Two islands connected by dreams

Two islands connected by dreams. I paint to flute, hang drum, cello. The brush is dancing on the canvas, a tribal rhythm on barefoot ground. The colours visceral. French ultramarine, cadmium yellow and orange, titanium white. Raw from the tube. Mixed in situ. Linseed oil lubricating the motion. The motion lubricating the mind, the heart and the being.

Two mountains         paint!

‘Two islands’ copyright Jeni McMillan

Oil on canvas, 60cm x 60 cm

Sleeping with the cat

I don’t usually write at this time of the morning. What am I even doing up? Last night’s merriment turned into this mornings unruly ride home through the sleeping suburbs. Thankfully no bike stacks this time. Late night binges are not my usual. I’m more likely to be walking the mountain by starlight or hanging out with the housies talking environmental politics and jewellery selling initiatives. Then there’s the all nighters slapping paint onto canvas while random french chansons blast through my headphones. No, I haven’t been clubbing for quite a while. Thanks, Kate, celebrating your return from the wilds where spitting is a national past-time was well worth the hangover. Have a good flight back and good luck starting your blog.

Disclaimer One: Sleeping with the cat has nothing to do with this little story. Disclaimer Two: I didn’t sleep with the cat.

‘Sleeping with the cat’, oil on canvas. 60cm x 60cm

copyright Jeni McMillan

sleeping with the cat

Wild hearts and appreciation

I’m feeling lazy today but I want to write something before I step into the grey-skied world beyond this room. So this is probably a good moment to thank everyone who has been reading my blog. Your sharing, appreciation and collaboration has encouraged me to write regularly and to create new artworks. Thank you so much.

wild heart

Jeni McMillan

‘wild heart series’, photographic collage.

My love is a garden at twilight

This is a rich time of change. The last flowers are tossed to the wind and roll across the wet grass. Autumn is quickly erased by the cold breath of winter. I stand in the twilight stillness and breathe in the last life of my past. My love, you are my garden. The roses are gone and I’m turning fresh soil. It’s time to plant broadbeans.

‘My love is a garden at twilight’, oil on canvas, 30x30cm

copyright Jeni McMillan

My love is a gaden at twilight

Superpowers and the sighs of trees

Try standing deep inside a forest, without a torch, and see what happens. If it is early in the evening, crickets call, animals begin to move around in search of food and the crack of a branch may send your heart racing like a rabbit escaping a fox. Closer to midnight you might hear silence or the sighs of trees welcoming the starlight or the passage of the moon.

When I explain that I can see clearly on the darkest night, sometimes even the colour of flowers or the tint of my clothes, friends look at me in disbelief. It’s not that I have a superpower, I simply love walking in a forest on a dark night and know that my eyes are capable of night adaptation.  I’m not unique. The receptor rods in our eyes reach maximum sensitivity after 30 to 45 minutes of total darkness. Many people won’t experience this because cities are never truly dark … not to mention spending the better part of an hour waiting for anything is a big ask in the frenetic world that accompanies urban life.

But I truly recommend the experience. You might feel fear prickle up your spine at the thought of being far from the madding crowd … or discover the magic of night.

The Power of One tiny drop

Every drop runs to the edge and free-falls. Despite a journey from somewhere else and an uncertain future, each rivulet of the clear mountain stream is entirely in the present. As I stand beneath the cascade I am aware that all I have is now. I let go of my past and leap into infinity.

Beneath Little River Falls

Photograph of Little River Falls – copyright Jeni McMillan

The Divine Tree

‘There is no going back. The collaboration between artist and muse began in a time when there was only the artist. She needed a muse and searched along the river. The water sang as it flowed over rocks. Create. She walked the mountain and talked to the trees. Create they whispered. She knew there was only one path. It began in the beginning of time and stretched to her bones.’

An appreciation for geokalpataru who creates beautiful word pictures and illustrations.  Thanks geo, for your insights and inspiration.

The Divine Tree, oil on canvas 60×60 cm, copyright Jeni McMillanThe divine tree

Feedback appreciated on whether anyone can see both images. I have added the smaller image into the text as it seems that there is a problem with the one at the top of my page.