Column: Bev Jackson Cotter, Art is…

He came to repair the leaky bathtub faucets, and left me with a thought that has lingered in my mind. As the plumber looked out at the peacefulness of that Bancroft Bay afternoon, he asked me how long we’d lived here. When I replied, “30 years,” he said, “and you still enjoy looking at the lake.” I was surprised at his comment. Of course I enjoy the view. It is beautiful and every day it is new.

Why does it fascinate me so? Is it the gentleness and quiet of the small bay, or the morning mist hovering over the water, or the reflected, magnificent colors of a sunrise, or the wonder of watching a great blue heron flying low over the surface, or the elegance of a family of Canada geese as they parade by, or the colorful kayaks that meander through, coming and going from the boat landing? Or is it all of these?

Several years ago, on a very windy day, I heard a sound unlike anything I had ever heard before. It was a loud, ripping twisting sound, yet muffled and almost gentle. Strange. When I looked out my window toward the northwest, I realized the neighbor’s shoreline trees had a different outline. The rounded tops that had looked like piled scoops of ice cream now contained a dip, more like a valley. A portion of one of the huge old weeping willows had fallen into the bay. It left a scar on the near horizon, and I felt a loss.

I have always enjoyed those willows. The slender and graceful branches seem to halt their growth just over the water’s surface, and they create a reflection that duplicates their motion. Often when the water is still, I can see a mirror image of the branches swaying in the breeze. It’s a beautiful and peaceful scene that I never tire of watching.

Recently, I noticed an unusual sight near that same area. There were willow branches spread out over the surface of the water, looking very much like draperies that are too long with the extra fabric billowing out on the floor like an elegant lady’s ball gown.

Another tree had lost a mammoth branch. It must have occurred when I was not at home, because I never heard the ripping, twisting sound it must have made. The circular lines in the exposed tree trunk have created a new piece of art sculpture. The shoreline has changed again — it’s not prettier, not dreadful, just different.

Coincidentally, I have been reading a book by Esther Wamer Dendel called “Designing from Nature.” It contains countless ideas for art projects whose designs are based on natural shapes.

In her book she describes the unique differences in line, light, and shape in nature — the gentle curves of a cabbage leaf, the patterns a termite makes on a log, the distinct rounded shapes of a frog in repose. She goes on to describe fabric designs that can be made from such patterns, or ceramic pieces, or woven wall hangings. All items that seem abstract in style, yet with subjects borrowed from specific parts of nature.

The designs all have a pattern that seem to be ever changing, yet ever peaceful.

Maybe that is why, after 30 years of watching the life and art on Bancroft Bay, I still get lost in its beauty.

Bev Jackson Cotter is a member of the Albert Lea Art Center where the show “Vintage Fashion & Florals” will be on display through July 30, and the art of Bonnie Broitzman is currently featured in Art On Broadway.