Artists in a Rose Garden

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“It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.”

Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib

Artists in a Rose Garden from Rebecca Budd aka Clanmother on Vimeo.

I have always considered the month of June a synonym for roses, for it is in this special time that the fragrance of this flower is especially sweet and enticing.  There is a fresh green to the leaves, a steadfastness to the petals that attracts the gentle buzz of bees. The sun has yet to show the heat of a summer’s day, the breeze still holds a crispness of late spring.

There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.     

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.     

Edmund Spenser

A ChasingART series on “Artists in the Garden” explores the connection between nature and the creative spirit.  Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh, Gustav Klimt  and Paul Cézanne intuitively understood that gardens have restorative power to inspire, heal and bring a calmness that encourages freedom of thought. The intermingling of sun, soil, seeds, and water brings forth new life, even as an artist gives birth to an internal vision that seeks an outlet.

But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.

John Keats

Gardens continue to work their seemingly magical powers.  A few days ago, I happened upon a rose garden with artists situated throughout the pathways, intent on their artistic endeavours.

 

I invite you to join me on my walk through a rose garden…

 

Forget and Create

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Artists have a different perspective on focus.  We are programmed to remember what we learned…perhaps there are times when forgetfulness helps our focus.

“There is nothing more difficult for a truly creative painter than to paint a rose, because before he can do so he has first to forget all the roses that were ever painted.”
Henri Matisse

Embracing Transitions

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…and the time came when the risk it took to remain in a tightly closed bud became infinitely more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anaïs Nin (1903 – 1977)

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