Trees are beautiful.
You can gaze at a tree for hours, discovering new details, losing yourself in the quiet whisper and subtle movements of its leaves and branches, watching birds flit through the foliage.
Step closer, and let your fingers trace the rough bark, following the grooves carved by the trunk’s expansion towards the sky, through frost cracks and sun scalds – sheltering countless insects and spiders.
Bark shields the tree from the elements, warding off fungal infections, insect attacks, and the attention of hungry birds, animals, and, in times of famine, humans.
Like people, trees heal with time and patience and then bearing the marks – warts and all – that map a history of small hurts and mishaps, accidents or abuse, childbirths and battles of war. Our skin spawns moles that may remain benign or, by whim of fate, turn malignant and deadly.
One Saturday, I wandered from the studio over to the walnut grove and collected scars by applying thin, round patches of fine porcelain along trunks and branches, impressing the manifestation of past hurts into the pliable material.
After bisque firing, I brushed metal washes to highlight the subtle grooves and ridges, then fired them again to preserve their image.
I will offer them at the Christmas Market our club holds annually, hoping to share a small delight and a message of the beauty of healing, imperfections embraced, warts and all.
I learned a lot about bark writing this. Do you want to learn about bark? Here you can:
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