Fairie Food or Fairie Festival Food

LynneCake smHere at our first ever Fall Fairie Festival, there will … of course … be festival food aplenty.  And while I don’t know the exact particulars, I am, committedly, in fantasy mode about mass quantities of deep fried, cheesey, melty, breadalicious, savory, sweet, high calorie, guilt ridden comfort food being trundled toward me in wheel barrows.

HOWEVER, thanks to Lynne Jones and her Dryad Delights (lynnejonesart.com) there willLynnePastriessm also be some incredibly creative and insanely festive Fairie Fantasy food as well: cakes and pastries to delight the eye and give the appetite grand ideas but without any calories or high blood sugar or GMO’s or gluten or dietary misgivings of any kind at ALL!! Made of the most scrumptious looking inedibles with enough amazing mimicry to make your stomach rumble. You have GOT to come by and get some for yourself!! But here’s just a taste to whet your appetite.

Look for our banner!
WildHawthornBannerDotsnberriestransp
at Spoutwood’s Fall Fairie Festival
Camp Ramblewood, Darlington, MD.

 

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Moving the Magic

AllButHome300Due to circumstances beyond someone’s control…
(well, really, isn’t it all just totally out of everyone’s control …)

Our Brand Spanking New, Right Out of the Box, First Ever SPOUTWOOD FARM FALL FAIRIE FESTIVAL, alas, will NOT be at Spoutwood Farm.

Rather … just this once … it will be held at the illustrious site of the Maryland Faerie Festival: Camp Ramblewood in Darlington, MD; a huge and beautiful place with its own magical history; a history, which we will totally embellish for you, on the spot.

Here we come, our long, looping, sparkling parade of circus wagons, bright banners whipping the air like the tongues of an entire synod of holy dragons. We march and dance, a sequin line of brightly colored ants with heavily laden carts pulled by unicorns and dancing bears and giant pigs and bugs and beasts; horns blaring, feet barely touching the ground, so excited are we. It’s a strange and varied curlicue of conveyances full to bursting with every imagining of confections, contrivances and costumery, fit for fairy queen and king and knave and fool, goblin and ogre, warrior and maiden. We’re on our way to the Rambling Wood to erect a village of fantasy and frolicsome fun for just one short weekend: the 14th and 15th of October in this luminous year of our lore, 2017.

Hope you’re on your way too.
Adventure is afoot! Magic is moving!
Fall Fairie Festival someplace new!

WildHawthornBannerDotsnberriestransp
Come see us!
@ Camp Ramblewood

2564 Silver Rd, Darlington, Maryland 21034

 

 

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Something’s Happening

MakingLikeATree350It’s happening again. Can you feel it? In the morning when you first wake up to that faint and certain chill … yellow and red at the edges of leaves on a few trees … some of them even twirling their way to the ground already? … Tassels on the corn; pumpkins turning pumpkin color; the breathy songs of crickets in the evening boiling up from deep grasses ripened to blowing golden waves.

Winter is in the wings, leaning forward, peaking past the curtain, eager for her entrance almost here. And we … are we getting ready too? Thinking about firewood and wool? Putting up the harvest in jars and freezers …

And some of us artists painting for a Fall Group Exhibition at

Studio Gallery 234
780 Woodberry Road,
York, PA  17403
Tel. – 717-781-6867

The show will run from September 16 – November 11.

Come and fall into some real beauty, wonder, inspiration … or, at least, outrageous fascination. We’ve got it all. Come and see!

Opening Reception is Saturday, September 16 from 3-5pm.

http://www.bim-jones.com

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Sum Sum Summertime

Summertime

Smells like hot grass and corn tassels and sweaty sunscreen

Feels like sticky t shirts and the shock of inside cold/outside hot; inside cold/outside hot

Looks like wavy heat rising off the tar melting road, squinty eyes shutting out the glare from windshield glass

Sounds like the ocean with laughter on its beach, like rock and roll and Shakespeare outside, like carnival rides, like childhoods

Tastes like ice cream and like thick humid air like soup … and like ice cream

And in between there is painting

of flowers.

Catch some secret blooming or other.

Make up an x-rated flora story of unabashed fertility 

Shameless hussies showing off
… well a couple of them anyway 

at Studio Gallery 234

780 Woodberry Rd. York, PA 17403

This Saturday, July 22nd

From 3-5pm

Come see all the exhibitionists … I mean artists…

It’s an art opening: eat, drink and be just the tiniest bit crazy.

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Who’s a REAL Artist?

