I think what struck me so much about Iceland is not that it is untouched wilderness. It is a place where people have cut down trees and built their roads. The Earth, however, will not always stay tamed. She spits out ash to bury buildings and conspires with the wind to make some parts of herself too harsh to ever truly conquer. Continue reading
Kleifarvatn Lake, the largest lake on the Reykjanes Peninsula in southwest Iceland, sits on a fissure on the Mid-Atlantic ridge.
Not too long ago, apparently annoyed by the pesky elves and trolls in whom 60% of Icelanders swear they believe (and 40% won’t say they don’t) Mother Nature cracked up. The earthquake that resulted created a hole in the bottom of the lake. The lake lost quite a bit of water.
A few years later, after living with her impromptu makeover and giving it a real chance, Mother Nature began filling the crack again. She fed the lake from underground, and by the time we saw it, she had almost refilled it.
It’s almost like she was trying to remind us that life is a work in progress — even when you’re 4.5 billion years old.
Þingvellir, Watercolor, 9×12
Even fire and ice, given enough time and almost against their wills, can produce green.
It is the delicate, velvety soft green of life gaining strength. It’s made richer because it grows in the parts of the earth blackened by fire fighting with ice, and it needs only water, sun and permission to grow.
Our family used to spend a good part of the summer in Southwestern Michigan. It’s still mostly rural, kind of like where we live in Vermont, and one of my fondest memories was spending summer mornings running around with my Grandmother to the butcher, the market and the farm stand as she shopped for the nightly feast for the family.
Our last stop was at a driveway where a card table, laden with corn, whatever veggies the owner’s garden had yielded that day, and an unlocked cash box. Folded index cards to display the prices. The woman who owned the makeshift stand had usually retired to the beach by the time we got to her place. Even back then, I marveled at how successful the Honor Box tradition was.
I still love the honor box. It’s a quaint way to support a tiny business, but every little self-serve farmstand is also a kind of beacon. It’s a reminder that there’s still trust and trustworthiness. It reminds me there’s still something good out there that I can help grow, just by putting my money in the box.
It feels like March outside, but on the first sunny day in weeks, May seems to be rallying.
I’ve been trying to warm to the water pens in anticipation of a trip to Iceland this summer which will require traveling light, but so far I’m not enamored. I’m determined, though. I’m doing a mini-painting a day in my moleskin journal to get revved up for summer shows and trips and hoping the weather will give us something inspirational soon.
There are two ways to get to the top of Mount Equinox in Manchester Vermont. You can pay your money to take the Skyline drive to the summit, or you can find your way to the no-traffic light town of Sandgate and go up the back.
You can’t drive the whole way (Sandgate’s dirt road eventually turns into a wide leaf-covered path). Once on foot, you’ll eventually get to the gate of a monastery run by the Carthusian monks (who also, incidentally, govern access to the skyline Drive). There’s a sign warning away trespassers, so we’ve never actually made it to the top of the Equinox without paying our money down, but along with that once-beaten path on the backside of the mountain, we’ve discovered something equally interesting.
When we first hiked that road, we wondered about its origins. There were easier ways to get to the monks and the top of the Equinox, but it was clear the road had once been in use frequently enough to leave its mark on the mountain. Shortly after the ‘real’ dirt road ended, we found our answer.
Thing1 was our distractor-in-chief at the time, occasionally luring us away from the path, and about a mile and a half past the end of the town road, he discovered an abandoned barn we HAD to see.
The barn roof was disintegrating, and we saw no other evidence (save for a few headstones that we almost tripped over) that a farm or homestead had ever existed. The carving on the headstones was so worn down we couldn’t read the names on them. As I was wondering what catastrophe that had driven surviving family members away from the farm, I realized this almost abandoned road had been made by and for hooves and feet, not rubber and steel.
At first I had thought these languishing headstones in this isolated part of the mountain were a sad statement about precarious nature of rural life (then and now). However, as we walked to and from the monastery gate with its no trespassing sign, passing the old homestead again, the late afternoon sun dipped low enough to bathe the woods in gold. I remember the branches were naked on that hike, but the forest, guarding its little cemetery, was warm and absolutely peaceful in the sun.
Modern rural life can be very hard, and I don’t cling to any romantic notions that life on the back of a mountain in Vermont was any easier a 100 years ago, but this quiet resting place was a testament to more than just hardship. It reminded me that people still come to these hard-to-live-in places because a life away from the madding crowd brings with it freedom and (in spite of the long winters and minimal economic opportunities) peace.
Springs First Kiss, 9×12 Watercolor
The lack of significant snow has produced some dramatic, and, in some cases, romantic mountainscapes this winter. There is more green than white reaching up to the sky, and the bits of snow that remain at the top of the mountain make Mother Earth look as if she’s sleeping, waiting for spring.
I was going north on VT 7, decending from the highest elevation when my favorite perspective of the Equinox came into view. I had sped down to Bennington to get groceries, and the sky was still pink and orange, the clouds leaning over Mother Earth for what seemed to be an early spring kiss. I’m waiting to see if she decides to awaken early.
To purchase the original, contact me at rachel@rachelbarlow.com. You can purchase cards and/or prints here.
Wave Runner, Watercolor 12×16, Matted to 16×20
A few weeks ago an aunt who had been a huge influence in my creative life passed away. Her encouragement was felt even when we didn’t see each other for years. She and her sister were (and are) not willing to listen to their nieces and daughters downgrade their work or trash their talent, and her words of encouragement are with me every time I pick up a brush.
I found an old black and white picture of her running on the beach where our family has spent the last 80+ summers. She was so full of joy she looked like she could fly. Officially I’ve heard that people can’t fly, but my theory is that, instead of keeping the secret of flying all to herself, she shared her joy of life with everyone in her life else so they could soar.
I’m just figuring that out now, and it’s helping me get closer to the secret of flying, of joy and the sharing of it..
$80 Matted Ready to Frame. To purchase the Original, contact me at rachel@rachelbarlow.
Card and Prints of this painting are available here.
Somehow our three graces didn’t get added to the web collection for the Equinox Gallery show, but you can now buy prints and cards of our girls here.
Black Eyes & Bugs Aint so Bad (Watercolor 9×12) – Sold
You can buy prints and cards of this watercolor here.
These were our favorite girls – our three graces. They followed us everywhere – even into the house – until a fox discovered a hole in our coop.
You can buy museum quality prints and cards here
I know April showers bring May flowers, but i’m starting to worry that pink flowers in February may bring subzero temps.
You can find prints and cards of this watercolor here.
Picking My Battles 