14×17″ markers on paper
July 25, 2012
Inspired by the following passage from Phantastes by George MacDonald:
Soon a vague sense of discomfort possessed me. With variations of relief, this gradually increased; as if some evil thing were wandering about in my neighbourhood, sometimes nearer and sometimes further off, but still approaching. The feeling continued and deepened, … and left me full of anxiety and fear, which I was unable to associate with any definite object whatever…
9×12″ watercolor on paper
July 29, 2012
Inspired by the following passage from Phantastes by George MacDonald:
I stood one moment and gazed into the heaving abyss beneath me; then plunged headlong into the mounting wave below.
A blessing, like the kiss of a mother, seemed to alight on my soul; a calm, deeper than that which accompanies a hope deferred, bathed my spirit.
I sank far into the waters, and sought not to return. I felt as if once more the great arms of the beech-tree were around me, soothing me after the miseries I had passed through, and telling me, like a little sick child, that I should be better to-morrow.
18×18″ oil on canvas
July 30, 2012
Inspired by the following poem, “Sweeper of the Floor”, by George MacDonald:
Methought that in a solemn church I stood.
Its marble acres, worn with knees and feet,
Lay spread from door to door, from street to street.
Midway the form hung high upon the rood
Of him who gave his life to be our good;
Beyond, priests flitted, bowed, and murmured meet,
Among the candles shining still and sweet.
Men came and went, and worshipped as they could-
And still their dust a woman with her broom,
Bowed to her work, kept sweeping to the door.
Then saw I, slow through all the pillared gloom,
Across the church a silent figure come:
‘Daughter,’ it said, ‘thou sweepest well my floor!’
It is the Lord! I cried, and saw no more.
16×16″ oil on canvas
August 2, 2012
Inspired by the following section of “A Broken Prayer” from A Threefold Cord by George MacDonald:
O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee?
I am a child lost in a mighty forest;
The air is thick with voices, and strange hands
Reach through the dusk, and pluck me by the skirts.
There is a voice which sounds like words from home,
But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems
To leap from rock to rock; oh, if it is,
Willing obliquity of sense, descend,
Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand,
And lead me homeward through the shadows.
Let me not by my wilful acts of pride
Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow
A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on
Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth
And leaden confidence.
9×12″ pastels on paper
August 3, 2012
Inspired by the following passage from Lilith:
She fell asleep a girl; she awoke a woman, ripe with the loveliness of the life essential. I folded her in my arms, and knew that I lived indeed.
