Dripping with morning dew, these silken webs are at their most luminous. Later they fade into dry vegetation, invisible again. Damp and dark they shimmer on the branches, woven art works hanging between the gorse and the brambles. Sometimes they are stretched . . .
It's all still sinking in. The hard work, the experience of exhibiting, the aftermath. Because I work in an alone space it shocked me on the night of the opening that people would actually arrive. When they came I was somehow still in the middle of the making. I had fallen out of bed . . .
I spent two days absorbing the art at Tate Modern and Tate Britain the other week. The retrospective of David Hockney was a treat. I don't think I had ever seen an exhibition of his before. But those pictures were in all the books we read during my art college years. It was like . . .
We are drawn to the edge. Like so many flamingoes we like to dip our toes into the water and paddle while the sun goes down. Lisbon feels edgy in a different way. More used to the western shores of Ireland and the coppery cliffs of Waterford, this is a gentle edge slipping into the . . .
No artist is pleased… There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive....... Martha Graham Photoblogging has brought me deep into the world of light and mystery, ordinary everyday beauty, friendship across the world and back on . . .