This Date in Art History: Died 9 June 1984 – Helen Hardin, a Native American painter: Part I of II.
Below – “Robes”; “Petroglyph”; “Pause For Refreshment”; Heartline Deer”; “Red Man In Journey”; Untitled early work.
by Joyce Sutphen
I like it when they get together
and talk in voices that sound
like apple trees and grape vines,
and some of them wear hats
and go to Arizona in the winter,
and they all like to play cards.
They will always be the ones
who say “It is time to go now,”
even as we linger at the door,
or stand by the waiting cars, they
remember someone—an uncle we
never knew—and sigh, all
of them together, like wind
in the oak trees behind the farm
where they grew up—a place
the hen house and the soft
clucking that filled the sunlit yard.
Below – Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: “The Three Old Women”
This Date in Art History: Died 9 June 1984 – Helen Hardin, a Native American painter: Part II of II.
Below – “Messenger From The Sun”; “Kachina”; “Metamorphosis”; “Medicine Woman”; Zia Bird; “Arrival of the Cloud People.”
Musings in Spring: Barry Lopez
“To put your hands in a river is to feel the chords that bind the earth together.”
Below – Kris Friesen: “Edmonton River Valley”
Below – “Flow 3”; “Paradis”; “Fete 4”; “Fete 5”; “Entrelacee 4”; “Paysage 2.”
Born 9 June 1842 – Hazard Stevens, an American military officer, politician, writer, and mountaineer. On 17 August 1870 Hazard Stevens and P. B. Van Trump completed the first documented ascent of Mount Rainier in Washington. One hundred and seven years later, in May of 1977, I followed the path they forged all the way to the summit of this beautiful and dangerous mountain.
Below – Hazard Stevens; Mount Rainier; a view from Rainier’s summit.
Contemporary Austrian Art – Geza Ricz
Below – “At the barrel”; “Cabin III”; “Interior with armchair”; “The housework”; “The instructor.”
A Poem for Today
by Connie Wanek
Country people rise early
as their distant lights testify.
They don’t hold water in common. Each house
has a personal source, like a bank account,
a stone vault. Some share eggs,
some share expertise,
and some won’t even wave.
A walk for the mail elevates the heart rate.
Last November I saw a woman down the road
walk out to her mailbox dressed in blaze orange
cap to boot, a cautious soul.
Bullets can’t read her No Trespassing sign.
Strange to think they’re in the air
like lead bees with a fatal sting.
Our neighbor across the road sits in his kitchen
with his rifle handy and the window open.
You never know when. Once
he shot a trophy with his barrel resting on the sill.
He’s in his seventies, born here, joined the Navy,
came back. Hard work never hurt a man
until suddenly he was another broken tool.
His silhouette against the dawn
droops as though drought-stricken, each step
deliberate, down the driveway to his black mailbox,
prying it open. Checking a trap.