Hi, my name is Leah. I'm an artist :) I like painting, drawing, photography, architecture, and also poetry! Posting mostly things that inspire me and things that I've made
Inspired by Ali Cavanaugh’s modern frescoes. I’d love to try this out some day <3
Can you keep a secret? I’m making new things….
Why am I hesitant to post anywhere but here?
5 notes
See Post
#art #painting #wood #drawing #ink #higginsindiaink #indiaink #spaltedmaple #monochrome #monochromatic #architecture #building #flood #water #cloudysky #stormy
Umm so we’re seeing Good Old War tonight at Club Congress. SUPER STOKED! ❤️#goodoldwar #clubcongress
If my house were burning down, my first thought is that I would like to grab as many important things as I could get my hands on. I don’t deny being a somewhat materialistic person: put very simply, I like my stuff. The artwork on the walls, most that I made myself, one an authentic hand-painted tapestry from India, given to me by my grandmother, a few pieces traded from other artist friends; my grandfather’s ashes; my file book containing my taxes and other important documents; a hand-painted Oaxacan wood carving that I bought in college; the collection of letters I’ve kept from friends and family members over the years. But which object would I choose, which object would I protect? If I had to choose only one, the choice becomes very difficult. I skim over the objects around me and to every one, I think, “Not important enough,” or “Replaceable,” or “I could live without it.” To be perfectly honest I think it would be feasible for me to live without all of these objects I hold so dear.
But I must choose, and since that is the case I will settle on my book of writings. I don’t call this a journal, no. Not a diary. I actually don’t touch the thing all that often, really. But every important thing (some unimportant) that’s happened to me in the past four years is somehow recorded in that book. The poem I memorized at my grandfather’s funeral, a few quotes from a huge fight between my dad and my brother before he went off to college, a string of related dreams I had for a few weeks at a time once, a portion of a song that struck me as important on a given day, a letter I wrote to myself reminding me why not to ever consider getting back together with my ex-boyfriend, word-vomit drafts from when I was so sick with worry about my boyfriend’s drug addiction.
This book is the proof of how I have become the person that I am today, and I think if I needed to have something to hold on to from my years living in Arizona, I would need that book. It’s the one thing that if I lost, I would look back years later and wish I still had that book. Because it holds pieces of myself that I would never be able to get back.
I have always had an excellent memory for things like names, faces, voices and music. But I’ve noticed that I have a lot of trouble remembering moments in my life with any real clarity. I can never remember exactly how a conversation went, or what events transpired in what order on what day. Heck, when my grandfather passed away, I couldn’t even remember a single full conversation I had had with him. Wracked my brain for days and I couldn’t come up with anything – just feelings, fragmented images and the sound of his voice. I would forget most of what’s happened to me in my life if it weren’t for the act of writing it down.
So the book is it. I would protect
my memories, my words, the evidence of my life.
When I see birches bend to left and right,
Across the lines of straighter, darker trees
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay,
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As he breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth will make them shed crystal shells,
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust -
Such heaps of glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows -
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or Winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish.
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches
And so I dream of going back to be
It’s when I’m weary of considerations
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant my wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Robert Frost
“Birches”
2 notes
See Post
#poetry #art #words #robert frost #birches #trees #poem #remindsmeofmypoppy
Well, sing, sing at the top of your voice,
Love without fear in your heart.
Feel, feel like you still have a choice
If we all light up we can scare away the dark
We wish our weekdays away
Spend our weekends in bed
Drink ourselves stupid
And work ourselves dead
And all just because that’s what mom and dad said we should do
We should run through the forests
We should swim in the streams
We should laugh, we should cry,
We should love, we should dream
We should stare at the stars and not just the screens
You should hear what I’m saying and know what it means
To sing, sing at the top of your voice,
Love without fear in your heart.
Feel, feel like you still have a choice
If we all light up we can scare away the dark
Well, we wish we were happier, thinner and fitter,
We wish we weren’t losers and liars and quitters
We want something more not just nasty and bitter
We want something real not just hash tags and Twitter
It’s the meaning of life and it’s streamed live on YouTube
But I bet Gangnam Style will still get more views
We’re scared of drowning, flying and shooters
But we’re all slowly dying in front of computers
So sing, sing at the top of your voice,
Oh, love without fear in your heart.
Can you feel, feel like you still have a choice
If we all light up we can scare away the dark
2 notes
See Post
#music #lyrics #passenger #scare away the dark #song
“It’s Never Too Late”
Leah Lewman
Digital Photograph
2015
See Post
#art #photography #childhood #life #quote #wisdom #beautiful #shadows #doorway #window #photo #brick #bisbee #arizona