Tears, Indians and Alice: The Things Art Is Made Of.

Two posts in one day? What is happening???

I know. This may give some people a heart attack (myself included) but I suddenly got very excited about the fact that it's not only words you can post, but also pictures.

Now, anyone who knows me at all is aware that I adore art. I love paintings, drawings, sculptures, art that means things, art that doesn't, pretty art, forboding art, tiny art and ginormous art. I love going to the art gallery, surfing the internet for art, and I love creating art myself.

It struck me that this blog could be a good way for me to showcase my artistic side; a sort of online art exhibition, if you will. If there is anyone out there reading my blog, perhaps you could even leave some feedback, whether it be for my pictures or for my poetry, once I get some up.

I am always working on some form of art, so there should be some new pieces for me to put up for show on a semi-regular basis. It also depends on how busy I am, but I shall endeavour to be consistent.


First up, here's one that I did recently called Violet Tears. It is a watercolour that I painted in the late hours of Valentine's Day. 

Yes. I am single. And sometimes it just gets to me. Especially when it happens to be the day when happy couples celebrate their love together. As for me, I bunkered down in my art studio and painted away my sorrows until this emerged. I didn't know this was going to shape itself. It just sort of happened. And I'm glad it did. 

I dedicated it to all the lovely people out there who ran to the mailbox that morning only to find that it was empty. Again. It's painful. And so I gave them this.


Another one which I greatly enjoyed creating is this. It is an old American Indian chief done in pencil, which is one of my favourite mediums. I haven't named it yet. 

The inspiration came from my ancestry. Yes, I have Indian blood running through my veins. Cherokee, to be exact. I am proud of my heritage, and this is sort of in remembrance my kin of old, I suppose. 

Here's a quote which I love: 

"There is no such thing as 'part-Cherokee.' Either you're Cherokee or you’re not. It isn't the quantity of Cherokee blood in your veins that is important, but the quality of it . . . your pride in it." ~ Jim Pell, Principal Chief of the North Alabama Cherokee Tribe. 

One last one. We're All Mad Here. This was pure fun. 

Another thing that I would expect anyone to know who claims to know me well is that I absolutely love Alice in Wonderland. The book, the movie, the characters, the merchandise -- everything! 

This little piece popped out of nowhere while I was supposed to be concentrating upon writing a short story. I suddenly had an urge to draw the Cheshire Cat . . . and so I did! I pounced upon the closest piece of paper I could find (which was my writing workbook), siezed some coloured pencils and away I went. 

(12:21. Sorry, I must always write down when I see a numerical palindrome. Someday I must write a post about this funny habit of mine. Golly, I'm getting hungry . . . ) 

Anyway, after a good few hours filled with fun and pure imagination, this little gem arose out of the page. When my dad saw it he exclaimed with some regret that had it been on proper drawing paper, he would have gladly framed it for me. Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with the lined paper. I quite like it, in fact; it adds character. 

However, the next day I did draw it again on better paper . . . but the second ones never seem to look as good, do they? This is why I chose to post the original, lined paper and all! It's the one that truly came out of spur-of-the-moment inspiration.

To finish up, here's an Alice in Wonderland quote that I simply adore: 

~ "We're all mad here," said the Cat. "I'm mad. You're mad." 

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "otherwise you wouldn't have come here." ~

Brilliant.


Well, that's all I shall post of my pictures for now. Keep a look out for more to come (if there is anyone even out there). 

Violet Quercus
xoxo

Procrastination and Poetry

Oh my stars! 

It's been nine months since I last wrote. 

 . . .

 . . .

 . . .

Well, this whole keeping-on-top-of-my-new-and-exciting-blog idea was sure shot to hell. Not that I can pretend to think that it would have been any different. Somewhere in a dark and dusty cupboard in the back of my mind I stuffed these thoughts and knowings and tried to think that it could have been otherwise. Hmm . . . perhaps not. Nature prevails every time.

Oh well, I'm here now, and even though anyone who stumbled across my blog all those months ago has probably long lost their faith in me, I am back and writing away, and it feels good. Who cares if no one is reading this? I'm writing it. 

I have had a thought: to save me time and effort (yes, I do find some enjoyment in being lazy occassionally -- who doesn't?) I could post some of my poetry every once in a while, stuff that I have already worked on. The only thing is that my poetry collection is in the possession of a friend. I absentmindedly left it at a house that was not mine a good few weeks ago, and my friend absentmindedly kept forgetting to collect it for me. No matter; she has it now. I just have to collect it from her and then, hey presto! There shall be fresh, new poetry for all to enjoy . . . hopefully. Just a word of warning: my poetry tends to arise from the depths of depression. Some of it is not very uplifting. 

But then some of it is. If I am feeling in a quirky mood (which I am very much of the time) I might decide to put on my Dr Seuss thinking cap and do some fun rhyming poetry. It very much depends on my mood. But that is what poetry is about, isn't it? Capturing a mood in a moment; a tiny trinket of life in time; a droplet of fun or despair as it comes. 

I have been told that while most forms of writing is like walking, poetry is like dancing; you capture a single event in a gilded cage of words and then twist it, turn it every which way, see what it does, what it feels like, how it glints in the sunlight. And that's it. 

The difference between poets and other forms of writers is this: the poet lifts the rock, observes the bug and then slowly replaces the rock. Basically, the poet just observes. She sees someting worth seeing and then she writes down what comes to her. 

The novelist (or other such writer that is not a poet) lifts the rock, observes the bug and then pokes it to see what will happen. She needs to see what comes after that. It's called plot. This is what novelists do. 

I am both. I am a poet and a novelist. There is joy in both forms. Sometimes I like to just see and leave it at that. Other times I whisper, 'Curiouser and curiouser,' and must find out what happens next. 

And here's the thing: there is nothing wrong with putting a little bit of dance into your walk.


To leave off, here's a pretty little quote which struck me to my heart. It talks right to me. . . 

"Listen to the mustn'ts, child, listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me . . . Anything can happen, child, anything can be." ~ Shel Silverstein

Violet Quercus

xoxo