Prose

The Work of Silence

For the record, Tabby Ivy’s paintings reached me sooner than Tabby Ivy. What reached me in her paintings is their essential quiet, their silence. Silence in a work of art is something I hold dear.

And Then It Begins

I first saw Tabby’s paintings on Facebook, as part of a gallery exhibit in Missoula, Montana. The gallery, Radius Gallery, shared a cycle of images as part of an exhibit promotion. .

Worlds So Close

Spring in the far north, as it is in most places, is a season of renewal. After months of snow and almost three months of no sunlight, we are glad for any light—a lightbulb, the moon, high beams—that causes a break in the darkness.

The Place Where We Picked Berries

Sacred is an old word, one that means, among other meanings, “consecrated” or “set apart.” While we may appreciate or associate this meaning with a church or temple, we can recognize it, too, in certain of our shared places.

Contented

I questioned how content any artist or writer should be. It seems that an artist must struggle to produce work, as humdrum as that idea has become. But to struggle doesn’t require a week-by-week or day-by-day existential pounding

Despair

There are, of course, paintings that express despair. We see this in works of Munch and Vermeer, of Van Gogh and Goya, among other artists. We see faces overcome with grief and bodies twisted by violence.

Tabby’s Country

Last autumn I was in the company of Tabby Ivy. This reunion came after two years, dozens of paintings, hundreds of emails, thousands of words, and Tabby and her work becoming as regular to me as asking “what’s for dinner?”—except better.