This celestial event is associated with new beginnings, and Aries, the first fire sign within the astrological calendar, is associated with creative passion. And so, balancing on river rocks in her bare feet, with jingling golden bells on her left ankle—the left foot leading and, as in Egyptian art, symbolizing movement into the future—a woman in a red-and-yellow dress moves across the picture plane carrying this offering. On her forearm, a bag dangles. What might it contain? Seeds, possibly?
Very likely.
Beside her, on the bank among the deep amber wildflowers is a stag, which looks somewhere downstream, beyond the painted world. In the sky, which is speckled with stars—both large and small, some of them the pale pink or blue dots of distant galaxies—hovers a wingless white horse with a dappled croup. Over the last two years or so, there’s usually a wild white horse flying or standing sentry somewhere in my paintings. They are my symbol, a symbol of freedom, a symbol of (the now maybe overused word) rewilding. To me, it’s a reminder, a string around the finger. See, my parents took me nearly every summer during my early childhood to Chincoteague and Assateague, and like all good horse-crazy girls, I eagerly read Marguerite Henry's 1947 YA novel Misty of Chincoteague. Through this book and our trips, I certainly knew about (but never saw) the annual pony penning event, during which they round up the wild ponies and swim them to a location where they will be purchased and domesticated. (Incidentally, this year will be the 99th anniversary of the Chincoteague pony swim, which will take place on July 24, 2024). For this reason, shaggy wild ponies, the descendants of the powerful horses that survived the wreckage of Spanish galleons, ran with long, sand-encrusted manes through the dreams of my tomboy girlhood. However, the horses that developed in subconscious and then percolated out onto my works will not be captured. They will not be penned, and they will never accept a saddle, a hot brand, or a rider. They will always be free.
Now, what am I listening to while painting these days?
Many things, but principally, author Tony Walker reading Gothic stories on his Classic Ghost Stories Podcast. I listen on the Spotify app rather than YouTube, and I started with Angela Carter’s “The Company of Wolves” (amazing!) and have been following along from story to story since. Of late, I have also been listening to the Art of History Podcast by Amanda Matta, of which there are 41 episodes. She does a fantastic job of explaining the stories behind and inspiration for great works of art. And every Tuesday, when a new episode drops, I also listen to Dana Schwartz’s Noble Blood, which is very well-written and offers keen psychological insights into historical figures’ motivations.
And now, for a bit of fiction. It’s an excerpt from a much larger work, and it relates deep, coursing water to the psyche and to the figurative flow of time. It also explains how one might be adrift in all three. It seems fitting for this period of immense heat, of wild ponies swimming towards forced domestication, and the sentimental wash of memories. So here it is…
Flooding the Memory River
After a full week under hospital supervision, David no longer needed to be strapped to his bed. The drugs he was injected with at every twelve hour interval had finally slid a soft padding between his intellect and the crooked maneuverings of reality. He simply couldn't feel the spiny sting of life's ironies anymore. And truthfully, it was not unpleasant to experience this suspension, this lack of concern, the elation of standing on nothing at all and fearing no earthward plunge.
“Icarus or Daedelus,” asked David of the nurse wheeling him into the common room.
She ignored his question, perhaps not truly hearing it. “There you are now, Mr. Steadman. Time to play with the others. It's good to be out of bed and free now, isn't it?”
“Icarus or Daedelus?” David asked again, louder.
“I don't know what you're going on about, Mr. Steadman,” she said cheerily, kicking the brake on the wheelchair. She took the towel that hung from one of the chair's push-handles and dabbed at a glimmer of spittle that appeared in the corner of David's mouth.
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