Tonight’s Chinese Fortune

September 2, 2025 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am so sleepy, but this seemed like a good way to end the day. I’ve been meaning to come back on here for a while and time just keeps getting away from me. The pictures above are of a project I’m working on which is about houses and this woman who is obsessed with them. For my birthday, Henry got me a glass dip pen, ink, and a book I can bind myself, and I finally began using it the other day. I try to draw when I have energy or am too awake, because the strokes and scrumbles are very meditative for me and it fills me with quiet that I’m often lacking. I’ll have to come back here soon and do a post specifically on the pen and drawings.

But today was a very good day. I talked to three friends, and I put away a large pile of laundry on the floor, washed the bedding, and put in a load of towels after that.

Every time I’ve asked Henry to take care of a spider in recent months, he has gone and found a piece of paper and a cup and relocated them, even if they were especially squirrely. I tell him it’s sweet of him, and he just says it’s never sat right with him to kill a spider after he read that poem that ends,

“If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man.”

So, this evening when I was on my phone call and saw a sharp, spindly little creature racketing around my laundry closet, I told my friend offhandedly,

“One second, I have to kill this spider.”

And as I was looking for something to wack it with, I poked my head out to ask Henry to kill it for me, and I remembered that he doesn’t like to kill spiders. And then I remembered the poem. Then I remembered that I don’t like to kill spiders. And so she gets to live in the wash room until she meets her natural end. It’s only fair. I always thought that poem was beautiful, and it broke my heart but for some reason, it wasn’t until I watched someone live it out that I found it in myself to do the same.

A little bit later we went to our favorite restaurant and talked about the art our friends make; one makes impressive, beautiful paintings, the other makes photography with skill I can only aspire to. She got a new camera with 120 mm film, as opposed to her usual 35 mm film. I’m really looking forward to seeing what each of them make this year.

I paid this time, he often does, and when we got in the truck we broke our cookies and read our fortunes. He should be open to adventure on Wednesday, and my night will be filled with connection and love.

He’s in the other room working on an exam, and I’m here, doing chores and writing this letter. And my night is indeed filled with connection, and love.

Here’s hoping some of it gets to you,

—Mabel

Oh, P.S., the poem is “Kinder Than Man” by Althea Davis.

Uncategorized

A Day at the Lake

August 20, 2025 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

Isn’t that a nice picture? Look how bright the clouds are, and how shimmery the water is. I’m very proud of that one actually.

Henry (my partner and friend I’ve mentioned in past entries) and I went on a long drive and spent the day at the lake. For several months now, I’ve made some rather gruesome jokes about drowning, which he does not appreciate. The thing about it is though, there’s a certain mystique, a certain kind of romance around water and its temperament. Murder mysteries, ghost stories, and ladies of the lake. Not to mention, drowning in art is a lot different than drowning in reality. All kinds of symbolism and even hope in literature that simply is not present in real life accounts; in reality, drowning is just another way to die. Sometimes horrible, sometimes mundane, an unfortunate but not uncommon part of life. In art, it can symbolize anything from feelings of floating and sinking, stagnation, and depression, but also magic, freedom, otherworldliness, peace, and clarity.

As I mentioned though, it’s different in art than in reality and the simple truth is that despite all my jokes, I am actually terrified of drowning. I have been since I was a little girl.

And that’s why it was truly lovely to go to a quiet spot on the lake, pull out some sandwiches, chips and drinks for a nice lunch, and then wade out slowly onto the rocks. The algae was beautiful and absolutely disgusting as our feet kicked it up in the water, Henry grabbing rocks with his toes and “gifting” them to me to throw onto shore. I asked him where the edge of the cliff was under the water and he bobbed over to a spot and said “right about here.”

For the next several hours between bouts of exploring and playing games together, I swam out, rolled onto my back, swam awkwardly and slowly, and went further out than I’ve ever managed to before.

The top layer (about the first two feet) of water were warm. Almost like a bath, very warm. And when I would stop to tread water, looking at the navy blue surface and glassy sheen, I thought back to all those murder mysteries and legends. And the water was so cold. Three feet down it must have dropped 15 degrees or more. It was so refreshing. Motorboats sped past and nearby, families and friends floated lazily with beers in hand.

