It's coming up on 2 a.m. and Emily Weinstein has stared at the full moon so long it has begun to swim. The pinkand gray clouds are liquid marble with white veins, rolling across the sky. Themoon seems to push against the current.Quickly, a reflection of the skyscape takes shape under Weinstein's squiggling paintbrush as she sits, small, cross-legged and bathedin moonlight, on the flat patio stones of a friend's backyard garden.
This isFull Moon Number 14. And it's not behaving. It sinks into the sky like a stone in a pond--and everything goes black. Weinstein's feet fall asleep.A magnolia pod crashes to the ground behind her.
Suddenly, the moon pops out again.
"Yee-haw!" she says.
When most souls are hunkering down for the night, Weinstein pulls on her paint-smeared garb and heads out to work. She has followedthe full moon to rooftops, mountains and roadsides, before an angry ox's horns and inside a tippy rowboat. There were orange moons and fuzzy moons and cloud-streaked moons.. .and moons peering, as if haunted, through gnarled tree branches.
The resultis the series of full moon paintings in oil on wood published in this book.
--From the jacket copy by Wendy Hower.
