What is a creative person?

An old shell and driftwood cupboard serves as an architectural Art-Deco building site for honey colored african wasps.
This is the biggest wasp nest I have seen since I moved into the house. I felt myself unable to destroy it. With a little fear in my heart I have decided on a model of co-habitation and a minimum distance.

I observed them truly fascinated building their castle for over three months in the corner of an old white painted- cupboard used to store sea shells, interesting drift wood pieces and firewood for the grill, that is standing on my verandah.

The structure is getting bigger and bigger, extending every day and at the same time the nest is creating the impression for the eye that it is becoming more delicate.

Hanging from a tiny string of dried mud....

My favourite architect is the spanish genious Antoni Gaudi. This nest makes me think of his famous houses in Madrid and Spain with wasp-nest like balconys.
How does one define creativity? How does creativity develop? Is is natural or learned.

Is being interested in anything that might explain the workings of the human mind a prerequiste? Is there a universal fluid whose equilibrium or disturbance explains health and disease.

Are wasps naturally creative or is psychic energy stored somewhere like Jung suggested.

A cool cat's hot summer

Since three years we have the Zen Master Lucinda Engele living with us. Lucinda was found in the workshop of a factory producing steel pipes. She is a pleasure living with because she possesses all the great virtues. She is beautiful, soft, independant, funny, strong and patient.
And she is a real zen-master living in the moment and teaching us everyday something about life.

to contemplate

to observe

to relax

and relax even more

to dream

to give a damn shit

to just be natural

to loosen up

yeap......

to ....... I don't know whats happening now, sometimes I can't read her mind.

And You Have To Talk To Them

This is one of the coolest places, a living room outside in nature with a Bougainvillae and Flamboyant roof of blinding violet and red where most of the meals are taken in summer if it is not raining.

 

Sometimes a ray of sunshine comes through

The living room roof

Further down in the garden..

It's summer now, thanks, my favourite time of the year, and while I am sitting here and uploading theses pictures I am listening to Just Ginger and their song Shallow Waters on the radio while the cat Lucinda Engele is lying in front of me on my desk blocking the keyboard with her head and looking at me with watery green eyes. It's a perfect song for this hot day. A perfect day for a cat as well.

I am blessed with an exceptional old unmanicured lush garden that ressembles a jungle in many places. The trees and plants are decades old, unique organic characters and when the wind goes it seems like as if they are whispering and in constant interaction with each other. When the sun is breaking through the branches it's like a magic secret place.

My father says always : you have to speak to them. I don't do that very often . But they grow without me very well because they like this spot.

AND BY NO COINCIDENCE I found a fascinating book the other day in a junk shop called " The Secret life of plants" by Peter Thompkins and Christopher Bird.

It teaches you that they, the old characters, have the ability to communicate with man. That they adapt to human wishes, respond to music, that they have curative powers. It is fascinating account of the physical, emotional and spiritual relations between plants and man.
That they even anticipate and know before when their branches are being cut.
I hope they don't mind me playing Aerosmith in the morning when everbody is gone.

My Father's Flowers Are Always With Me

This is the chair everybody is ready to fight for. It stands right at the edge of the verandah overlooking the green valley. It is a dreamer's place and it has two beautiful arm-rests to place a cup of coffee or a glass of wine on top. It is my father's chair.

Once a year my father comes from a colder Northern country to visit me. He knows the secret life of plants.

Once here, he plants and replants, transfers flowers and bushes from one place to another, talks to them and convinces them that they should grow where he places their roots in the grounds. He heals and cures the damage inflicted to the plants through my neglect during the year.

He made the lavender and roses grow into giants in the shortest of time.

My father's flowers are always there and remind me of him when he's gone.

I found these little fellows in a junk shop in town.

My family and the friends, who have been staying in December with me for a while know him or her. The Flamboyant in my garden " called Auguste ". Him or her, well, because somebody explained to me that this tree can be male and female at the same time. Not a bad choice I think. But I like to think of Auguste as a male.
Every year when the South African summer approaches, after windy and stormy days, he delivers the same spectacular unfolding. Auguste, against an azure-blue sky and becomes blindingly and inimitabably beautiful in his bright red flower dress. He enchants us.

Auguste is particular about the way he blossoms. Starting on one side, he blossoms in a very orderly manner from one side to the other. No, it is not a simple tree like the others. It's Auguste. He takes all the time that is necessay to become beautiful.