I realized last night that when I leave, I will have been at Ragdale during every month of the year. Dark November skies are beautiful, the autumn scent of coming snow spicy, bracing, as is the brisk wind. The prairie is deceptive at this time of year, stark and muted in the long view, riotously vivid in detail.
I have my eye on this big gorgeous wasps’ nest: papermakers. It’s waaaaay way high, and if it falls while I’m here and survives, it’s for me.
I’ve begun to occupy that space I covet: I am not thinking in words, though an intense, rich, flowing language is everywhere, a symphony of images, tactility, scents, association.
I’ve always been baffled by artists who complain about ‘the isolation of the studio’. It’s the very situation I crave.
Give me a large daily dose of that isolation, unspoiled land to observe, and like-minded people within easy reach, and that’s when I most come alive.
Those are all the words I have. Here’s how it’s going: