Gnomon (One Who Knows)

We are of the Earth, and we will not have our knowing taken from us.

Though far from my best work, this is a way through and beyond.

Gnomon (One Who Knows),
watercolours and gouache on gesso prepared paper (2023)

When Earth and Sky Were One

For more than a month I’ve been working sporadically on this painting, wondering if I would ever complete it, grappling with problems (despite doing more preparatory planning than usual), and in particular feeling confronted by the many colours.

As I’m not much of a colourist I tend to use just a few related tones, but this painting demanded much more, and who was I to deny the muse? 

I’m still unsure how successful an image this is—it’s so bright!—but it has been growing on me.

I realised only recently that the light sides of the moons face away from the suns in each corner. An oversight, perhaps, but this is because the suns were a late addition to the design, and the moons were always intended to receive their light from the centre, from source. Ultimately, the suns do too.

Here, I repeat the symbols that keep returning: bird, snake, moon, spirals and hands. 

The title refers not to earth and sky being one and the same, but to their being connected, and thus part of the whole. (For more on this idea please see my previous post Resacralising the Sky.) 

As with all my art, this image is available from my Redbubble shop.

When Earth and Sky Were One, watercolours, gouache, and gold and copper acrylic
on gesso prepared paper (2021)

Waiting

It took quite an effort to create Our Lady of the Seeds, and I was rather overwhelmed by the response she received. Since then I’ve been waiting patiently for my next vision to capture my attention. I know it will arrive when it is ready. In the meantime I have been trying to keep busy, reworking an idea from last year into this little painting, and seeking new inspiration where it can be found.

Waiting, watercolours, gouache and metallic paint on gesso prepared card (2020)

Matrix (An Homage to Meinrad Craighead)

These are certainly strange times we are living through, and uncertainty is likely to be with us for some months to come. This, therefore, is a small offering, a creation long in the making, that I hope brings some solace—and if not that, at least a temporary distraction from the anxiety-laden news.

There are a number of inspiration-threads to this work. I will try to weave them together as best I can here.

Matrix, watercolours on gesso prepared card (2020)

As lunar symbolism has been a core part of my art over the past year, the ‘triple goddess’ symbol has often been on my mind. 

☽◯☾

While there may be some dispute surrounding the authenticity or validity of this symbol and concept in a contemporary sense, there is no doubt that there were numerous threefold goddesses in ancient times (the Fates, for instance), and that their triune nature is embodied by the lunar cycle, and vice versa. Thus the number three has symbolic (and, for me, aesthetic) significance. In my studies of Neolithic cultures it also came to my attention that very similar symbols can be found, such as this one from Knowth, Ireland (1), indicating that the roots of this image are very deep indeed.

In my explorations I came across ‘Lunulae / Crescents in Ancient Europe’ by Max Dashu, which displays some beautiful examples of the crescent moon/horn shape across time and cultures. It’s hard to believe that there isn’t some kind of ongoing meaning behind this symbol, though much remains a mystery. As Dashu says, ‘This whole post is about questions, not conclusions’. 

Messenger of the Invisible

Further searching led me to the lunitsa (‘little moon’)—the same symbol, inverted, and said to represent a bird (though the moon too), in ancient Slavic cultures, from shamanic ‘bird culture’ origins (2). I’m not sure of the veracity of this claim, and its almost impossible to find more in-depth information, though it does fit with the symbolism of Old Europe, and likely has some connection to it. Additionally, Phoenix of Elder Mountain says, ‘The moon and bird are the oldest pre-pagan female symbol for the emotional body, the feminine and the moon. Its a dual symbol which symbolizes the “soul bird” and the moon.’ All of this reminds me of my painting Messenger of the Invisible, which suggests that the lunula-bird has been subconsciously at work in me for some time.

Rainmaker

Since the aim with my art is not to create an image that is historically accurate, but rather to work intuitively and synthesise numerous influences into symbols that have meaning for me, the above information was enough to get ideas flowing. (Though it is always nice when the symbols naturally fall into place based on what we know of ancient realities, however disputed they may be—and more often than not, they do!)

If the lunitsa is a bird, I knew I would echo it with the snake, since the bird and snake are so entwined now in my mind. The snake would be an answering crescent, much like the serpent who arches like a rainbow, flowing with life-giving water, in my painting Rainmaker.

