The wall art that I fondly call “The tree of life” looks upon the world at large from its perch above the burnished dining table. As wall hangings go, this one is rather stark- a single tree outlined in white patchwork. Hand-stitched white cloth placed upon fabric of dark, lifeblood red. The cloth then perfunctorily stretched edge to edge on a firm wooden frame, the taut fabric covered over with film to keep it dust-free. A tree, standing tall and proud, quite sure of its place in the world- the tree of life. There is strength in the clean lines of the trunk and roots, a quiet dignity in lines that a child may have drawn. A crown of intertwined leaves reaches skywards, reaching out, almost breaking free and flying free of the boundaries of the frame. A canopy radiates groundwards, the rustle of delicate leaves extravagantly placed, and you can almost bring to mind the cool shade and the feel of moist ground that you could scuffle underfoot. Some branches crisscross, some stand alone. Yet each complement, an easy part of a whole that seems just right. While this art lacks the detailing, say, of a Persian engraving, in its elegance and assertion- simple, calm, straightforward - there is a clear sense of purpose, of confident growth, growth that is earned. It was a hot summer afternoon, the mercury searing at 47 plus when I was tempted into buying this from a traveling tribal craft fair. It was perhaps some fifteen years ago- yet the dry heat that seared one’s skin, the futile whirring of the pedestal fans, the idle few that ambled looking cursorily at the wares on display, the echoes along that bare whitewashed hall, colorful goods stacked haphazardly on wooden tables – I’m surprised I remember all this. I’m surprised too, at the clarity and strength that a simple tribal woman has been able to showcase - and in a few simple lines capture the sweep of a Picasso.
Friday, October 13, 2006
tree of life
The wall art that I fondly call “The tree of life” looks upon the world at large from its perch above the burnished dining table. As wall hangings go, this one is rather stark- a single tree outlined in white patchwork. Hand-stitched white cloth placed upon fabric of dark, lifeblood red. The cloth then perfunctorily stretched edge to edge on a firm wooden frame, the taut fabric covered over with film to keep it dust-free. A tree, standing tall and proud, quite sure of its place in the world- the tree of life. There is strength in the clean lines of the trunk and roots, a quiet dignity in lines that a child may have drawn. A crown of intertwined leaves reaches skywards, reaching out, almost breaking free and flying free of the boundaries of the frame. A canopy radiates groundwards, the rustle of delicate leaves extravagantly placed, and you can almost bring to mind the cool shade and the feel of moist ground that you could scuffle underfoot. Some branches crisscross, some stand alone. Yet each complement, an easy part of a whole that seems just right. While this art lacks the detailing, say, of a Persian engraving, in its elegance and assertion- simple, calm, straightforward - there is a clear sense of purpose, of confident growth, growth that is earned. It was a hot summer afternoon, the mercury searing at 47 plus when I was tempted into buying this from a traveling tribal craft fair. It was perhaps some fifteen years ago- yet the dry heat that seared one’s skin, the futile whirring of the pedestal fans, the idle few that ambled looking cursorily at the wares on display, the echoes along that bare whitewashed hall, colorful goods stacked haphazardly on wooden tables – I’m surprised I remember all this. I’m surprised too, at the clarity and strength that a simple tribal woman has been able to showcase - and in a few simple lines capture the sweep of a Picasso.
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