Clouds Never Reappear

4 AM on Sunday, heading to the studio. Getting my imagination working as I go, I watch the headlights coming down from the High Street bridge. Who would be out at 4 AM on a Sunday, I wonder? Someone heading to work or heading home from work? A lover maybe or a doctor on call. This question jump starts my imagination as I cross over the bridge slowly myself, to glimpse down at all the commuter trains parked in the train yards below waiting for a cleaning. I see the past, trains with steam locomotives bellowing out white smoke and spitting steam. Now trains wake up and move silently to the station where commuters wait with briefcases and newspapers. 

The town is quiet as I come back to the present, waiting at a redlight wondering why I don't run it. Turning green, I proceed with one eye peeled for that hidden police car I suspect waits for me. Swinging around the block past the closed casino with its bright, flashing lights I see the cleaning crew arriving at its doors. Nice to know I am not alone in town. Why that matters? I don't know, just another part of getting started. 

Up the steps and down the hall to my unlocked studio door. I'm a trusting sort of person… Switching on the studio lights I see I need to call the electrician. The lone light above my palette refuses to turn on. Putting my lunch and diet juice in the fridge, I keep my back to my easel. Only when everything is set and my brain is on full-imagination, will I take in what I have on the easel. A lone cloud settling in on a glorious sunset sits on the upper third of my present canvas. Heading home last week, that cloud with that yellow sky, caused me to return to the studio and set it to canvas. Greyish purple against that warm glowing yellow. How many people paused on their way home to take in that gift of nature?

Old friends whispered in my ear that night about places I spent as a boy, calling for that sunset scene. Chicory and tiny violets come to mind, Milkweed and Butterfly Weeds, all forgotten, came calling as I waited to sleep.  That sky and cloud firmly on the canvas, it kept me awake thinking of possibilities for that cloud. Visions of a prairie scene formed in the dark as I drifted off to sleep . 

Pale blues hold to the high sky waiting for those first stars to appear. "Mars," Jesse Vera whispers to me, pointing to the first bright star. The smell of the campfire rises from my canvas as I lift my brush of earth green to touch it, letting it drip down the white to define the horizon. Memories and old voices tell me I am on the right path to the vision in my head. Splashes of blue and purples are stepping stones to that evening sky I see, and where I wish to see it. Virgin fields of grass and native flowers are firmly planted with those blues and earth greens. Clouds never reappear, they are ever changing and being at the right place at the right time - each is a gift to those wishing to see. This sunset needed that peaceful prairie, awakening in me, that I wished to share. Sharing a gift I give myself with each painting. Like the child rushing to a mother with a prize, I paint to share.  

The light above my easel flickers and I am back sipping cocoa, ready to paint.      

Readying For The Landscape

Autumn morning at Jake’s, a breath of crisp air follows every patron entering the door. Coffee, tasty bagels and news of the town await those taking a table. New patrons become new friends, waiting in line to place their order. The  aroma of cinnamon bagels drifting out from the oven fills the air with a warm friendly hug. Serve-yourself coffeepots with one's favorite flavors waiting for you with a smile and a comment from a new acquaintance. George and Melissa have their seats, as I take mine, and the rest of our group trickles in.

What's new with you? It’s the old opening question. Great deals on shopping are always discussed, as everyone nods toward a new patron covered in tattoos taking his place in line. A subject for a painting, with his tattoos, becomes the topic.  He is already a work of art we decide and George points out the still, mirror-like waters of the river reflecting the trees on the island across from Jake’s. The strong morning light hasn't reached the grey limbs of a fallen tree. Its branches are like slender fingers reaching out, testing the waters and painting the scene for each of us. Coming in the east windows is that same morning light, falling on George's tree, and it has my attention as it turns figures into simple silhouettes surrounded by blinding whites.

I have done many sketches of Jake's patrons, Pastor Bob writing his sermon, teens cramming for that test, a mom cutting a bagel up for her little girl. Jakes’ has become my studio with its people and interior with its morning light.  A near abstract of black and white, with hints of color sprinkled throughout the scene, it has sparked my imagination many times. All in the group have eyes on the fallen trees, as I paint the scene of patrons in the eastern light, inside my head again. The tattooed man loses his tattoos as he becomes one of     the silhouettes in the painting forming in my head. “Are you listening?” George asks. I nod that I am as I continue the painting going on in my head.  We are introduced to Al's new wife as they join the group and I set my imagination aside. A dozen new questions are directed at the new couple. Soon it is time for work and we head for our studios and waiting easels. I see George taking in a long look at the trees on the island. 

In the studio my painting on the easel will be put aside for an hour or two as I work out, not the abstract scene gripping my mind, but a mother-child painting. Out of the blue, a mother and child are there, clear as can be. Several on the spot studies stare at me wondering why I am putting them aside, as I rough in two figures on yet another fresh canvas.  Miss. Marple is solving "A Murder is Announced,” from my computer - my form of music. It helps to clear my head. Old sketches of the people at Jake’s help in my struggle to clear the scene I painted this morning in my head. Soon, my studio is a mess with on-the-spot landscapes and old sketches of people. Miss. Marple has solved her murder and I have freed my mind of Jake’s. Putting my little oil of a mom and her redheaded little girl aside. I am ready to work on my landscape.