The other core influence for this image was Meinrad Craighead’s Symbols of the Mother (3). The simplicity, yet depth of meaning, in this work drew me in and wouldn’t let me go, and led to my use of a vertical format (rather than the horizontal design of the triple goddess symbol), and to the separation of the ‘upper and lower waters’/earth from sky/underworld from upperworld.

I scribbled down my first design in late January, so it feels like this painting has taken an age to come to fruition. There were false starts, an uncooperative painting technique (combined with my limited skills), plus rain and illness delays. I also made things difficult for myself by requiring accuracy and symmetry, based as the design was on a kind of sacred geometry. I very much doubted if I would finish it at all, but I persevered and found a way through to the end—at which point I was still without a title. The most obvious thought was to call it Goddess, my first thought just Untitled. But in listening to an interview with Max Dashu recently the perfect word came up: Matrix—the Latin for ‘womb,’ with its connotations of source or origin.

And just like that, everything fell into place. I hope it is a fitting homage to Meinrad. 

References

1. Image of megalithic designs, Knowth, Co. Meath, Ireland (middle or second half of 4^th millennium BC), from Marija Gimbutas, The Language of the Goddess: Unearthing the Hidden Symbols of Western Civilization, HarperSanFrancisco: New York, 1989, p. 286

2. https://www.facebook.com/471707109534948/photos/a.573305559375102/1474403889265260/?type=1&theater and https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/484348134899952305/

3. Text and image from Meinrad Craighead, The Sign of the Tree: Meditation in Images & Words, Artists House/Mitchell Beazley: London, 1979, pp. 110–111

Fluency

I think I am beginning to develop some fluency after many, many years of struggling to manifest my ideas in visual form. I feel a greater trust in the process now.

This new painting developed out of a spontaneous drawing I did one afternoon, and then refined into a symmetrical design (symmetry seems to be essential to me at the moment). At first I thought she was a river spirit, flowing as she does. But as I explored further, the word fluency came to me and took on significance. 

The word dates from the early 17^th century, when it meant ‘abundance’, and then ‘smooth and easy flow’; originally from Latin fluentia, from fluere, meaning ‘to flow’.

The influence of water, and therefore fluidity, has been with me since the inception of this blog, seeing as its symbolism is so tied up with the drip/surge of creativity, with the offerings that I am attempting to draw up from my own imaginative wellspring to share with the world.

Thoughts of language and the way we use words and story have also been important, surfacing in poems like ‘A New Language’ and paintings like Necklace of Mouths and Mothertongue. It’s clear that we need to change the way we speak (and write), and I believe that poetry is a crucial part of this—and poetic art—along with listening to the voices of the ancestors, and the earth herself.

Meaningful words are still scarce for me, though some flow is beginning to return, which makes me very happy indeed. And the symbolic connections that I am finding in my images is also pleasing me greatly. 

This image of Aphrodite seated on a swan (or goose?) throne from 6^th century BCE Greece was a core influence, with her hooded, columnar form. 

This I combined with that quintessential Goddess number—three—in the triangles, and the tri-lines emerging from the mouth (already seen in Rainmaker and The Broad One). I was also thinking of the chin tattoos of three or more lines (or more elaborate designs) that appear in numerous cultures, often on women, whether to represent something in particular, or merely for the purpose of beautifying the face. 

The three lines of Fluency—language, nourishment, creativity—flow down the length of the (seed-like or cocoon-shaped?) body, the two outer lines snaking dynamically—because Snake is never far away—while the central line travels straight. Perhaps this represents the stillness at the centre, flanked by the double motion of life and death, ebb and flow. Also, the movement is downwards, as that is my preferred trajectory, back to earth- and body-knowledge, rooted in matter. 

Forget outer space, I say. Go within!

The carved orthostats of the Neolithic, with their repetitive curves and spirals, which I have always found mysteriously evocative, were also on my mind. It was only later that I remembered the painted or engraved figurines so common to Old Europe, their bodies covered in lines and symbols, and thought: Of course! How could I have forgotten?

Not all connections are immediately apparent. They emerge as my thoughts twist and turn and tread over old ground, and I am pleasantly surprised.

The leaf- or flame-like shapes that sprout from the surface of the figure are perhaps the part that comes most from myself. These are lines of connection, or emanations of energy—little jewels of life and sensation.

I am so happy with this painting. She is serene, yet holds dynamism within. She speaks with and through her body, which sparks with aliveness. She is her own wellspring.

Through the silent waves, what does she say?

Fluency, watercolours and gouache on gesso prepared paper (2019)

Rainmaker

Rain has fallen recently, out west in the drought-stricken places, and the early weeks of autumn in the mountains have been cool and damp. 

