They dug themselves out of the mountain ground by the hundreds, climbed high and split wide. Red-eyed crawled out of their own backs, soft, vulnerable and white, wings crumpled, to sit and darken and harden their final form black. Flew away to hum in a chorus of a hundred million tiny wooden bells chatter clacking love. Ground riddled with perfect holes, cast off skins and black bodies. Dogs and birds grew fat, as will the trees this and every seventeenth ring.
These are things found on my porch, drawn there by light and found their death. They are so delicate and small, shells of their former selves. Morbid. I am fascinated by the intricate way the body is put together, such tiny joints, and in drawing them I allow moments of awkwardness to reach in. The moth's small furry leg curls up towards its eye as if it should like to hide from my gaze, while its abdomen and wings disappear into the page. A wasp's identity becomes barely discernible as the lines it is made up of surface and disappear, save its legs which sprawl and clutch. These little drawings are partially in response to seeing my mother’s shell, her life drawn out of her by whomever cleans up after the Fates. Her body present but the picture incomplete.
side note: I determined I would post these two weeks ago, but little did I know they would be so hard to get a digital image of. I spent far too long scanning and tweaking, even built a light box to try photograph them only to find my camera was not up to the task, days passed. . . finally an epiphany and I figured out how to scan it differently. Still not perfect, but so glad I didn't settle.
