Rosemary Clark Stiefel's
Statement
I sat at my desk looking out over Horse Cove to the
spring greening of the Fodderstacks when I noticed the distinct
patterning of the dying cone shaped hemlocks. I was stunned at how
many trees were dotting the landscape as far as I could see. Last
year the hemlocks were still gallantly trying to put out new
needles, and the Winter hid their fate among the other leaf bare
trees, but this Spring the harsh reality of their demise could not
be denied.
Later in the day, as the sky became
brilliantly golden in the
setting sun and the shadows turned shapes into shades of the Blue
Ridge blues, I saw a lone hawk soaring over the cove and the
Fodderstacks as if to bestow a blessing and I knew what I had to
do. If I were a composer I would have written a requiem, but I am
a painter and I wanted to say to the hemlock, "Thank you for your
majestic being and you will not be forgotten."
When I finished the painting I listened again to
the words of a song by Leonard Cohen called Nightingale, that
mystic bird in tales from the East. His poem about the bird seemed
to sum up what I was trying to say about the hemlock:
|
I built my house beside the wood
So I could hear you singing
And it was sweet, and it was good
And love was all beginning
Fair thee well my nightingale
'Twas long ago I found you
Now all your songs of beauty fail
The forest gathers round you
The sun goes down behind a veil
'Tis now when you would call me
So rest in peace my nightingale
Beneath your branch of holly
Fair thee well my nightingale
I lived but to be near you
Though you are singing somewhere still
I can no longer hear you. |
