Thoughts on the End of Summer

Autumn Gold
Lumberville, Pennsylvania
24x24 inch oil

Fern Coppedge, 1883 ~ 1951 

American Impressionist

Yes indeed, those autumn colors aren't far away. Signs of fall are already being seen here and there in Vermont at this lower elevation near Lake Champlain west of the Green Mountains.

Fern Coppedge's winter snow paintings are a favorite. I learned about her in an art magazine I bought at a library sale many years ago. 

The backyard landscape in the photo has a familiar feel because that is similar to where us kids played in the backyard days of stay off the steps and don't climb the trees.

And so goes the longing for a few days of summery weather before the autumnal equinox on 23 September 2023. Time to consider scheduling a flu shot, putting away the sandals, and deciding if there will be a foliage photography tour. After summer's plans were wiped away by rain, I hesitate to put my heart on the future season. An improviso approach feels more comforting and practical.

Lincoln Gap Foliage 2021

Thus, taking in the days as weather and health permit is the pace of fall this year for me. 

Bird Feathers & Abstract Art

Mourning Doves & a Starling

At first the starling doesn't look unusual because birds often mix during a busy seed session. Observing the hungry birds, the starling becomes a flock member, moving around like the others.  

The starling blends in so well, I hardly notice until uploading the photos.

Have you seen a flock with one of a  different feather?

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Untitled, 12"x16"
Mixed Media 2010 Acrylic

Reorganizing a cabinet and shelves is an adventure in discovery. Artwork can store memories in each brush stroke. Phases an artist goes through are imprinted on the canvas like plant and dinosaur fossils in stone.

A bonus of sorting through art supplies and such, reaction time practice. So far I have dodged everything that fell off and over. Makes me feel young again; and, unscathed.

Thoughts: The Masonry Finishing Trowel

Vintage Masonry Finishing Trowel

As a kid, I vacuumed mortar out of my father's  hair for a quarter. Gray chips of it filled the furrows in his forehead. He worked with bricks and stone as a mason. 

(Da 1921~2006)

His finishing trowel, I thought, did everything. Out of the about dozen styles, none are as substancial as the rectangular finishing trowel, the smoother, the best for last. 

At a thrift store, I check out the tool bins. Years ago, what a thrill it was to see a used finishing trowel textured with mortar! And, it even has a few spots of chic rust. Eyes glazed over.

A finishing trowel stands as an implement of change, craftmanship, and moxie.

Do you have a favorite object from childhood?