pumpkin contemplation

Maybe it's because my husband just did a presentation on vernacular photography for a graduate seminar, but I couldn't help but contemplate the scene at Jubilee Farms, where we recently drove to pick our own pumpkin outta the patch on a gorgeous autumn day. There was some amount of actual searching and picking going on, but more prevalent was the sea of Seattle-ite parents with small kids, pointing, waving, cooing and propping with assorted cameras on their faces, in order to get that perfect baby-and-pumpkin shot. Don't for a moment think we weren't two of 'em; my parents-in-law got some great shots too, the above one included. But while I might have felt a little cynical when surveying the scene ("Why don't you just appreciate this beauty without mediating it?"), I was also made aware of a communal desire manifest in the actions. All of us marking time by marking this idyllic version of the season, with idyllic images of our kids, reveals a sort of yearning. For the health and wholeness of earth's bounty, for a picturesque way of celebrating the passing of time (which can be terrifying without seasonal parties and traditions, I think), for a thread to connect us with our agrarian past, for a way to fasten in our minds the beauty of these fleeting moments and to give us an anchor in the less beatific times. I know these are benign abstractions (phrase courtesy Sufjan Stevens), but they're pervasive.

how do you spell it?

Look in your medicine cabinet and notice how many items use a variation of the word "relief." Should make you sigh just looking at all the things you can be relieved of.

I went to the Seattle Aquarium with my two boys today, and, being a hydro-phile at heart, was filled with my usual combination of awe and delight. Peering into the clear cold water of the Sound as we approached the building, we saw gold-orange starfish clinging to the rocks and balloon-buoyed seaweed floating in long displaced strands. Inside the aquarium, there were all the kid-friendly activities, but the seals and otters are our collective favorite. My 11-month old said "wwwwoooowwww..." and my two-and-a-half-year-old ran from one underwater window to another in excitement. And Mama stood back with a sigh, watching movements that are closer to angelic than almost anything she's seen. I will probably never go to an aquarium again in my life without thinking of a little reference by Amy Fusselman (author of The Pharmacist's Mate, a delectable little novella) in an online journal. She talked about the fact that when she was pregnant, she found herself drawn more to aquariums than museums... well, here. Let me just quote it:

"The fish are silent. In one window, a Nile Knife Fish, a long, thin swatch of dark blue, hangs in the water, perfectly still. Watching him, I understand why I have come to the aquarium rather than the art museum. Because there is a fact that I have stumbled on this year, a fact that I can't get over. There is another world. There is another world besides this one. This is a fact that art is always trying to remind us of, but because it's art, it says it in a way that's a little aloof. And I have no patience for this distance now, it's not romantic to me anymore. This is just the simple truth, and we should say it just the way we say things to children. We should say it the way parents here grab their toddlers by the shoulders and say, 'look at the big fish!'"

When her husband hears about her experience, he says, "Of course you're going to the aquarium. You are an aquarium."

the ruts we rip

It's been getting me lately how many mundane things end up on the replay button of our brains. By survival demand, mostly... what will we eat, when will we sleep, wherewith shall we be clothed? ...but it's also been bugging me to notice how deeply rutted certain subjects are. Should I have a cup of coffee? I should call/email_____. I need to get outside/exercise/make art/prepare for class. Are my sons healthy? Clean? Loved well? I could use a haircut and a new pair of shoes. We're out of goldfish crackers. Do we eat too much sugar? Drink wine too often? This banter feels like it might comprise 95% of my conscious thought-life.

I no-joke remember over and again that I have an imagination, and have to shake it out like a sweater from a musty box. One of the reasons I think I became an artist is to see things I'd never seen before. And it's such a relief when the hard edged patterns are jumbled a little, when the train jumps its track. What does it? It's always something different (that's the point).

The painting above is a luscious one (New Growth) by my friend Aaron.