Art & Permaculture

My quest for a lifestyle rooted in nature and beauty.

The other day I caught myself staring for what seemed like the first time in days. It wasn’t out of exhaustion or disinterest but rather I was luxuriating in the moment. I was perched, forearms hanging over the Dutch door of our chicken coop, an amber bottle of Octoberfest held loosely in my hands. Over the last few days, I’d been nursing an ill chicken. She’d convalesced within the confines of a dog crate and I showered her with all manner of treats trying to get her to feed. The infirmary was in the remnants of my studio. A place that’s now nothing but studs and an awful,l thick plastic sheet that’s been our ceiling for months thanks to Hurricane Sally and a terrible contractor. Rather than feel sullen or angry as I sat in the bare bones of this room, where I once painted day in and day out, all I could think was about getting this little hen healthy again. Between feedings, I ran back and forth to the kitchen, a.k.a. my new painting studio, to work on a commission and keep my own life moving forward in a positive direction.  

Leaning, against the coop watching the emerald black feathers of the recovered hen catch the light, I was so grateful to be home again. Grateful that I could be there to witness something so simple as the chickens pecking around in the dirt. Eventually one of our tabby cats, Tut, showed face. While he meowed and brushed against my leg the light hinted at Autumn. In that coming evening, the Harvest Moon would rise. Overhead, the grape vines tangling their way through the Hickory tree sounded different as the breeze teased between them. I suspected they’d begun drying and were ready to turn, marking the arrival of the new season. Here and there I glimpsed yellow leaves dotted among their still green fellows. The alchemy of light and sounds made me shiver in the warmth of the setting summer. This feeling is one I wish I could capture forever. It’s as though nature is running her finger down my spine, awakening me once again to her wild beauty. This melancholy thrill is what drives me to paint, as though I can exhale that energy into every piece.

As I sit here now in my worn leather chair, staring once again into the warm glow of beeswax candles I think about how I’m moving forward. This Fall I’m starting my studies toward certification as a permaculture designer. What is permaculture you ask? In many ways, I look at it as slow, intentional living that exists in harmony with nature. You design your landscape to mimic nature’s relationships and systems to maximize food and resource production. You must study the landscape as it exists to learn its natural rhythm and flows. Observe to understand the light, the way different species of plants grow, how the water flows through the landscape, what microclimates exist, and which ones you can create. Much like art, permaculture design is about relationships and how to make them work in the most effortless manner, but to get there you must put in the work. As many artists and gardeners would tell you, their work is never truly done. The difference between art and landscape design is that eventually art has to be declared finished, framed, and sold, whereas the landscape will forever change as the seasons shift, trees age, and, these days, the climate continues to change. 

Now you might think that I’m about to declare that I’m going to give up my art career to be a permaculture designer. Not so. I’m merely diving into something that I feel will help me live in a way that knits my family closer to the land and allows us to utilize the gift of the four acres we’re on. I feel like in our last seven years here I’ve slowly been incorporating many of the pillars of permaculture without even realizing it as I brought on chickens, then mini-pigs, mini-donkeys, composting, growing food semi-successfully in the yard, and using all-natural methods to do so. While it certainly hasn’t reached the point of effortlessness (and let’s be honest that’s unlikely to ever be so on my sandy soil by the sea), it’s growing into something that little by little provides more for us and requires a little less to be imported. You know something else? I love that it’s both forward thinking and at the same time tapping into timeless agricultural methods that still work but seem to have just been scrubbed from the mainstream over the past century. I’m looking forward and back at the same time. 