It was so nice to do something. Something very small, but I’ve never felt the temperature of water change like that. And I’ve never seen a lake from its middle. And no one has ever collected rocks for me with their feet. And I rarely enjoy the sun so much, but I definitely did that day. And sandwiches are rarely that good. And drives back are usually not so sleepy. Evenings not usually so content.

There was nothing earth shattering about that day, but it was nice to feel the reality of being in the water, in addition to thinking about the stories of it. I’m still afraid of drowning though. But that’s fine.

Anyways, all my love,

—Mabel

Uncategorized

A Little Relief

July 17, 2025July 17, 2025 MabelLeave a comment

There is a girl who every time she sees my cabin, breaks down crying. She grabs her chest, grips her breasts, falling to her knees and weeps. She loves it here. She’s a woman actually, not a girl, but she feels small and insignificant like although she is technically alive, one day she stopped progressing. Like maybe she didn’t deserve to age like the rest of them so she stopped. Truth be told, I have never actually invited her in.

I built this house for her. I said I built it for others, but it was for her. I assumed she knew that but.

She has never been inside.

I think she loves it because she aches for home. She feels the swirling patterns of the wind in the front yard and she sees the brown leaves it picks up in its arms, and she hears a song by Iron and Wine and she thinks of the man she will send that song to when he’s away and she will tell him he is her home. And earthside, he is. He is the same as the song by Iron and Wine, and the wind and dead leaves, and the blurry idea she has of this cabin as she stands outside it weeping.

I think she weeps because she feels relief and relief feels like grief. She weeps like a woman that is safe. She pays no mind to the fact that she is not invited in. She thinks not of wolves or strange men in the forest. She weeps as though she has lost everything, or that there is no such thing as loss, maybe.

She is not often in my front yard. She does not often haunt my window like the dead. More often, she is driving around an unexplored neighborhood at night with gas she does not have. She sobs about how beautiful the porch lights are. And twinkle lights and garden lights and streetlights. They give her a little relief.

More often, she is buying a cup of ice cream with strawberries and chocolate fudge for seven dollars even though that is a painful price for a cup of ice cream and she should save her money. It gives her a little relief.

More often, she is taking a phone call from her best friend, or maybe her oldest friend, or her love.

More often, she is checking the weather app to see if it says “rain” or “thunderstorm warning” even though she has a shift to work and can’t go outside.

More often she is making a cup of coffee that will hurt her stomach. It offers a little relief, in theory.

Sometimes, without being able to explain why, a person goes dumb with pain and mourning.

If splitting yourself into two people and watching one weep at your window allows you to act with some self-compassion, then split them. Because I have been thinking about a little relief lately. Reliefs that are borrowed. Reliefs that are bought on credit. That run out. That shouldn’t be used.

Two years ago I wrote this same post, basically, except it was about banana splits. I wrote it because there were dead dogs littering the roads in a town I refuse to claim as mine. And there were dogs starving in public parks and people would throw things at them instead of helping. Puppies left to drown in drainage ditches with their broken-down puppy-mill-mothers. And our neighbors shot their Blue Heeler because he chewed the cords on their boat. And they left him for dead in a blizzard. And because I spent five days a week at a struggling animal shelter. And because someone I lived with watched animals screaming and being tortured online with a mixture of rage and grief for them and wouldn’t turn the videos off even when I begged because there was nowhere I could go to escape it. Any of it. But I wrote to you about a banana split because I didn’t want to be alive and I didn’t want to say that and I didn’t want to write about ugliness.

You take your little relief. You go ahead and watch Moomin Valley or play Minecraft or read a silly book or buy yourself a seven-dollar coffee because we will come out of these times if we don’t succumb to them. Things can get better later.

You know, that man that the woman loves, he caught her a dying firefly. It died in his hands before he dropped it into hers.

The dead firefly glowed for a few more hours.

Take your little relief.