Self-portraitBW_smallSo, I said to Bubba the other day: “Sometimes I just don’t feel like I’m a REAL artist.” He looked at me like I’d just grown a second head, though it might have been a really cute head because he was smiling affectionately at me when he said, “YOU ARE a real artist!” “Pish! Tosh! I said to myself. “He’s just saying that because he loves me.” But I thought of the thousand paintings and drawings, the plethora of made-up knitting patterns, that whole building standing over there: my studio full of a lifetime of creating … things. Do those things mean I’m a REAL artist? Or is it this obsessive need to be making something all the time; or the fanatical accumulation of art supplies and junk that could someday turn into art; or the fact that all things creative take precedence over practical pursuits e.g. making a sculpture out of stuff found in the woods vs. making dinner? Or am I just playing?

I looked it up. Possibly a big mistake. First, of course, there had to be a tangent regarding, “What is art?” Oh for the love of sweet baby Jasper Johns!!! The answer to THAT question included phrases like “extensional adequacy” and “ontologically dependent.”   Then there were bits written by everyone from Albert Einstein to Leo Tolstoy and every color of philosopher and scholar in between. The upshot (in 25, 000, 000 words or more) being that the definition of “art” is completely subjective and absolutely in the eye of the beholder. Well, duh.

As for my research on the original question: What is a real artist? There was one questionnaire. Most of the questions in it were sort of silly, regarding ones feelings about their pencils. But the last one was interesting, “Do people tell you that you are insane?” Hrmmmm … Not going THERE.

I do have an idea that everyone has a creative side; a suspicion that when the bible says God created us in His image and likeness, part of that likeness is our own ability to create. But what makes the difference between someone who makes something once in a while and someone who has to be making something all the time? And is THAT the definition of a REAL artist? Or do you have to be getting paid to do it? Paid enough to make a living? Or do you have to be published? Or have your work collected by people whose names anyone might recognize? Or do you have to be serious enough about it to be cutting off an ear now and then? Or maybe , if history is any judge, you have to be dead first. Oy! Who knows?!

And then there’s the whole piece about “feeling.” Not “feeling” like a REAL artist, … or an old person or a professional or a Homo sapien.

I guess feelings don’t necessarily have anything to do with facts. You can feel young without actually being young. You’re probably saying, “Well, duh!” to me now. You probably knew this all along … from my first paragraph; that I was just being emotional and ridiculous, which is why Bubba was looking at me funny.  Sigh.

Well, just remember: YOU were created in the image and likeness of God too. YOU have a creative bit in you. And what have YOU made lately? Maybe you want to get on that.

And if not, then maybe you just want to come and see what some other folks have been creating. Always a good time. Always good company. We can debate the concepts of art and the artist. Heh!

Summer Exhibition is Opening at Studio Gallery 234
Saturday, May 27 3-5pm.
780 Woodberry Rd. York, PA 17403
Tel. 717-781-6867
http://www.studiogallery234.com

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Once Upon A Faerie Time

FairyRain… a teeny tiny piece of historical fiction …

The banquet was laid, the guests invited, the many sumptuous dishes prepared and tasted and garnished.  All made ready.

Yet, even as the excitement mounted with every step across the threshold; even as the musicians finished tuning and began to play their magical dancing airs, and just as every tempting aroma rose and curled through the kitchen’s double doors, … something else crept in.

It fogged over and around the legs of the tables and chairs. It crowded under the tablecloths and slipped beneath place settings. It smelled like rain and looked like mud and at first seemed ordinary and harmless; the water spirits come to call; come to join the feasting. But it kept coming. It came until it pervaded.

Soon the music sounded like it: the pattering of rain. But that wasn’t so bad. Then all the table linens were sodden, their hems wicking earth colors up from the ground. Yet even that wasn’t so bad. Then, the air turned chill and the damp had a cloying quality that felt the tiniest bit unfriendly. Still, the guests just turned up their collars and danced faster and wilder to stay warm. And that was even fun.

But slowly, drop by drop and bit by bit, things got more and more slippery. After a while there was more mud than ground, more slip than step. The food turned cold and the grit of the mud was in everything. The water spirits joined with the earth spirits to have a dance that was pervasive indeed; to the point of exclusion.

“Go home!” they said. “Find your safe, warm hearths. Leave us to our dance of slip and slide before you get hurt. This is our time and our place now. Go home. Go home.”

So with our sad excluded hearts and our mud painted shoes we trod home, a little bent, a wee bit broken; trying with mighty hearts to just remember how much fun we’d had while we could.

