NOTHING IF NOT EPHEMERAL
Lately, I've been inspired by the grace of emptiness—where we find relief between the details of our experiences. By this I mean nothing. Or, rather, absence. Absence (nothing) encourages expectation, and as I learned recently: expectation has its own surprises.
I went away last weekend to a cottage on the coast of Mendocino. It was a simple place. A former 1930's-era fishing shack in the company of about 10 other shacks, restored with Shaker simplicity. There were chickens and an organic garden (help yourself!), vintage linens and oil cloth on the painted kitchen table. There was a broom on the porch, and a towel for the dog. There was a wooden soaking tub hidden in the rushes between two ponds. At night there was darkness and stars—and a whole lot of frogs doing the frog thing.
And that's about it. Nothin' fancy, yet it was an aesthetic that could bring you to tears for the love and gratitude of discovery.
I wanted to have this quiet grace with me in case I needed it for inspiration in the future. I ran around taking photos of as much nothing as I could find: light, space, solitude and peace. I photographed the curtains...the tea towels...the view...even our egg shells—the most exquisite, blue egg shells I have ever seen. They were blue inside and out. To describe them as robin's egg blue seems unfair. They were chicken's egg blue. They were so unexpected and delightful that I saved all our shells and brought them home. I would keep some of that peace and beauty around the house. Maybe devise a project. Incorporate some of that blue into something.
Back in the city, I lined up my prized blue shells like fragile trophies on our stainless steel kitchen counter. They were still moist with eggness. Cool.
So yesterday, in a moment between emails, pdfs, calls and sketches, I went to steal another look at our shells. I wanted to indulge in the joy and delight of their extraordinary blueness for awhile. And there they were—my little humpty dumpties on the counter-all crisp and fragile and protected and...grey. Dishwater grey. PMS 420. Pale, dusty, sort of greenish grey. The insanely perfect pale blue sky at sunrise had dried right out of them. And the inside...now there was a surprise. The inside was pure, crisp, pearlescent white. Utter innocence. No color. Not a hint.
Nothing.
— Sandra Murray