“We live our short lives in the vortex of a miracle, and while we may not be the center of that vortex, it is magic to be anywhere in there”. – Robert Genn
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Charleston Through an Artist's eye
a blog about the history art and culture of Charleston and the Lowcountry of the Southern Islands
Amelia Island Florida
Wild beauty.
ForeMothers. Searching for Ancestors
“Oh Child
Look within
Find your ForeMothers
Find them
Find them”
―
Strong women ancestors. That is what I began with. The crux of my curiosity came to me while walking a labyrinth, outside, on a winter day in about 2007.
The history of my own family is deeply rooted in South Carolina history, and of course is full of paradox. Half of the stories lie in an historic cemetery, Stoney/Stony Creek, in what was called Indian Land. The image above must be the church. Charles Fraser painted this between 1796-1806 and titled it Meeting House, identifiable by the creek and road, which is still the same. Pocotaligo is now in Hampton County near Yemassee. Stoney/Stony Creek Independent Church was founded by dissenters in 1743, and included my ancestor Rev. William Hutson, who was its first pastor, called by Hugh Bryan an early settler in the region and zealous Christian. The story is that Hugh Bryan hired William Hutson to teach his many slaves to read, which was against the law. The church was burned in 1865. There are no black members buried here, although they are clearly in the records as members. Nearby was Prince William’s Parish Sheldon Church, today in ruins and evocative.
But because I was born, I have great reverence for the ancestors’ strength and faith. And many of my grandmothers and grandfathers are here. Being alive is no small thing. Stoney Creek Presbyterian Foundation cares for the cemetery today. I was asked to share how to donate to its upkeep. Hutson, Martin, Colcock, McLeod (THIS story is fascinating and involves Scots and Native Americans) and Frampton families are buried here among others. Support the preservation of the Stony Creek Presbyterian Foundation, P.O. Box 279, Beaufort, South Carolina, 29901.
Tagged with: Charles Fraser sketchbook, Colcock, foremothers, Frampton, graveyard, Hugh Bryan, Hutson, iconic gravestones, McLeod, pocotaligo, South Carolina, Stoney Creek Independent Church, Stony Creek Cemetery, Yemassee SC
Posted in architecture, Arts & Culture, history, religion, South Carolina History, women
Posted in architecture, Arts & Culture, history, religion, South Carolina History, women
Mary Jane Oliver, September 10, 1935 – January 17, 2019
Tagged with: death, mary oliver, Poetry, spirituality
Posted in Arts & Culture, beauty, creativity, Poetry, religion, spirituality, women, Writing
Posted in Arts & Culture, beauty, creativity, Poetry, religion, spirituality, women, Writing
It is the Light. Winter Solstice, 2018
Pine Forest 7″x5″ oil on panel ©2014 C Hutson Wrenn
Wishing Light and Love to you as we celebrate the last dark day of this year.
Love, Charlotte
Tagged with: Edisto Island, Light, winter solstice
Posted in art, beauty, Charleston South Carolina, photography, spirituality, travel
Posted in art, beauty, Charleston South Carolina, photography, spirituality, travel
What can we learn?
Travel makes you modest. You see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.
– Gustave Flaubert
Anthony Bourdain, food writer and cook, died this month. Here he speaks to Patrick Radden Keefe at the 2017 New Yorker Festival.
Tagged with: Anthony Bourdain, Food, inspire, travel, truth, Writing
Posted in Arts & Culture, Food, spirituality, travel, Writing
Posted in Arts & Culture, Food, spirituality, travel, Writing
Full Circle
This picture is about the full circle of spring and the peony, which blossoms, then dies, perennially. My mother died this month. She was 96. Charlotte Sr. was charming and blonde to the end. My daughter, Hadley, read Mary Oliver’s beautiful poem, Peonies, at the Service of Thanksgiving, for her life, was at Christ Episcopal Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. It was the week of peony bloom. She taught me to value beauty.
This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and they open —
pools of lace,
white and pink —
and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away
to their dark, underground cities —
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever.
Posted in Arts & Culture
