Artist friends, look at this!
Look at these colors. They don’t spring out. They are dark and intuitional, like Arthur Dove’s. Not as overt as Georgia O’Keefe’s, though I’m asking you to look at the small, wet extremity that splits the color spectrum into two.
It’s shocking, disappointing, and then, simply life. These beans, when boiled, go from purple to green. The most intense purple, deep, darkly fertile. To green. Basic beany green.
Romano. String. Wax. Green. Jack and the bean stalk. There’s still some magic, despite the Anglo-Saxon simplicity of name.
Jack is thrilled to see his bean coming to fruition. Fruition. It is a fruit. First the little, tender stem. Then, the tiny, furled leaf. He planted it in a Dixie cup full of soil. He didn’t, and doesn’t, know what it was. But his enthusiasm for the greenness of the green shoot is boundless. He’s contemplative, in awe, amazed, incredulous, proud. It’s a pleasure to watch. Does it have anything to do with his asking, “Mommy, why did you decide to grow a baby? … I mean me?”
This entry is very nearly a poem. Beautiful. You’re giving Peter a run for his money! Miss you all.
goooorgeous beans. we call them magic beans in our home. the color(s) : extraordinary.
silly beaner that Jack. love his inquisitive mind but little wonder, given he bean pole he shoots from.
xo, grammie P
make that THe bean pole. it’s hot and fingers stick.
[…] they called to let us know that they were bringing their own special ingredient, magic beans…magic purple beans. I have fond memories of shelling beans and peas on Georgia days-not with my own grandmother but […]