It began with our unexpected day out on Sunday, a few snatched creative hours when nothing seemed real, yet I have been feasting on those moments and know I have grown in stature. Spur-of-the-day journaling; nothing planned as is my usual wont, just grabbing neocolor water-soluble wax crayons, and notebook, pen and camera.
Read the full explanation of our day on my other blog. This was our first stopping place on Sunday, identified from nine years back by a scribbled note on the map. I 'journal-spilled' in my notebook (on a paper surface not conducive to the collaged layers I favour). Usually I would meld the colours with gel-medium, but I did not have that with me, and so used spit, which I smeared too liberally across the middle part of the pic and thus lost the plot. On the notebook page, you can see my finger-print in the spitted colour. In the original, the colour is so much more vibrant. I am no artist; I just try to capture what I feel in the moment in the only way I can; but I never forget those days when I commit landscape to paper in colour or words. They remain with me years later, far more than any photograph. The scan above departs from my usual norm in that I manipulated it after scanning - the scribbled frame was created in Photoshop, freehand, another first.
So here is the photo I took, just to remind myself later of where we had been and what I had so poorly tried to sketch. And my descriptive poem follows, written in the car because it was so cold outside: 1. my sketch, 2. a few quick photos (brrrr ...) and 3. the poem.
I wrote others, but the accompanying photos are still unloaded. The muse flowed that day, and now must be surpressed as work calls, and journaling is not really a part of all that. Well it is, but that's another tale.