A day passed. Not even a day. And a new invitation arrived: on thick, laid stock in gilt lettering. A new feast had been prepared!  And we were invited … all of us… with time to make new dresses and wreaths and keep the cobblers well occupied fashioning fair new dancing shoes to replace our muddied ones. We would get to party after all.

“I’ll need a nap.” I thought, with soaring happy heart.

As you may have heard, the last day of Spoutwood Farms’ 26th Annual Fairie Festival had to be cancelled due to unsafe weather conditions. Now Maryland Faerie Festival has indeed and generously, invited sodden vendors from Spoutwood to apply to join them in Darlington June 10th and 11th. We are ever so grateful and excited for this beautiful and luxurious (by ALL accounts) venue. If we missed you at Spoutwood, come to Camp Ramblewood for the 13th Annual Maryland Faerie Festival. And bring your dancing shoes.

We are Wild Hawthorn. Look for our banner!  We have treasures for you.

http://www.bim-jones.com
http://www.bimjonesartistblog.wordpress.com

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How I Spent My First Fairie Festival

WildHawthornadWith Fairie Festival upon us tomorrow, I present this  work of fiction – ish.
… Maybe think of it as a
“likely-mentary.”

Saturday dawned as bright and clear as a new idea; the sky, blue as jays with cottonball clouds like first-grade daydreams.  I turned onto the little country road per my GPS and started having second thoughts about deciding to attend this Fairie Festival thing. It was a last minute decision after finding myself with a beautiful and unexpected day off. Unfortunately, no one else was free, except my husband who thought it sounded silly and opted to stay home with the dog. At least the drive up here had been beautiful. I could still have fun by myself. I’d just scout it out for the family for next year.

Passing fields and houses I soon came to a “Parking” sign with an arrow. So I followed it. It took me up a hill so steep it seemed as though, surely, gravity was being defied and magic already at work since about a zillion cars were parked up there, as high and aslant as starlings on a roof. I joined them, getting out of my car and walking back down the hill, delighted to find myself joined by an ogre, two gnomes, 4 little fairies with their parents and one guy who could’ve been Robin Hood …or maybe Peter Pan?… Legolas! … Lohengrin? …

At the bottom of the hill, signs pointed the way across the road to a small trail through the woods. As soon as I got into the trees, it felt like a different world; such quiet, diffuse light coming through the budded branches; all the little flowers and mushrooms; the stones and roots running helter-skelter across my path. And the funny creatures before and behind me, trucking along with their baskets and bags and backpacks, chatting and chirruping happily like grasshoppers in the sun.

Soon the woods path came to an end and opened out into the bright light of a verdant landscape. Spread out before me were the green rolling fields and lush gardens of Spoutwood Farm… completely infested with fairies … well, people dressed as fairies … or maybe fairies dressed as people.

There was a giant with a net and a mallet, a mud man, a moss man, a blue man, several green men, green men with big noses and armor, wizards and warlocks and witches and wenches. Wenches with wings, wenches with tails, with horns, on stilts, even mermaid wenches who sat by the stream with their tails in the water all day.

There was a wealth, indeed a ransom, of things for sale! Things made of silver and gold, of silk and wool, wood and iron and paper and semi-precious stones; shiny things, soft things, fluffy things, webby things, all fanciful and fantastical and wanting to jump into my hand.

And food! I smelled French fries and bread, melting cheese and roasting meat; sweet and savory of every sort including lavender ice cream right out of a fairytale and plump lemons whose sour nectar you’d suck through the sweet, spicy xylem and phlom of certain peculiar and particular peppermint sticks.

And there was music; the air rife with song: like sirens on the water, or some songs more like dark and arcane chanting; some like drunken sailors and some songs were the friendly and noble old causes of folk tunes. I heard electric guitars and bass guitars and fiddles and flutes all strumming and trilling the atmosphere into bright colors and fine feelings. I heard drums sending out their primal heartbeat and the plaintive, marshal wail of bagpipes. It was mesmerizing, magnifying … It all called me away, twirled me around and around and, too soon, set me back down in the tilted field where I’d parked my car.

I found that I had, at some mysterious point, acquired many fine and sparkly things, as well as several delicious tidbits and a beautiful basket to carry them all in. I checked my phone to make sure it was still the same year as when I’d arrived.  It was.  And I was just the tiniest bit sad to see that.

But I felt transported nonetheless; changed somehow. And, driving home, I thought, “The heck with next year. Hell or high water, I’m bringing everybody back here tomorrow!” And, the next day, I did.

Wild Hawthorn in the Fairie Garden (nearside of the farmhouse) Fairie Festival at Spoutwood Farm May 5th, 6th, & 7th.

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