—Mabel

cottagecore · recipes

My Return… (& a cake recipe)

May 18, 2025May 30, 2025 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

It has been a while. I’m afraid that I’ve left behind quite a few friends and quite a few strangers. Forgot to call or couldn’t make myself. It has been a long year. It’s actually been a long four years if I’m honest. This place was something I built for myself to escape that. And whatever this house is made of, it’s sat empty for too long. I’m always leaving my doors and windows open and wondering why the sills are water damaged and there are bugs in the linens. A mess on the floor that I left myself to pick up in the future. I’m tired of all of it. And I’m tired of myself.

And I’ve come back now, and it’s bleak, this house. I left it lightless. And this is when I need it most. Returned on an overcast day. My nose is running as a wet breeze hits my face. So, I’ve brought a candle in a shoe box to put in the window and bags of tea tied to the beltloop of my pants. There should still be supplies here I can use to clean this up. I am not so magical here as to be above owning a washer and dryer… And a vacuum cleaner. (I don’t tell people that, brooms are so much more aesthetically pleasing than vacuum cleaners.) Anyways, look, a thunderstorm is coming.

I’ll have a guest arriving later with a cake I made in his kitchen. I took my picture for this recipe there. It’s a long trip, but he said he’d bring it to me, so I know he will. This one is special, and I love him dearly. He keeps his word. He loves me back. I could almost swear he’s made of sunshine, but there’s water behind his eyes which knocks him off balance sometimes. And he is so good.

Now, for cooler, darker spring days, here’s a recipe that will hopefully remind you of a hot cup of tea with a bit of rum, spiced:

Hot Toddy Cake

Cake:

2 1/2 cups flour

1 cup sugar

1 tablespoon baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon coriander

The contents of one black tea bag

2 eggs

3/4 cups vegetable oil

1/3 cup water

2 tablespoons sour cream

Simple syrup:

1 handful of sugar

1 tablespoon rum

2 tablespoons black tea

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Frosting:

1 cup heavy whipping cream

1 cup powdered sugar

2 tablespoons spiced rum

2 tablespoons black tea

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine all dry ingredients before adding oil, water, eggs, and sour cream. Mix until smooth and pour into a greased 9×9 round cake pan. Bake for forty minutes or until a knife inserted comes out clean.

For the simple syrup, I simply mix a handful of sugar into my hot liquid. When the cake comes out, after cooling a little while, I drizzle or spoon it on.

For the whipped topping, whip the cream until soft peaks form, then add in sugar, rum, tea, and lemon juice, and mix again. This icing has a lighter, smoother texture and less sugar than a buttercream or cream cheese icing, which I personally enjoy. After the cake has fully cooled, pour the icing/frosting onto the cake and smooth out with the back of a spoon.

And that’s the recipe.

You know, I love this home because I have the power here. I’m not beholden to anyone. I am not at anyone’s mercy. And for a long time, I thought I built it for all of you. I love you so. But I think I built it because this is a place where people have to come to me. And if they come to me, I can’t be a burden. No one can tell me that I was too heavy to carry. Or how expensive I am. This is space I can afford to take up. I’m very grateful for that. And I’m very grateful for those who visit me here, on my terms, because I’m really a person who is very afraid of the rejection and resentment of others.

Relieved to be back,

—Mabel

P.S., the thunder outside is getting louder.

art · Art & Writing

The Number One Thing that Changed my Art

February 21, 2024October 9, 2024 Mabel1 Comment

Hello Stranger.

If you were here right now, there would be clothes and trash on the floor, and dishes piling up in the kitchen. You would detect a faint light in the window, but the curtains would be drawn, and the door locked because I did not trust the night. For the first time, you would see bills and notices with my personal information littering side tables and flung haphazardly on the kitchen table and under it. But what would I care? The dangers are outside. You are inside. You would feel vaguely ill at ease, and I would be grateful that you felt it too.

There would still be food and something to drink.

And it would be a good night to discuss the subject of art.

My art changed forever when I stopped trying to make masterpieces, and started making things that were accessible.

There are two aspects to this. The first part was mental.

