Winter Light "Winter Light" by Bronwen Duncan
The inspiration for this is the Yukon December late afternoon light that is so warm-tinged in the absolute cold. This was very loosely based on a hike I did last December. The challenge of the project was to get the fox's face right; allowing the shadows to basically take over, and figuring out how the shadows work around the bottom of a tree. A mixture of wet-felting and needle-felting.
Poppies
"Poppies" by Bronwen Duncan
The inspiration for this project came from how poppies are so incredibly graceful and happy. The challenge was how to make the petals of a poppy not seem very heavy and wooly, but have some lightness to them. This was the first felt picture I've done where I did not add any further wool after I wet-felted - I just tidied up outlines with the needle.
Spring
"Spring" by Bronwen Duncan
The inspiration for this came from the poem by Mary Oliver of the same name which has long haunted me.
The challenges in this project were to get the trees to meld into the foreground, and to get the green grassy pieces to stay put (I'd cut them from a prefelt and so some of the fibres were so short they just wanted to bounce around). I was very pleased with how the trees seem to be dancing and as my English cousin noted: "The bear's eyes gaze on us rather than at us" (not quite sure how I did that!)
A mixture of wet felting and needle felting.
The inspiration for this came from the poem by Mary Oliver of the same name which has long haunted me.
The challenges in this project were to get the trees to meld into the foreground, and to get the green grassy pieces to stay put (I'd cut them from a prefelt and so some of the fibres were so short they just wanted to bounce around). I was very pleased with how the trees seem to be dancing and as my English cousin noted: "The bear's eyes gaze on us rather than at us" (not quite sure how I did that!)
A mixture of wet felting and needle felting.
Spring
by Mary Oliver
Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring
down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring
I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:
how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge
to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else
my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,
it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
all day I think of her--
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.
Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring
down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring
I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue
like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:
how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge
to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else
my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,
it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;
all day I think of her--
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.
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