April 4, 2009

Opening night was, I think, sensational. Everyone at the reception said it was, and one trusts that if it had been a disaster, people would at least temper their praise. It felt good. The whole day was good. I wrote poetry in the morning, planted and dug in the garden, then painted with J for the balance of the day. J glazed one of my paintings near black with asphaltum. I looked at it and wondered what had happened. J explained that he wanted me to see how wonderful it would be when I restored the detail over the dark wash. For a moment I was furious. Said nothing. Did what he suggested. But the painting is nothing to me now. I don’t mean to think that, but I do.

Purple Fritillaria.

Dug in the garden. Planted a cultivated and dug up a dozen wild clematis. The nursery clematis was a free item in a shipment of plants last year. I discarded it in a heap of objects by the back stoop, but when I found the poor thing this year and lifted the pot, it was green and sprouting, so I figured it deserved a chance at life. Restored the watergardens, in which the plants, to my amazement, had survived the winter. So had convulsive larvae which I did not recognize.