I am never done with looking!

photo Leslie Avon Miller

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean, not just standing around,

but standing around

as though with your arms open.

~Mary Oliver

Seedling story, Leslie Avon Miller

Sunflower, Leslie Avon Miller

To really see, to look closely, this is my current and on going quest. To notice the light, the textures, the shadows. It is as if I were a beginner again. I am amazed.

Leaves, Leslie Avon Miller

I love so many things: leaves and twigs and seeds, found objects. Things that tell of times past.  My families collections. Especially I love beauty that comes with time.

The Dream Remembers Us

Photo by Leslie Avon Miller

What we want 

is never simple.

We move among the things 

we thought we wanted:

a face, a room, an open book

and these things bear our names---

now they want us.

But what we want appears

in dreams, wearing disguises.

We fall past,

holding out our arms

and in the morning 

our arms ache.

We don't remember the dream,

but the dream remembers us,

It is there all day

as an animal is there

under the table,

as the stars are there even in full sun.

~Linda Pastan

Small time, small art. Tucked inside this simple folded paper envelope I placed a copy of the poem. This helps me  remember how I care for dreams, and animals and stars. 

Working with my own hand printed Japanese papers, my thoughts and new-to-me technology I am learning new ways to look at creativity. 

that sigh when all tension releases

Collage, Leslie Avon Miller

We need words
That ring like bells
Through cool air
Taut with sun,
that smell
like grass and violets
that feel
like sitting on moss
by the stream
listening to
songs of woodland birds,
words that bring
fresh air into our lungs.

Collage, Leslie Avon Miller

Words that bring us
visions of baby robins
trying to use their wings,
early tinted light
on the horizon,
tiny ants
swarming in and out
of their granular hill.

 

Collage, Leslie Avon Miller

 

Distant hum
of bees on plum blossoms,
sensation of sunlight
on the skin,
a moment of peace
in a hidden place,
hearing the sound
of water over rocks,
something to make us sigh
that sigh
when all tension
releases
and we’re

Just there.

   

These small collage on paper incorporate fragments of the photos I discussed in the previous post entitled Found Paintings. I find old walls, a partially decayed leaf frozen in a puddle and a found hand print to have a quality of mystery; of a story only half told.

Collage, Leslie Avon Miller

The quality of enigma engages me and makes me want to know more, to ponder what else might be there half hidden.

Collage, Leslie Avon Miller

To add to the puzzle, I added fragments of a poem I found engaging. The poem is called

The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski. Some of the words are from an essay entitled

A Language Older Than Words  by Derrick Jensen. 

There is something about putting my hands on paper and moving small bits around that can make me sigh that sigh when all tension releases and we’re Just There.

Each collage is open to interpretation, and I hope acts as a  a doorway to our own thoughts and feelings hidden beneath the surface of polite everyday conversation. That's where I prefer to live my life; a little deeper, a little bit richer, a distance off the beaten path.

I don't know who the author is of the poem I posted at the beginning of the post about needing words.   If you do, will you let me know?

 

Found Paintings

Found painting Leslie Avon Miller

Found Painting Leslie Avon Miller

Found Painting Leslie Avon Miller

Found Painting Leslie Avon Miller

Found Painting Leslie Avon Miller

Found Painting Leslie Avon Miller

This is the real secret of life -- to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. 

And instead of calling it work, realize it is play.

                                                              Alan Wilson Watts

The images in the blog post are photographs I took of an old WWII bunker near Port Townsend this last weekend. The Graffiti artists make marks, the park worker paint over them, rust happens, along with the patina of time. I just came along and "found" them. I am using some of them as part of my small collage