HISTORIC FORT LANGELY

A FUN PLACE TO SIT AND DRAW

JESUS CHRIST IS RISEN TODAY

The grave is empty, HE IS ALIVE!

Watercolour, Wax, Ink, Wire

CLAY STARFISH

Clay from the riverbank, tree root from the brook

and beautiful rocks from the Vedder River. 

I am using acrylic paint on the starfish, while leaving

some of them natural.

I coat my rocks with baby oil to give 

them a wet look and bring out the features

that caused me to pack and carry them home.

Using my oven on the cleaning cycle

  makes a substitute kiln.

More rocks and starfish to come. . . 

CLAY EARTHENWARE Modern and 500 years old

These are clay pieces that I made from raw clay

harvested from the banks of local lakes. These 

pieces have been dried, fired and lightly sanded

Red and grey clay

 found on the banks of local lakes.

FORMED INTO A MOIST BALL

READY FOR SCULPTING

SEASTAR 

ready to dry

AIR DRIED FOR THREE WEEKS

The dried pieces are placed in the centre of the

fire pit.

Making a "ring" of fire will allow the pieces to 

heat up gradually.

Gradually build the fire closer to the centre.

Gradually completely cover the clay pieces.

We kept our fire hot for 5 hours sustaining

ourselves with hot dogs and marshmallows! 

Bank your fire overnight. We covered ours 

with wet needles and leaves followed by

damp dirt from the garden. Our embers

actually took over 26 hours to cool down enough 

to remove our fired pieces.

Removing the dirt 24 hours later we 

still noted glowing embers.

My little oil lamp actually works.

These are clay tiles left by the Basque Whalers

over 500 years ago along the West coast of

Newfoundland. I found numerous tiles  along a 

remote stretch of beach tucking several 

of these treasures away in my backpack. In the

same area I uncovered a beautiful ancient whalebone.

TILE WITH WHALEBONE

CLOSE-UP POROUS WHALEBONE

VALENTINE HEARTS

FOIL, BUTTONS, BEADS & WOOL

WINTER PEARS . . . . . . . watercolour Poem: My Mother's Pears

My Mother's Pears

By Stanley Kunitz

1905-2006

Worcester, Massachusetts

Plump, green-gold, Worcester's pride,

transported through autumn skies

in a box marked HANDLE WITH CARE

sleep eighteen Bartlett pears,

hand-picked and polished and packed

for deposit at my door,

each in its crinkled nest

with a stub of stem attached

and a single bright leaf like a flag.

A smaller than usual crop,

but still enough to share with me,

as always at harvest time.

These strangers are my friends

whose kindness blesses the house

my mother built at the edge of town

beyond the last trolley-stop

when the century was young, and she

proposed, for her children's sake,

to marry again, not knowing how soon

the windows would grow dark

and the velvet drapes come down.

Rubble accumulates in the yard,

workmen are hammering on the roof,

I am standing knee-deep in dirt

with a shovel in my hand.

Mother has wrapped a kerchief round her head,

her glasses glint in the sun.

When my sisters appear on the scene,

gangly and softly tittering,

she waves them back into the house

to fetch us pails of water,

and they slip out of our sight

in their matching middy blouses.

I summon up all my strength

to set the pear tree in the ground,

unwinding its burlap shroud.

It is taller than I.  "Make room

for the roots!" my mother cries,

"Dig the hole deeper."

WHIMSICAL VERSION

EVENING LIGHTS AND SILVER MOON watercolour

From the Hymn;

All Creatures of Our God and King