About three New Year’s’ ago, I bought myself a nice sketchbook. I had very specific plans for it, it was going to be used as a field guide for a world I was building, hoping to make a book. A list of ‘flora and fauna’ and the corresponding illustrations. I painstakingly researched medicinal plants, sketched and painted them, and wrote descriptions of them describing how they would apply in the other world. I got two pages done. I didn’t touch the sketchbook for the next year.

I was proud of the art! In fact, I still really like what I created. But it was stressful. It was high effort, and joyless. I was working full time and in college, and when I got home, I was exhausted.

It all changed when, a year later, I sat down to draw with my little sister and sketched a frog, a little cottage, and some mushrooms. And then it looked empty, so I splattered it with blue and green paint. I liked those.

Just like that, the sketchbook was ruined. It was no longer going to be used for flora and fauna of one specific world.

Now, this doesn’t bother everyone, but for someone like me, it made my skin itch. I felt a vague but intense sense of shame and guilt for straying from my original intent. I was a flake. And my story would never exist.

Let me just say, I have made more art, and more bright, happy, interesting artwork, and sewn together more stories in that sketchbook than I ever did before. When I had to quit my job, move states, and stayed in a room, sick with long-covid for three months, I made art. Not beautiful, detailed portraits. Not things that took my energy. I drew simple lines and painted in bright colors. I used whatever I needed to ‘cheat.’ Whatever tools could help tell the story that I hadn’t allowed myself to use before. And I didn’t freak out when sharpies bled onto the pages behind them. (That was a big deal for me.)

Instead of stressing about what my human characters looked like, I just drew a scraggly little guy in pen, and painted him in bright colors, and wrote him a little blurb in a pretty font. Instead of meticulously planning a page, I drew a general idea of what I wanted and splattered paint all over it. It didn’t have to be ‘the exact mushroom from my head,’ it had to be a mushroom. It didn’t have to be a perfect van, it had to be a van on a misty mountain with the words, ‘I would like to live in a van and drive through the mountains one day.’

I know I’m rambling, but honestly, how often do we hold ourselves back because we’re afraid that either our art will look imperfect, or that the imperfections will look like us? Art is one of the few areas in life that I don’t just carry shame and it eats me alive that other people do.

For the next week, what if you drew little comics with stick figures. What if you painted abstract figures or splattered colors. What if you looked at it without criticizing yourself so harshly. What then.

The second part was physical.

After long-covid, I am chronically exhausted. I am often sad or numb, and you know what, I was before too. But I can’t just ignore it anymore. When I get sick now, I stay sick for a long time. I feel like I have so little within me.

Babe, if you have a funny joke in your mind but it can only happen in a certain scenario, write it down. If you want to sketch Pete Davidson on a receipt from the Chinese restaurant, do it. If all you’ve got in you is a weird little guy in a striped sweater, but he’s there a lot, get him out on paper. Draw stick figures. Honey, it’s okay. The art that I make when I have almost nothing, is the art at the bottom of me.

It changed my life.

Just create what’s accessible to you. It’s okay.

Anyway, much love to you. As you know, my name is not actually

–Mabel

cottagecore

I’m Reintroducing Myself

January 12, 2024 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

I’ve been gone a while, but I thought about this space a lot. I love this blog, but I realized along the way that it was getting harder and harder to write, and I knew why but I hadn’t fully processed it.

When I first started this blog, I wanted to give myself a place to practice my writing and work through ideas I have about life and creativity, but I also wanted an escape for me and for the people that would find it. It was a dark time. I didn’t talk about that nearly as much as I could have. It wouldn’t be the place I wanted to stay if I had.

I’ve mentioned a house in the woods, with a light in the window. And though I’m sure most of you could tell from my writing that I am a young woman, in my mind I didn’t have to have an age. I could just be Mabel, and I actually hoped people might imagine me as an older woman. I at least wanted to cast doubt, because Mabel is a character. She is a deflection away from who I really am. And if I’m honest, when I started this blog, I didn’t want to be a young woman with an uncertain life ahead and no idea what I’m doing. I wanted to feel steady, and ready to face any reality, and any other life that came into my orbit.