From thoughts of rain has come my latest work of art: Rainmaker. 

Rainmaker, watercolours on gesso prepared paper (2019)

As I slowly read The Language of the Goddess by Marija Gimbutas recently, two images of Neolithic figurines stood out and combined to form a vision of blue and watery life-giving. The first is a masked figure—I love her face!—from southern Italy (c. 5300 BC); the second is a figure with streams flowing down her body, from north-east Hungary (c. 5000 BC).

 

In my own way, I united these figures, and included: meanders, which symbolise water and the Bird Goddess; Snake, as life force (amongst a host of other meanings); tri-lines/the number three, which represent totality, abundance, triple sources and triple springs, along with being associated with the birth/life-giving functions of the Goddess; and the open mouth as the Divine Source.

As Gimbutas writes, ‘the realm of the Goddess is the mythic watery sphere’ (p. 25) and ‘The Bird Goddess was the Source and Dispenser of life-giving moisture’ (p. 29). 

This work did present some challenges. I had to discover how she wanted to be depicted, which meant some exploratory drawings; and then I needed to work out how to paint her, which was something of an adventure in itself. In the end, I’m so happy with how she has turned out. 

May rain continue to fall where it is needed, and the wellspring never run dry.

Whence She Grew

It took three attempts to birth this image, but here she is.

My first attempt was short-sighted, for I quickly realised that, as the snakes and tree roots are quite stylised, the tree should be so too. I rethought things, came up with a new drawing, and began painting again. However, I did not prepare for the second attempt with the same sequence of colours that I used on the first, and was not happy with the result. So, with as much patience as I could muster, I began yet again …

This is, perhaps, a valuable lesson. I’m often so eager to be working on something that I have a tendency to rush into an idea without thinking it through sufficiently. From now on I’ll try to slow down.

Mothertongue

This work follows on from my previous painting, concerning the ancestral voices going back seven generations, the thread of knowledge that we may be able to learn how to grasp once more. Only this time, I acknowledge too the original guardians of wisdom, the serpents who are at the core of the mythologies of so many cultures around the world; the snakes that women once spoke to, and danced with, and welcomed into their houses with bowls of milk.

I attempted to get the paint to crack again, though the result is not as even as it was the first time. Yet it is enough. I am embracing imperfection, learning how to work with the things that do not go to plan, and create what I need to create anyway. 

I am finding that painting is something that I can do at the moment (little by little), in contrast to writing, which requires a kind of mental energy I just can’t summon. Though I miss playing with words, and feeling stories flow through me, I am instead speaking through images, and returning to ideas that tugged at my heartstrings half my lifetime ago. If I can, I am going to follow this serpentine thread back into the heart of things. Maybe it will lead me to my mothertongue—my inner wisdom, and the wisdom of my foremothers—which will give me the knowing and language I need to speak with words once more. 

And now the words ‘mother tongue’, language, widen out for me, as I see that the relationship to the one who has given us birth, and to that universe which engendered our being, might be the same as our relationship to language: we must trust words and the coming of words. (Susan Griffin, from ‘Thoughts on Writing: A Diary’, in Made from this Earth: An Anthology of Writings by Susan Griffin, Harper & Row: New York, 1982, p. 230)

Mothertongue, watercolours and gouache on gesso prepared paper (2019)

Capturing The Sky

Capturing the sky in a net as large as universes, complexity within its folds, its weave of colours, forms—light and energy made flesh. The sensuous is the sacred, the mother-matter that is all, and we dwell within Her body like cells of Herself, our own fire mingling with Her’s; our hearts beating with Her’s, blood flowing like rivers, ocean tides, a great breath—in and out, within and without, over and over, inside Her eternity. A constant unfolding is what She is, the change that never ends, the process that draws forth life, and beckons death, and makes the Wheel of Fortune turn, revolving on its axis of Love—the energy of Life, the gravity that merges all together. To hold love in your hands, to feel it in your bones, surging through your blood—a love-stream—is to know true joy and wonder, to have truly lived. To feel is to know, to have words of truth on your tongue. Truly, there is nothing more important than the language of life, its sensuous fabric.

