Field editions.
Five illustrated journals of land and water.
Open a volume to read the field notes.
Salt Line · Mara Vale
The shore at its lowest
I came down the steps before the boats were afloat. Each pool held its own piece of sky. On the outermost rock, a rust-red limpet shell was the only thing that caught the sun. I drew that first, so I would know where to stop the blue.
What the water keeps
An hour later my sitting stone was gone. I could still find it in the drawing by the white seam running through its middle. The tide had undone the path I took, but left the order of the rocks intact.
After Rain · Ellis Rowan
Under the fronds
The rain stopped at the gate and carried on under the trees. A fern held six drops along one stem. Each one bent a pale leaflet down. When the first drop fell, the six became five and the whole stem lifted.
A second weather
I took the dry path home. At the bridge the boards were already pale, except for a single dark strip where the branches met overhead. I marked its outline in pencil and left the middle of the page bare.
Blue Hours · Ivo Bell
The last ridge
From the saddle I could count five lines of mountain. The nearest was almost black. The farthest was the color of writing paper in shade. I mixed one blue and used less of it each time the brush crossed the page.
After the light goes
The moon rose beside the notch I had used to place the first line. By then my fingers were too cold to draw. I closed the notebook and watched the farthest ridge disappear into a sky of exactly the same blue.
The Long Heat · Nell Arlen
The shadow line
At noon there was only a hand's width of shade at the foot of the tower. I laid the pencil there so the lacquer would stay cool. By the time I had finished the first block of color, the pencil was in the sun again.
Counting the layers
In the wash, a thin band of pink ran unbroken through three fallen slabs. I turned the smallest one over. The same line came out on the other side, fine as thread. It was the smallest mark I made all day.
Drift Ice · Ada North
Between the floes
The channel looked black until a loose piece of ice turned in it. Then I could see the green underneath. I drew the shape of the water first. The white pieces fell into place around it without a pencil line.
The moving edge
A crack widened while I was mixing paint. Two floes that had shared a corner no longer touched. I kept the first outline in the margin, a record of how briefly the little bridge had held.