|As part of my morning walks at the Berkeley Marina I am becoming more aware of specific birds in their natural habitats. This seems to have found its way into the work. During 2015 I've been interested in spaciousness as seen in the landscape and in attitude as well. How it feels and what it looks like, absent of form, and what might wind look like? In the midst of these meanderings, I've become quite intrigued with how the White Cabbage Moth inhabits space. The following poem also fed my imagination.|
Robert Graves - 1895-1985
The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has- who knows so well as I?-
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the acrobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift.