One Week Until the Washington Craft Show

Friday, November 6, 10 - 8

Saturday, November 7, 10 - 6

Sunday, November 8, 11 - 5

at the Washington Convention Center

Hope to see you there

Chestertown Spy Article

http://www.chestertownspy.com/2009/10/artists-schumann-wilson-at-adkins/

Emily Dickenson Doesn't live here any more.

BESIDES the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,	5
A few ascetic eves,—
Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;	10
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,	15
Thy windy will to bear! Good Old Emily.

Another week gone by

This has been a week of maintenance.  Getting the studio ready for the next onslaught of work, getting myself poised, re-cleaning the house (really TWICE in one month) etc.

So onward.

I'm feeling better about some things, although I really don't know how I'm (I should say most of us) are going to make it through the next couple of years.

Here goes, Mare

In making these pieces I hoped to capture a moment.  I guess that’s what we’re all really trying to do.  We can’t recreate the beauty of nature, we can only capture a moment in time that we were experiencing it.

These pieces are meant to be underfoot.  Not just because I want to keep making utilitarian objects, but to make a statement.  Instead of looking ahead, away from ourselves; how often do we take a moment to look down at where we’re standing.  Where we are now.  Be in the moment, and be a part of it.

To look down at where you’re standing is to be still, and stopped and in the here and now, no matter where you are.  To do so outside, in the woods, instead of looking at a myriad of trees, sometimes indistinct (at least to my own tired eyes), and hear a far off bird, or see the movement of leaves that tells of a small animal; look down.  You see the layers of leaves, like time that has passed.  They’ve left imprints of themselves on each other.  You see the moss and the grass and the small insects that we might not notice if we just go blithely on our way.  In the stillness, we don’t just hear the sounds of the forest, but we hear our own breathing and the beating of our hearts.