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At night, I draw the trees in the dark. But the drawings are not just representations of what I see: I try to translate what my dog senses and follows: subtle movements, fleeting presences, microscopic tremors. Each mark is an attempt to record the unseen—the way the forest breathes, the tension that hangs in the darkness, the faint pulse of things just beyond my perception.

Stand Still, The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same Raven.

Not two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows

Where you are. You must let it find you.

David Wagoner, "Lost", in: Poetry, July 1971, p. 219.

(Seven of these drawings are hanged alongside the Self-Portrait-Automata series, called Monas)

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