What do I hope to bring to this field (pun somewhat intended)? I think just a little more beauty. Something to show that permaculture is about living in harmony with the landscape in a way that moves my soul, fills my plate, and has a positive impact on the environment. I don’t know that my business card will ever read “permaculture designer,”, but I want to live out its principles in a way that is inspiring to you, whom, if you’re actually reading this I can assume, holds beauty in high esteem. I’m a firm believer that even if something is functional, it should be beautiful and I’m looking to explore that even in this new course of learning and application. I’m hoping that through this blog you’ll be able to follow my journey with permaculture alongside my art and see how the two inform one another. My artwork and nature will forever be entwined. The intangible spirit that I try to capture in my paintings I want to create even more of in the landscape that’s at my fingertips. In fact, this landscape is my living sculpture piece, one that will transform time and again. Right now it consists of our home, a chicken coop and run, a pig pen, a shed, a couple of small garden beds, native persimmon trees among many other towering species, citrus trees, a cattle guard and the remnants of an old water tower that recalls a time when this property was a citrus grove and cattle farm. Sometimes I think that the relic of the tower at the edge of the woods is just begging me to be used again. I can feel the ghost of the past when I walk around the property. Camellias peek out of the most overgrown brush and everywhere I dig I hit old bricks. The Spanish Moss hanging from the towering Live Oaks that arch like old men across the land have always seemed to me guardians of this place. There is history here. I intend to bring it to life once more.

So, while I walk around and see ruins in so many ways, I see endless possibilities. Ways to be inspired. Ways to become more self-sufficient. Ways to do some soul work. When I take breaks from painting or housework, or whatever I’m in the middle of, I always head outdoors. Yes, even in the middle of our mosquito-ridden summers, though they are shorter breaks and end with me rubbing basil on my itching legs (Yes, basil is a great anti-itch remedy. Even Kenny asks me to cut him some basil now when he’s been the victim of an unfriendly nip). Outside all the pressure in my head releases. Surveying my little garden to see how it’s transformed in the last day is the simplest of thrills. Watching the first Swallowtail Butterfly of the season gently floating through the air sets my own heart aflutter. Right now I’m getting a kick out of seeing how many insects are loving the eggplant purple blooms on my Thai Basil and when they’re backlit by the golden evening sun I can’t help but feel I’m in the middle of a romantic film. The best part is, that this IS real life. You just have to take the time to bear witness to it.

I hope you’ll follow along on this new journey with me. I plan to update you on the progress of my certification process. The course requires you to choose one site to create a permaculture design for, and I thought there’d be no better than my own home turf to begin with. The last couple of years following Hurricane Sally threw an unwelcome wedge between this wondrous place and myself, even though I visited daily for  “farm chores.” Now that I’m finally back home nothing is going to stop me from reconnecting with this land. In fact, I feel not just a sculptor of the land, but a steward, as much of the land surrounding us land is being sold off and turned into developments. 

This area of Pensacola has been known since the Spanish arrived as “Perdido” or “lost” in English. It was a secret place. Somewhere they knew was special and they didn’t want to share with the rest of the world. Also, the Key itself had a habit of changing shapes and disappearing partially at times do to storms so it truly became lost. Unfortunately, now all that is lost is the very environment that they treasured. As I watch old home after old home being bought up by developers, I fear that my home may be one of the last refuges for wildlife soon other than the state park up the road. I feel a sense of urgency not to just create a sanctuary for myself and my family, but for all the animals that are being displaced in the Perdido area. I know I can’t save them all, but I’ll create as much space for them as I can. 

As I write this, the September sun is now setting and my pups are snoring on the inherited oriental rug beneath my feet (dog friendly? Probably not but it survived Hurricane Sally’s water damage so what’s a couple of hounds). There’s a gossamer golden haze over the Intercoastal Waterway and I realize that the only sounds I’m hearing are Mabel snoring and the gentle jazz on our gramophone. The rest of the world is quiet and peaceful. There are no boats on the water and my chickens have already gone to roost. The pigs are snug in their makeshift shelter. These are the moments I just take in. I watch the light through the leaves and the way it starts to highlight the windows across the canal in the brightest peach. With every piece that I paint and plant that I tuck in, I hope that I’m creating more of this kind of moment, one that wraps you up like a lovingly knit cashmere blanket and says life IS good despite, well, the rest of life. You just have to slow down to realize it.