Wealth and Ambition

The three-minute ride to the studio yesterday yielded something precious.

The road runs along the railway line, and plane trees, already splendidly committed to autumn, line the road. These have recently been subjected to routine council pruning: an inelegant topiary necessary to accommodate overhead power lines. It leaves the trees in a comical Y form, and I always feel vaguely humiliated on their behalf.

Today I was arrested by the sight of the severed branches awaiting disposal in a tangled row beneath the trees, still in full leaf and mirroring their overhead counterparts. I felt drawn to cross the road, feeling there must be a gift there for me.

 

As soon as I had felt it, I knew what it must be, and almost as soon as I knew, I found it. A darker mass of twigs, tipped on its side, but intact: a displaced birds' nest.

I felt overwhelmed by its being there for me to find, by the marvel of its intricate construction, the touching bed of soft furs and fibres at its centre. 

It is amazing what wealth is contained in such a thing. To find it was to encounter ideas of skill without ego; care independent of intellect; endeavor without certainty; design more ancient than I can comprehend. In a moment, I felt all the inexpressible troublings of sorrow and courage, blame and inevitability, fragility, instinct, family, loss, guilt, privilege, tenderness...

This small, wild triumph, overthrown by the oafish plod of urban imperatives, was almost weightless in my hands. I understood all there was to understand in the breath-held flash of first encounter, and felt as though I had stumbled on a priceless bounty.

Of course, the only way I know to honour it is to draw it. And that is an immense task!

I have begun - and already there are problems. For instance: I have, so typically, let the drawing outgrow its frame. Will I fit in enough for it to look wonderful, still? Will there be enough information, even, for it to look like a nest? I will press on, rather than begin anew. There is too much already that is nice about it: the smoke-grey, textured spaces where the ink has been erased are beautiful, and there is a momentum in the composition that I like.

If I need more space, I'll divide this one in two and add a third panel. The important thing is just to trust, isn't it? To keep building, twig by twig, in the faith that it will come to completion and serve its function before any other forces come to cast it aside.