Life like the pull of the tide flows forward and out, always returning, never the same.
The birds I bought to paint have nested. A soft fur lined home holds three tiny blue speckled eggs. After repeated attempts, they have yet to hatch.
My night dreams have been rich in color and touch. Filled with deep ocean blue; mysterious creatures swim, float and crawl, invoking fear and wonder. By day, brilliantly painted volcanic skies and the movements and life cycles of the forest's wild creatures and the garden's time-warp life of plants hold me.
I am inspired by the birthing of summer. This painting, I know not where it goes, only what brings it forth.
Only she who has breast-fed
knows how beautiful the ear is.
Only they who have been breast-fed
know the beauty of the clavicle.
Only to humans, through clavicles
slightly resembling birds,
entwined in caresses fly
at night to the place where,
rocking the cradle of cradles,
the babe is wailing,
where on a pillow of air
the stars nestle like toys.
And some of them speak.
—Vera Pavlov (from "If there is something to desire/There will be something to regret...")