I wanted to be someone, who even if the world was ending, she would look out the window at the fires in the distance with a sadness in her eyes, but not fear. She’d turn with determined attention back to what she was baking, tidy the kitchen, and prepare for any guests including Jesus. The end of the world doesn’t happen in a day, you know. There are bound to be stragglers.

The problem I came to was that not acknowledging my life, my age, and the person I believe I am, I was unable to share as much as I wanted to about anything. It made me incapable of creating a home here. So now I think it’s time to reintroduce myself.

I’m 21 years old, and only moved out of my parents’ home a few months ago.

I’m in university earning a degree in studio art. I want to build a business selling wood sculptures.

That plan changes every two weeks.

Also, the reason my writing schedule fell off later last year was because of my university schedule, and it will likely fall off again this semester.

My real-life personality is much louder and more awkward than the one that I write here. I also have severe anxiety that I am very good at hiding but it impacts my functioning in almost every faction of my life.

I live in the city now, and suburbs before that. I’ve never quite lived in the country, though some places have come close.

This blog is a mix of reality and fantasy. If I talk about a cottage or a cabin or my old, gnarled hands, I’m telling a story.

The stories I choose to tell might change the vibe of the home I make here but I still want it to be a good place.

Those are some points of clarity for things I either haven’t mentioned or have only mentioned briefly. I made you read all that because I don’t think I can do what I want to do if I’m not a real person with a real life. And real-life grates on me. I’m not excited about ‘life’ anymore. But if someone feels the same, I’m still aiming to have some hope, and have some happy little lights here. So keep stopping by.

And Happy New Year!

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: A Brief History of Vampires

September 23, 2023September 23, 2023 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers,

I am nothing if not (in)consistent. Today (eleven o’clock at night,) I am going to do things a bit differently; I am going to reveal to you the surprising and potentially very inaccurate history of the folkloric tradition of vampires as I have learned it.

Beginning in the Slavic region of Europe, ‘wampyrs’ or ‘vampyrs’ were not blood sucking demons but were actually mythic creatures that sucked the rain from the storm clouds and causing the droughts that starved communities. Similar to the gods of other communities, they served as explanations for weather patterns and as causes of human suffering.

After this, it came to mean a race of creatures that devoured celestial bodies including the sun, and also the moon. They were thought to be the cause of eclipses and blood moons, when they would bite the moon, turning it red. Now, interestingly, this is also where the werewolf myth begins. Part of the vampyr myth was that they could shapeshift into creatures like crows, cats, rabbits, and, you guessed it, wolves. Because of this, and because of the new lore surrounding the moon and stars, historians have a difficult time deciding which myths belong to which creatures, and the meanings of the name that they shared for a long time. To this day, there is conflict between vampires and werewolves not only in the interpretation of their stories, but also as characters in the stories themsleves.

After all of this, we arrive at the familiar tale of the blood sucking demon. There wasn’t much to tell here, it was simply a terrifying supernatural creature, feeding on the blood of humans. Until it became something else. Something closer to a human.

If a human were to turn into a vampire, (forgive my many spellings of the word, I know it’s distracting,) there was usually a reason for it. Parents might curse their child, and when that child died, they would return as a vampire, roaming restlessly in search of human blood. They might be a child born out of wedlock, a union not blessed by God. I take issue with that kind of assertion, because I believe that God is merciful and that every person will have a chance to repent of their sins and be saved. I take issues with stories that twist our perception of reality, but it was a cultural belief at the time The third way one could become a vampire was through sorcery. If a magician was already playing with dark forces, then when they died, their corpse might be overtaken by a demon and used to steal blood. Not just human either, a lot of sheep and cattle were killed for a very long time.

From this myth, we find the introduction of the vampire into mainstream media in England, and then America: Bram Stoker’s Dracula. (This statement ignores the many myths already present in distinctive stories held by various Native American tribes, and it is an interesting note that while the modern vampire can be traced back to Slavic origins, there are cultures all over the world from Africa, to Asia, to the Americas and beyond who have their own tales of blood-sucking creatures similar to the vampire.) But! Nonetheless, Dracula was a beginning of the vampire for the American people. A nearly human, but still greedy, conniving, lusting, blood thirsty monster. And yet even in the novel, there was some sympathy for him.

