“What I love about art is that I can say some random, careless phrase, like: The tagliatelles of spring have arrived. When you think about it for a while, it starts to take on meanings.
Art is thinking. I suppose.”
The words of my friend the Finnish artist Hannele Rantala (http://hannelerantala.fi/en/) . I can’t stop thinking about that phrase of pure poetry as I arrive at Dawyck in a blustery south-west wind.
I walk around the Garden with the trees singing. It’s one of scale and age here, with huge seqouiadendrons (of which more, anon) and others like the larch (Larix decidua) planted in 1725, which had, in 2001, reached a height of 33metres.
But autumn is in the air, and while I can’t really empathise yet with such huge beings, my gaze falls lovingly on old friends: claviceps, panther caps, amanitas, scattered bright throughout the woodland floor, for just a few brief days. The tesserae of autumn have arrived.