from the Chronicles of Hartwood, Windcoming - August 2019 Print

My studio is set near one of the peaks in the Taconic mountains, which are close to -- but distinct from -- the Berkshire orogeny that defines the highlands of western Massachusettes. From time-to-time, about twice a year, comes a wind in a foul temper; it never lasts long. But, it rushes through the highlands with a force that bends trees and topples sculptures. Once, it snatched a tent, my best hammer still inside, and flipped it over past the sycamores and willows, then dashed it into the Kinderhook creek. Furthermore, it bellowed. I've lived through hurricanes and tornadoes, but i've never heard anything howl the way that gust did. So i asked myself, how do i paint the sound, not of a furious Taconic wind, but of the silent moment before, of the wind-coming? "Seems," madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems."'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, That can denote me truly: these indeed seem, For they are actions that a man might play: But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe." ~ William Shakespeare "Thou shalt be free as mountain winds: but then exactly do all points of my command." ~ William Shakespeare "The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night..." ~ William Shakespeare