Dracula is modern, but Twilight, True Blood, and The Vampire Diaries, are contemporary examples of the vampire in literature, and they have undergone yet another shift. While they maintain their warnings of and brushes with female sexuality, lust, and demonology, these vampires are no longer demons, even if they maintain their offensive religious imagery. Religion is even touched on directly and from the vampire’s perspective in Twilight; Edward Cullen thinks that as a vampire, he is beyond saving, beyond the grace of God, and unwanted by God. In The Vampire Diaries, the two leading brothers struggle to find a sense of morality and love. Also undead politics and eating people. But the point is, vampires have changed in a fundamental way: they are no longer demons, they are representations of fallen man.

Within the realm of storytelling, vampires are at a place at last where they might seek redemption. Instead of representing fear, evil, and famine, they represent the human lost. The unwanted. The dangerous, and the people who think they are too far gone. It is time, in fiction, for the vampire’s redemption.

All stories are a product of their time and culture. We tell stories based on the state of reality, and of the thoughts in our heads that maybe we are not ready to think about in their realest forms. Our culture today is lost, listless, restless, and evil. But fully human. And in the stories of today, there is an ingrained belief that even a vampire can be redeemed.

I have a hero complex, but I will never save anybody, in any way. My small dream at the end of this Saturday is a prayer that the lost would come home.

All my love to you,

–Mabel

cottagecore

End of August, and Thoughts on the Moon

August 31, 2023August 31, 2023 Mabel2 Comments

Hello, Stranger.

I usually say ‘strangers,’ but I’ve always felt there was only one of you here with me at a time. And you’re fantastic, by the way. There actually is a reasonable chance I would say that to you if you were here in person.

I’ve moved locations. I live in an apartment building with a haunted elevator named Otis. The walls have a sickly yellow pallor, and the furniture, which gives the impression that it has seen things, still invites you to sink into it and sleep. There’s old paintings with packs of dogs in the hallways and there’s a piano room here, which I have been begged not to use.

On this last night of August, I’m thinking about the moon. Yesterday was a Super Blue Moon. It will be the last one until 2037. Tonight, the moon is the color of aged paper but glows in that way which you know breaks a vampire’s heart and causes the werewolves to howl with homesickness. I don’t believe in those things. But they still make me sad.

The reason I’m thinking of the moon though, is that I’ve always been grateful to the Lord for making it. Whenever I was young, I would walk outside in the darkness and look for the moon. It wasn’t always there. And I would feel lost, and like the world truly was ending. But anytime it was there? I had so much calm. True peace only comes from God, but I think he hung the moon in the sky as a present just for me. And all the lonely people who feel like they’re spinning on this giant rock all by themselves. A train conductor. A musician called Radical Face, maybe. The characters we think about, abandoned—or so they think—to the night.

What is it about the moon that makes our hearts ache?

Last week, I had an artist stand in front of me while I made a blind portrait of him and tell me a story about his grandfather’s death, and the strange events surrounding his passing. He said that ever since then, he’s thought of his grandfather’s Lincoln town car and wondered about the significance of objects in the world. If there’s more meaning than what we see on the surface of things. Where the meaning is. How the meaning happens. And I butchered what he said just like I butchered that portrait. And then I come back to the idea of the moon, which I look at through a new window in a dark room, with that same dull ache that I can’t reach it, and maybe never will.

But God hung it in the sky just for me.

And all the lonely people.

Photo by Joonas ku00e4u00e4riu00e4inen on Pexels.com

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” —Ecclesiastes 3:11

Hey, all my love Stranger.

–Mabel

art · Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: Forgotten Paintings

August 5, 2023August 5, 2023 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

I was gone last week. Usually, dreams are a way of looking to the future. But last Saturday, I began the process of making one dream come true.

I have wanted a thrift store painting for years. One to paint over and alter, working with the original, not on my own. A collaboration spanning years. The problem is that I haven’t been willing to spend forty dollars on an ancient painting that might have bugs in it when all I want to do is paint on top of it. So I’ve looked for years. Some were too pretty for me to consider painting over. Some seemed ugly to me , and I had no vision for them and didn’t want to take the chance.

