Archives for posts with tag: pressed leaves


Until now I’ve mastered my resin-pouring skills on little wood panels ranging in size from 4″x4″ to 8″x8″ and I’ve learned a lot. Enough to brave a large 16″16 piece. Not exactly a piece of cake, but in the end it worked. For future pieces this size I may make life easier by using a larger squeegee tool than the playing cards I set out when I resin groups of smaller pieces. Maybe a deck of kid-sized Go Fish cards from the toy department will do the trick. Inexpensive sponge paintbrushes work well for smoothing out the drips on the sides of the panels in the first hour of drying. By then the resin has set enough to stay put during the rest of the cure time.

I made this background wash by dropping well-diluted acrylic paints into a thick wash of water. I allowed most of it to dry at it’s own rate but created some interest at the corners by blowing stronger colors toward the center with a drinking straw. I tried out a burst of dramatic papyrus but, in the end, settled on the smooth curves on nasturtium leaves which nestled naturally into pools of color. These washes are a test for my patience as I have learned that only slow unaided drying of pooled water yields the thin filaments of deep color that I love against the transparencies.




I am keenly aware of the change of seasons as they impact my garden. Lately I have been keeping an eagle eye out for changes in my plants. Some mean that I must harvest or lose. Others mean that if I stay vigilant, I’ll have the opportunity to harvest fresh leaves in a color they only display for a few weeks each year. Nasturtiums come quickly to mind — especially since I love to use them as suns and moons and many of them turn brilliantly yellow before they begin to wilt from the cold.

I made these two small pieces to celebrate autumn. The quote by Camus is one I love not only because of what it says about fall, but also because it expresses my belief about the sometimes forgotten parts of flowering plants. Although I do occasionally use flowers in my work, my primary medium is foliage.

The second piece rounds out the series of landscapes I have built over the last few months. This one is meant to represent daybreak. the moon is still visible but the sun is about to burst about the horizon. The ‘tree’ in the foreground — in reality, a scented geranium leaf — is bare of leaves, yet the grass is still green and the hills in the background, spotted by evergreens, have not yet turned from blue to wintry gray.



A while back I made one of these little dioramas that looks to me like a photograph I might have taken back in my landscape painting days. The bottom is layered, as nature would be with growth including dill and a sprig of new-growth andromeda — as nature would not be, but you get the idea. The central focus is on newly unfurled spring ferns. There are overhanging ‘branches’ of bleeding heart and what sky doesn’t need an etoile? Now that I’ve put this little piece together, I’m regretting that I harvested so few ferns at this stage of development. I love the sparseness of them but I guess I’ll have to wait until next spring to reap the benefits of that experience. All varieties of my ferns are now either fully open and robust or getting there fast.

This will probably be the last new piece to be packed up and headed to the Providence Artisan’s Market at Lippett Park this Saturday. The experts tell us the weather will be perfect!