Gardens are a constant metaphor in my mind, and, lately, in my drawings. The funny thing is that I’m a really rotten gardener. I covet the endlessly thoughtful arrangements that house-owners keep up here on Crown Hill above Ballard in Seattle. I take long walks and drink it in. And then I come back to my rental and see things like this:
It looks lush, yes– green stuff grows everywhere in the spring in the Northwest. But it is all a tangle. An unkempt, unkept mini-wilderness that makes me want to shield my face from the surrounding upstanding-citizens-of-the-yard. Arguably, my drawn or painted gardens also reflect the untidy version of growth. Many wouldn’t even see them as gardens. But maybe this is the year. The year for trimming and choosing, even in this rented space. Maybe I’ll learn some more about what I’m thinking if I get my hands into the soil.