Rivers run and free themselves from the constraints that bind them. They flow where they will, at will, and into my heart, which is nourished by the gush of liquid life, the purity that writes across the landscape in curvaceous lines, the serpent-body of which there is a small part in everything—the double-helix, the blueprint for life, held inside every body, to twist and dance through time, spiralling around in a lover’s dance, rhythmic and Eros-filled, pulsing inside flesh, blood, bone. The breath is a bond that opens us to All, that suffuses our bodies in invisible connection, with each other, and the Divine. Crossing boundaries is how magic happens, to influence events, to know what is beyond us—to perceive the ancient symbiosis of Life. Perception becomes Truth: the sensuous world is what leads us to wisdom. Small beings dart within us—the birds of emotion—winged and glorious, bathed in beauty. What is is sacred, it is whole, and we carry it within ourselves, as it carries us within itself—that great body of reality—full of storm and calm, a terrible beauty, that enlivens and nourishes. We live and die inside Her flesh—and there is nothing more nor less.

Singing the Sky, felt tip pen and gold pigment ink (2018)

Witchlines: Zemya–Zmiya

The first unit of Witchlines finished in early May, and the second unit started just last week, so I am running very behind with the creative tasks! 

This is the sixth (and second-last) creative piece (from Unit 1), which explores a dance of Old Europe, inspired by the existing dance traditions of Bulgaria. In this instance I have described a ‘chain dance,’ known throughout eastern Bulgaria as the bouenek, and more generically throughout Europe as the farandole. The dancers, with linked hands, form a living body, which draws figures on the ground like a snake. 

A note on the title: In Bulgarian, zemya = earth and zmiya = snake; both words come from the same etymological root—zumya, which means both of these things (as related by Anna Ilieva and Anna Shturbanova, in ‘Some Zoomorphic Images in Bulgarian Women’s Ritual Dances in the Context of Old European Symbolism’). 

Zemya–Zmiya

(Earth–Snake)

The women gather around the flat stone—the throne—the centre—Her ancient mineral eye. The eldest of them—grandmother, aunt, sister—pours the libation from the breasts of the vessel, the milk that nourishes—and calls in Snake.

There is a song that is sung in spring, in early summer, that the women find humming on their tongue, in their veins, as the life of the earth awakens, and She spreads her wings with joy. And the young maidens, all fresh with the beauty of youth and growing knowing, begin to hear it too, first softly, and then louder, more insistently. It brightens their eyes, quickens their feet. They let down their hair and bathe in cold streams. They wind garlands of leaves around their bodies, and tie sinuous belts round their slim waists. Fringed skirts fall from their hips, clay beads clinking. And with the women, they climb to the top of the hill, gathering like a swarm of humming bees, to circle the stone—the starting place, the doorway that opens.

The older women teach the younger the steps, the rhythm, the chant, rocking to and fro, skirts swaying—singing and dancing until Snake appears—emerging from the space between song and land, between body and spirit.

The maidens join hands, and the snake begins to move, circling around the sacred stone, spiralling in and out, pulsing and gliding to a rhythm made visible, given form, in a long, graceful body with many eyes. The snake coils slowly down the hillside, caressing and caressed by new green shoots, fragrant herbs, pulled by an irresistible force.

The women begin to sing more loudly, and the green-clad snake to move more quickly, as they near the foot of the hill, and the fields where the emmer will grow, the beans, the vetch. Past the enclosures where the pigs wallow, and where the goats gaze out with curiosity. The snake glides, guided by the song, pulling energy from the ground, and releasing it into the air, thrusting it up from plant roots into leaves and buds.

When the snake nears the village its body coils in one last spiral of turning energy, before it is dismembered, disappearing back into the fertile earth, as the maidens unlink their hands. Then they dance with the young men, who call their own energy up from the ground, from their bodies, to mingle with the women’s song.

That evening, after a long day of singing, dancing, and feasting, the people return to their houses to sleep. Joyful. Grateful. 

Small green snakes lie coiled in the corners of the rooms.

Image of a dancing woman wearing a ritual belt, from Magurata Cave,
north-west Bulgaria, c. 4500–4000 BC (Source: Wikimedia Commons, by Vislupus) 

Witchlines: Snake Woman

Here is the fifth creative piece I have completed as part of my Witchlines studies. 

For this prompt we were to pick one of the many deities we had read of, and to enquire a little more deeply into their story. I asked the Snake Goddess to tell me a tell me something of her tale, and this is what she said:

Snake Woman

I come from the ocean, the rivers and lakes—all the waterways that caress the earth’s sides, penetrate her caves and crevices, seeping under stones, through soil, into clay. I dwell inside the earth, underground. Yet at the dark of the moon, I emerge from below, to let starlight shimmer on my black skin. And as I slither across the surface of the ground, and the moon grows round, I shed my skin and begin to shine, silvery and studded with gems. 