I went to an estate sale on Saturday. My grandmother’s actually, and although it’s been a sad process, it’s been wonderful in that her cherished things have been passed down to the next generations. And there was this painting from the hallway. My aunts begged me to take one. I remember walking past it and specifically thinking, ‘I wouldn’t even buy that to paint over.’ It was harsh. I really didn’t like it.

So I took it home.

I didn’t like the original color scheme. It was very orange and very brown, yet pale, and the color in the mountains and sky was a sickly green color. But I liked the framing of the trees and thought the water was well blended. After some thinking, I decided that I wanted to keep the painting very similar, but instead of a sunset, I would paint a dusk scene. I was heavily inspired by Robin Sealark’s landscapes and skyscapes, with impressionistic brushstrokes and whimsical colors. They look to me like dreams.

Using gouache, I went about doing a wash of dark blue across the sky, leaving the brightness of the orange center intact. I let it dry and continued to build it in increasingly more opaque layers.

I muted the red of the foreground and continued blocking in colors.

Here I started blending the colors, making sure to leave the streaks of brushstrokes. I added in a bolder yellow where the sun was setting, and of course, the sun. I then began muting the color of the mountain.

I continued blending, darkening edges, adding a red haze over the mountain, and rebuilding the form of the trees I covered up when I painted the sky. I added my first layer of stars.

In the final stages, I added more stars, fireflies, and outlined the tops of the trees. I reddened the sun, turned the yellow light a more peachy tone, added sunbeams, and tinted the highlights in the leaves and tree trunks red. I punched up the colors in the water’s reflections, and added new highlights to the rocks and marsh weeds so it would all feel cohesive. I wanted it to seem almost like there was a rainbow there, even though the sun was leaving.

This is the final piece!

The original frame had gold and copper colors like the sunset, but I felt that a blue layer of wood would tie things together. The final step was to add varnish, and here we are.

Working with the piece gave me a new respect for the artist. It was like I was sitting where she sat, looking in a way at what she saw. The original artist’s signature is still there, not completely covered. Her name was Rosina. I’m so thankful she made this piece of art, and that because of her I was allowed to paint something that reminds me of my childhood and mysteries and summer.

This piece is titled, ‘Rosina’s Fireflies.’

It was an encouraging reminder that the whole point of having small dreams is that they are achievable while still being beautiful in a way that doesn’t quite seem real. We are the ones who have to pursue goodness and beauty. Or at least be receptive when the opportunities we’ve been waiting for arrive.

Happy Saturday, Strangers.

–Mabel

Small Dream Saturday

Small Dream Saturday: The Van Roof

July 22, 2023 MabelLeave a comment

Hello Strangers.

It is a bright and glorious morning here, the air smells sweet, and I’ve got the apocalypse on my brain. Not the true apocalypse, just the different concepts people have come up with. Zombies, World War 3, alien invasion, the plague, different mythologies like the Norse Ragnarok, meteorites, the universe collapsing on itself; the list is endless. (I believe that it will be as it was written in the Book of Revelation, but I don’t have any specific thoughts on that.)

I’ve been writing a story about it, coming back to it when it suits me. It’s truly a hobby-piece. I’ll never be able to legally publish it because the characters are not my own, but simply the writing of it is enough to justify its creation.

Anyway. One of the characters is going to lay on the roof of a van and look up at the stars. I like to imagine that since the end of their world, there’s less lights and less smog, and people can finally see the stars again.

My own dream this Saturday is to one day star watch on the roof of my own van. As a child I always wanted to lay on the roof and be by myself. Unfortunately I was a rule follower. (Maybe not so unfortunate, I don’t have great balance.)

Finally! I’m moving into dreams that are actually achievable!

Much love,

–Mabel

P.S. If you’d like to see more pictures and videos, and hear smaller updates about the blog, I’m putting more effort into my Instagram page. I’d like to do daily/weekly writing and creativity prompts, more about cooking, et cetera. Right now I post cozy videos and point out accounts that make good artworks, pottery, poetry and the like.