Late bloomer

Now that the wild asparagus season is over and I've eaten or given away everything that I picked, I'm mulling over the casualties of this asparagus season which was an odd one.  A lot of the thin, young stalks in shallow soil on a southern exposure or a warm microclimate, popped up early only to be hit with a late killing frost. And the freak snow/hail storm in May didn't help.  The really big, thick, old stalks, which are mostly planted deep, came up unusually late this year even after some exceptionally hot, sunny days.  The medium asparagus halfway between the two extremes were victims of deer browse much more often than usual, which is maddening, but they're hungry for something fresh and green, just like me. Deer usally prefer to eat the tops of asparagus plants already gone to seed, but this year, they ate young stalks, too.

I see a lot of parallels between asparagus and humans. We all know people who showed amazing abilities and talent in youth, but whose early promise was blighted by the human equivalent of a late frost - illness, injury, loss, accident - that nipped the development in the bud. And we all know people who survived adversity in their youth, only to be mowed down by destructive forces in middle age - disease, failure, poverty - who soldier on, but whose dreams never come to fruition, like the asparagus plants eaten by deer which never develop their feathery fronds and berries.  But there are those who are like the asparagus planted in deep soil, in a sunny spot, whose strong roots and gradual development protect them from all those ills.

After the killing frost, I thought the whole asparagus crop was going to be a bust because nothing was showing up for the longest time.  It was quite dry for spring, and I wondered if that was contributing to the problem.  But then the big ones emerged, alive and well.  And they are the best of all.  You'd think that the big, old stalks would be tough, but they are the sweetest and most tender of all wild asparagus.  In the end, it was an almost normal season.  Somehow, the wild things always know what to do.  Too bad you can't have a Congress like that.


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Rhapsody in green

The first time I went picking wild asparagus with my brother-in-law forty years ago, I couldn't see any, while he seemed to find asparagus everywhere he looked. "You're looking with city eyes," he said. He was right. I had just arrived from downtown Philadelphia and all that green hurt my eyes.  Gradually I lost my city eyes and I could see the wild asparagus, too. Every spring, I bathe my eyes in the soothing, calming, nourishing green that is everywhere. There are so many colors of green.

For almost twenty years years, I didn't go back to the city at all.  I lived in rural NE Wisconsin where I had a huge garden, and grew the vegetables we'd eat all winter. I canned, froze, and dried everything possible; I even made ketsup. During those years, my eyes became totally acclimated to the country, and I was overjoyed to see the purply green tips of the wild asparagus poking up every spring.  Free vegetables!  No planting, weeding, watering, fertilizing! Also delicious.

But for the last twenty years, I've been splitting my time between Boston, MA and Door County, Wisconsin. Consequently, every year I go through the same adjustment from city to country that overwhelmed me all those years ago. And in the spring, when I'm staring at a patch of grass and wild grape vines to find out where the asparagus went, I hear the memory of my brother-in-law's voice, "Slow down. Give your eyes time." It's good advice. I remind myself of that when I get to the studio, where I transition from one studio to another. My eyes need time.





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Two color chalk drawings on toned paper

The Red Sweater - red and white chalk

Not all drawing materials are created equal.  For two color chalk drawings, I use Gioconda sanguine chalk and Gioconda black graphite. These are also called "5.6 mm. leads" and they're used in a lead holder. For highlights, I prefer white Conté pencil to any other white.

I loathe charcoal. I have always detested the texture, the scratchy sound, the light weight of it in my hand, the abrasive feel of it on paper. I actually started out drawing with chunks of dried red clay on newsprint, so red chalk is a logical drawing material for me. Chalk is very forgiving; it can be erased and worked over again and again as long as you have a good eraser like a Staedler. Light, sparing touches of white chalk for highlights are the best possible treat of the whole day. The deep quality of chalk smudged with a stump feel generous and rich, but I don't smudge very often. 

Canson mei-tintes paper is my first choice for chalk drawings, which I use for long drawings.  For me, a long drawing is 10 minutes or more; for shorter drawings, I use pen and ink.  The colors of paper that work the best for me are grey and tan, both of which show off white highlights the best.  I buy individual sheets of paper and cut them to fit the size of my drawing boards. My masonite drawing boards are three sizes:  9 x 12", 11 x 16" and 13 x 15.5."  I fold the paper to size and cut it with a kitchen knife, so there's a proper rag edge on one side showing the quality of the paper, as you would on top quality printing paper.  A large sheet of Canson paper will give me two large pieces for my largest drawing board, or four small sheets for my smallest.  The large size results in strips of paper 14 x 4.75", which I use for small drawings, testing new materials and trying out new ideas. Lately, I've been using Strathmore pads of grey paper for graphite and white conte, and really like the texture and finish for life drawings.

I sometimes use watercolor washes with chalk drawings, and for that purpose, Derwent watercolor pencils are great.  For portraits drawings with washes, I especially love their Venetian red watercolor pencils.   

Not surprisingly, my favorites artists for drawing are Watteau, Rubens, Leonardo and Michelangelo.  I try not to think about them when I’m drawing.  They are as incomprehensible to me as the work of Mozart or Shakespeare.  I’m not sure I’m even the same species that they were. 


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