Patti Edmon Artist

Spring... the ideal metaphor for life, the awakening: dormant bulbs that rise, cracking open the winter-hard earth; the miracle of trees, seemingly barren, suddenly laden with buds sprouting at the tips of once empty branches. The beauty of a still morning, silence broken by birds that call through now-opened windows. And the storm that strikes here and there and there... violence wrenching apart the calm, torrents of rain puddling on saturated ground and clouds, beautiful purple-gold bellies turned to gray rage, swirling masses capable of the ultimate destruction. Then the aftermath, a step taken out the door that reveals washed, dazzling brick and pavement and rooftop, enveloped by the warmer air perfumed with hyacinth, lilies, nectar dripping from God's own hand. The seasonal roller coaster also wreaks havoc on my joints and absorbs my energy and passion drained despite the splendor of dogwood and cherry blossoms. Such effort to quell the frustration caused by the familiar inabi...

I asked Al (my daughter, Alice) if she'd like to help me organize the Altered Attic, where there's hardly a path to walk, an empty space to squeeze in one more container, so many piles - of paper, books and magazines, bottles and tins and jewelry repair pieces and watch parts, buttons, images clipped that I clipped but didn't use during the last project, or the dozen before that...  One of the downsides, maybe the only one, of having a studio is that it doesn't serve double duty. So, it's really easy to let old beeswax sit in the pot on the table next to the heat gun and dremel, jars of various media stacked like beer cans, paints and prepped substrates, the beginnings of a zillion brilliant ideas. Or two.  She had just the solution. It was a bit late and we had just finished making Cinderella's gown and veil, complete with tiara, mounted on cardboard for her Humanities class. Yawning, we looked around and I sighed and once again decided against tackling anythin...

I don't normally associate red with late winter, pre-tulip season that is; but when I went for a walk around the neighborhood, I noticed a swatch here, stroke there. Then I began looking for the color red. That's how it often is; we find bits of what we didn't realize we were seeking, in places obvious and subtle.  Walking with my eyes open, awake, aware, I captured the brilliance of a red birdhouse on an otherwise drab morning. The plane of a shutter sweeping out from a window, chimes thoughtfully placed in a spot where the light catches, splattering an array of larger circles across a wood floor. We notice if we're lucky, in tune with the wonders that are too easily buried, tossed in with the unusable, leftovers, the rinds pitched in with compost that loses all color.  Days ago we emerged, blinking like groundhogs in t-shirts reveling in the glory of the long-anticipated warmth, only to wake the next morning to a carpet of fresh snow, again, clumping on buds that foll...

There are signs of spring.... crocuses frozen in clusters of tiny pearls, the slant of light not nearly as harsh in the late afternoon, the remnants of our ice storm finally cleared. I photographed this piece of ice a week or so ago, still in the yard plastered to the leaf that gives it its shape. Up at 1:30 this morning, for some unknown and unusual reason, I messed with it a bit in photoshop, thought I'd present it, an offering to the receding winter, one that has been a real dandy. The ice on my front porch did make a nice backdrop for the bracelet that broke... slid off my wrist as I was flinging my keys in the direction of the front door. boo. One of my favorites, though I must admit, I do love this photograph. Having found most all the parts, one day I may repair it so that I can enjoy wearing it again. I suppose that making a cool photo from a broken bracelet is one way of finding treasure where I stumble (no, I didn't fall:). Blessings can be difficult to spot amid the ...

A major bonus in this attic is the window seat... spanning 6 feet wide by 2 feet deep, it is a lovely place for looking at the trees from a different perspective. And when our trees are blooming it's hard to feel less than hopeful, blessed by the sheer beauty that returns each spring. Taking breaks from creating collage, assemblage, magnets, whatever, to plop down on a cushion with a book reinvigorates without taking too much art time. Our neighbors use a lawn service (I always wonder what that is they're spraying, when they leave those "Stay Off the Grass," the little warning signs in their wake) but we don't even fertilize. On even the greyest winter morning birds nest in the branches so there's always something to see, but when the buds first appear, then burst open,  it reminds me of faith: no matter that so many months pass without a promise, the unfailing delivery never falls short of miraculous.