Dayle Dodwell, a commercially trained artist and illustrator, has struck out on her own. Her vibrant watercolors of butterflys, children and kites capture the eye and the imagination. Enhanced by short snippets of poetry, Dodwell’s paintings are sure to stay in your mind and heart. Visit Dodwell’s blog at http://daylespainteddiary.blogspot.com to see more of her art and read her simple but profound poetry.
The following is an explanation that I received from Dayle about the title to her works, From the Wilds of Bedford.” Her wonderful paintings that are part of “From the Wilds of Bedford” series can be seen and purchased from her blog http://daylespainteddiary.blogspot.com .
The name "From the Wilds of Bedford" comes from that feeling of being at the edge of nowhere; you alone seeing and feeling. It comes from a place of straight forwardness and honesty and joyfulness. A place that resides in everyone and I want the reader to see that.
On the 28th of January it started from a small dark squiggling speck on the white ice. The date was remembered having been the date of my mother's death five years earlier. Seen while living in the condo that she had lived in for five years before she died. My mother would have found that anyone thinking of me as a poet particularly funny. She did love me. She loved me in the way of her time which meant to lovingly correct. Correct she did from how I spoke, ate, dressed and in large part how I thought of myself.
My imagining now has her giving me the gift and freedom of artistic expression and the need to do so. I feel like she is writing through me. Her own expression had been stifled. My gift to her. Before this, writing a cohesive sentence was a struggle. That small dark struggling speck was a harbor seal giving birth on the cold white ice. It struck me that it was a different sort of birth for me. The birth of a little idea. The start of "From the Wilds of Bedford".
The idea was to see the beauty in the everyday and to give that experience as fully as I am able right now. That meant silencing that inner voice that was saying that I had nothing worth saying and no one would be interested. At first I sent these as e-mails to a few then a few more. This is a build it and they will come my "Field of Dreams".
When the economy hit, it took the bottom from under me and not a few others I knew. The troubles were not just financial a number were faced with failing health and even death. Helpless and hopeless were making their home in the deep of winter everywhere. I had a poor year last year where I had little work. This year there was no work and worse, no money.
To find peace I read and meditated in earnest. A thought came that to find my joy it needed to be expressed and given. Reaching inside to my essence and letting it come out. Well it was a bit dusty and creaked and groaned then said "Where the Hell have you been?" Now we are on speaking terms. In fact if I relax and let it in, it fills me up and guides my creative endeavours.
My inspiration comes while doing all those every day things, like walking the dog. In fact, a lot while walking the dog. It is something that I see in my mind that returns. Sometimes it doesn't work out but most times it does; if I don't try to be clever. Being clever is something I am stupid at. Simple is what I get and understand. Who do I think I am? Do I think I know what there is to know? Do I think my way of seeing and expressing is the way to see and express? It is my way only and that is enough. No one else sees through these eyes or feels my feelings. I do as well as I can right now because this time is the only time right now.
Creativity is the divine revealing itself. Who am I to not let it flow through me in whatever small way I am able? Well said, Dayle! And keep on painting – your vision is a gift to the world!
The river flows down to the ocean basin under bridges and beside a busy highway.
Gentle swish an arching line, quiet focus, wait a beat then let the line snake through the air.
It's early Friday morning maybe on his way to work. His car simply drove him here.
Again he throws the line in a silver S then pulls back to a slow rhythmic beat.
from the wilds of Bedford