House & Home

 As I sat there, taking the photos below, there was no sound; just complete silence, except when a crow called from somewhere in the trees and took off into the sky, only heard by the flutter of its wings and the branches that then threw snow to the ground. It was wonderful to hear absolutely nothing, and watch the forest slowly grow dark around me and the snowflakes softly and peacefully fall over it. It was like stepping through a door and into Narnia.

    If I listened very closely, I could hear the candle sizzle when a tiny snowflake was caught by the flame.

 

The neighbours of the house in the drawing could not tell you much about the old man lives who there. He has very few visitors, but the few who come are dressed nicely, in suits, ties, dresses-- and they come in limos and black cars. Sometimes they hear music drift from the house, the faintest notes played lovingly by a pianist at his piano, and the young children, outside past their bedtime, can hear it long into the darkening night, experimenting and changing like a thought. 

Sometimes the old man will leave the house for weeks, and return without anyone noticing, his arrival only marked by a few lit windows at night. He doesn't take much care of the house- the lawn is overgrown with grass and forest ferns, and the trees begin to claim back his yard-- but the children can tell you about all the times he had climbed to the roof, to the distress of every adult watching, on a ladder to carefully fix his weathervane after every storm. 

 

 

Sometimes he throws birdseed around the yard, and the crows come and gather on the roof and on the lawn. Eventually they learn from his mild manners that he means no harm, and will gather right up to his feet, moving only so that he can return to his door. The children start to call him a wizard after that. 

He even took in a stray cat; it was tattered and brown, and it wouldn't let anyone but the old man touch it. The only thing that changes about the house is the crows migrating for the winter, and the cat that would spend those colder days sitting at one of the windows of the house. As seasons go by, the house becomes surrounded by the forest, so that it gets harder to see through the trees, and the crows gather in the branches and the cat lurks underneath them, and the important people still come to visit, though they never stay long. The music still drifts through the forest on some evenings, though the glow of the windows is hard to see through the trees.

And that is all the neighbours could tell you about the old man who lives in that house.

Half-filled Pages

 Written very quickly by my standards, 'Half-filled Pages' was one of my early projects as a composer. It was nothing special, certainly; but it flips through half-filled pages very slowly, silently, and soothingly.

 

The Professor's Door

 I painted this, once, a long time ago. I felt it did not capture the feeling that I wanted, and so I tried painting it again.

    A hedgehog makes his way to Joe's house in a blizzard, struggling to waddle through the frozen snow and brace himself against a frenzy wind that blows wild in his face, biting his nose and paws. His scarf is wet and he wishes he'd worn gloves. 

    He eventually finds the bright door standing amidst the mixing black of night and white of bitter snow, and hurries forth with renewed spirits. He is expected by Woe, who ushers him inside and hurriedly puts him in a cozy chair in front of a fire to warm up with a mug of hot chocolate at hand. Woe returns from the kitchen with a tray of cookies and a helper.

 

       Here they are, gathered in front of a fire, the cold forgotten.

Dulce Domum

I had seen a painting of huddled buildings caught in a time of wintery wonder. The vividness of which I could imagine Mole and Rat walking down the street that winded between them was so inspiring that I decided I had to put it in my own sketchbook.

 

    In particular, it reminded me of Chapter 5, in which Mole and Rat go on a long stroll out on the countryside and come across a small village just as it begins to get dark. "The rapid nightfall of mid-December had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow. Little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through casements into the dark world without" (The Wind in the Willows, Chapter 5: Dulce Domum, pg.81.).

 It remained unfinished in my sketchbook for some days, during which Christmas and New Years passed me by.

  

 I kept painting on it, though, and slowly it took the form I had first imagined.

 

Night and snow slowly cover the little village. The two friends walk along between the buildings, watching as the light from the windows grows brighter as everything else grows darker around them.

 

 When I first read Wind in the Willows, I found flipping between pages created a feeling I cannot quite explain in words. The sentences wrapped around the artwork was like a window on it's own, letting us, the readers, look into their world much like they look through the glowing windows of every house. Every page feels full and complete. It is a feeling I hope to one day create in readers as they flip through the pages of my own stories.

 Poem of Winter

This scene could begin in many ways;
It could open with a character, or a sunset of purple and pink clouds like flowers;
But rightfully this scene can only begin with the golden evening hours.

Fall crowds the land like a moth to a lamp, and on this particular drear grey eve,
though it had been a dry summer, the ground was rather damp.

It already had been a cloudy day, dark as would suffice, and after a hearty supper, you decide, an evening walk would be rather nice.

You put on your boots and you grab your hat,
and you’ll need an umbrella, so you also nab that.

The muddy path before your walking feet had led,
And you are surrounded by the evening mist, hiding the path ahead.

The mud under your feet squelches,
and when you lift your boots the ground belches.

You continue to wander, with your supper at adjourn,
When suddenly you think, you must have taken a wrong turn.

The countryside is hidden behind a veil so foggy,
and in your boots your socks have begun to get uncomfortably soggy.

The air seems fresher, you think, like breathing in water when ones throat is dry.
And the mist seems to lift around you, revealing a settlement close by.

The houses are built of wood, ridged to the touch;
All different sizes and colours, brown, red, white and such.

There is a rushing and a bustling in the distance, and a scurry of sorts,
These are the Village Folk, always busy, always queer;
And as you get near, they disappear.

Always busy are they, preparing and running,
Because the Winter was coming.

The village takes the seasons quite seriously here.
Decorating every single year.

In the spring, they decorate with blossoms and seeds,
And in the summer they have lots of green and shade from the sun;
in the fall the village is full of red, yellow and brown.
In the winter they cover their homes with a blanket of white;
Yes, the village was always a beautiful sight.

The Village Folk are always busy here, you see-
So unnecessary visitors that come are considered distractions, all would agree.

Trudging along you come, a visitor here,
and the Village Folk look to see, turning their ear;
then they scurry to hide, running off inside.

The visitor stomps on, on through the path,
And onto the ground, you stomp with what seems all your wrath.

But as the sound of your steps grow far away,
and had you stayed behind,
you’d find,
the Village Folk continue on their way, working on their display.

Suddenly, the breeze grows and the clouds blow down with all their might,
And they gave the whole Village a very big fright.
The wind grows to a mighty gust, taking aloft the entire village’s roofs far into the sky;
almost stealing your hat with it, though it surely did try.

The Village Folk run and scurry, into their homes they hurry.
But as the wind slows, with one last sigh, a tiny flake comes flying by,
down from the sky.
It lands tickling on the tip of your nose, melting at your skin,
and you pause and look up, with a happy grin.

The snowflake is joined by more, all flying, gliding, crystals of ice, and as you scurry home,
the land is covered in snow, all flat and nice.

In the morning you’ll find, the neighbourhood covered in a blanket so grand,
piled up and spread right over the land.

Winter has come, snowflakes, hot chocolate, and happiness it does bring;
and the village goes to sleep, awaiting to awake in the spring.