over her face.
It’d been too many seconds since air had found its way into her lungs, and with a sudden clarity, she realized she had never taken that breath.
Desperately, she inhaled, but she found no oxygen. Only the wet, sandy home-soil of the Central Coast.
Chapter 1
The autumn storm tore at the clouds covering MilfordHaven, revealing a swollen moon that hung over a coastline frothy with agitated surf.
Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.
She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, widefooted stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.
Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft shakuhachi flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.
When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.
By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the sumi ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.
She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece. When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes . . . it needs something more.
She felt the idea, more than she thought it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll. My teacher would add a touch of vermillion . . . but I’m not ready for that yet.
During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on sumi-e , and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.
But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls. I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.
Is this a “ head ” or a “ heart ” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.
Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process. At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me. The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and
It’d been too many seconds since air had found its way into her lungs, and with a sudden clarity, she realized she had never taken that breath.
Desperately, she inhaled, but she found no oxygen. Only the wet, sandy home-soil of the Central Coast.
Chapter 1
The autumn storm tore at the clouds covering MilfordHaven, revealing a swollen moon that hung over a coastline frothy with agitated surf.
Miranda Jones watched the distant flash of the lighthouse for a moment, then looked away from her window to focus on a narrow band of thick paper scrolled across her studio floor. Inhaling deeply, she dipped the tapered fibers of her immense paintbrush and struggled to lift its wet mass from the inky bucket, then swept a black streak across the white paper.
She held the three-inch diameter brush handle upright—its top reaching to her waist—and resumed her bent-knee, widefooted stance. Hoisting the fully saturated brush, she began the dance that would drag it rhythmically along the paper, creating a vertical image.
Placing her bare feet on the sheet, she stepped backwards, the weight of the sodden brush causing her arms to shake. Yet each motion synchronized with both the soft shakuhachi flute music that played over her stereo, and with the call the paper itself seemed to be whispering in her ear.
When she reached the end of the sheet, she walked back to her starting point, replaced the brush in its bucket, and stood entranced, her soul soaking up the experience even as the image soaked into the paper.
By now her studio was permeated with the distinct aroma of the sumi ink. Concocted of palm ash and glue, it also contained traces of camphor and musk oil. She inhaled again, agreeing with the legend that promised the ink’s special odor helped to induce the perfect meditative state.
She’d placed four black stones—smoothed and rounded from tumbling for years through the nearby surf—as weights to hold the scroll in place. Now they almost blended into the image, as though she’d added four extra smudges of ink. But, in fact, the stones would be removed and weren’t part of what she’d painted. She scrutinized the piece. When the stones are removed, will the piece look incomplete? Yes . . . it needs something more.
She felt the idea, more than she thought it. Focusing on an unfilled portion of the paper, she reached for a smaller brush that stood ready in its own bucket. She lifted it, then let her hand sweep through a series of motions. When she’d replaced the smaller brush, she closed her eyes and bowed over the paper, signaling the completion of the current scroll. My teacher would add a touch of vermillion . . . but I’m not ready for that yet.
During art school a few years earlier, she’d completed a course on sumi-e , and since then she’d occasionally used the ancient Japanese ink-wash painting as both a meditation and a discipline. Traditionally, it was both, from the almost ritualistic grinding of the ink stone into water, to the careful handling of brushes whose hairs were trimmed to a delicate point.
But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls. I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.
Is this a “ head ” or a “ heart ” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.
Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process. At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me. The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and
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