I circle around myself, the earth, the waters, eating and disgorging my own body. I slide into any cranny and make it my home. I am everywhere, under your feet and spanning the sky—my rainbow bridge showing the way to the Otherworld inside me.

Two-headed, two-tongued, two bodies spiralling—black and white and every colour—I give you what grows, and I take it back, destroy and recreate, for I am never-ending. My eyes see forever, my body knows All, my tongue tastes your flesh. I lick you into shape when you are born, as I bite and swallow you down when you die. 

You walk on my skin, breathe my breath, dance in my belly.

I told the first woman, the first man: 

If you feed me—milk and honey and sweet water—I will bless you and help you to grow; protect your dwellings, as I protect all Life.

But know this: I change.

And so must you.

Yet if you keep my circle whole—despite those who would break it—you will not die, only return to me. If you allow me into your home, an honoured guest, then I will gladly welcome you home.

I am in the sky-drawn reach of a tree, in the earth-bound roots, in the autumn leaves that swirl as they fall, and spring’s budding green. I am in the curl of a ram’s horn, the span of a bird’s wings, in flowing streams and whirling winds. I am in twisting vines and gliding snakes, and the Spirit that pervades everything. I am in woman and man, in girl and boy. I am in the dance of Life, and the un-dance of Death—in the energy that coils out from the centre and back again.  

And All is in me.

Rainbow Snake, watercolours and gouache on primed paper (May 2018)

Serpent Green

I greatly underestimated the time it would take to get my studio into working order. I had hoped to be in there by now, writing and making art, but instead we are only just getting to the stage of painting colour on the walls. However, I thought I would tell you about the colour I chose—a warm green, called Serpent—for it means something to me. Not only do I hope that it will provide a calm space to work in, I also hope that it will be conducive to creativity itself, as green is the colour of growth. There is, in fact, an etymological relationship between the words green, grow and grass.

The name of the colour is also significant, for I’ve been preoccupied with the idea of snakes for some time: their earth-bound sensuousness; their ability to shed their skins—a symbol of regeneration; their connection with healing. 

Snake Goddess figurine, early Cretan Neolithic, c. 6500–5500 BCE (Source: Wikimedia, by Zde)

I wrote a story last year that featured Snake, the shedding of skins, and the healing of a rift between self and land. I wrote ‘Furies’, a poem alluding to the mythological Furies or Erinyes, snake-haired and winged ‘monsters’ of ancient Greece. And I read Sylvia Linsteadt’s powerful novella, The Dark Country (which I wrote about here)—a story of the return of the chthonic powers of the earth in the form of a great white serpent.

Sylvia’s writing has been a particular influence on me; as is her Witchlines Study Guild, which I am currently taking part in—most especially because I am learning more about the closely related Neolithic Bird and Snake Goddesses. Fascinatingly, elements of these goddesses can still be seen, albeit in diminished form, in later goddesses, monsters and witches. All of this is providing much food for thought, and inspiration for potential artworks. That’s why I am glad that this serpentine influence is going to be an integral part of my studio space.

Minoan Snake Goddess figurine, c. 1600 BCE, Heraklion Archaeological Museum
(Source: Wikimedia, by Jebulon)

This is also a good opportunity for me to tell you about Sylvia’s recent book, Our Lady of the Dark Country (2017). As I wrote last year, Sylvia’s novella, The Dark Country, was only available as part of limited print runs. However, it has now been published in this collection of short stories and poetry, through which a serpentine, feminine and earthy wisdom runs. As Sylvia writes in the introduction:

Women and men of heart, Earth’s snakes are speaking. It is time we listen for the truth they tell us through the centers of ourselves. Women and men of heart, we make a spiral round this planet. It is time to tell the old stories that have damaged us differently. To go beneath what we’ve been told and into the dark country, into the Earth, where the other side of those stories is hidden, the truth that was carried all along in the roots of the trees despite thousands of years of war. (p. xiv)

If you are not familiar with Sylvia’s writing, this is, perhaps, a very good place to start. You can read the full introduction on her blog, The Gleewoman’s Notes. (The cover art is Deer Madonna, by Rima Staines.)

Meanwhile, I will be thinking of Snake, in all her many forms, and of the snaking roots of wisdom that stem from the Neolithic, and how these things might manifest in my life and work.