A Touch of Silver to Feel the Breeze

A slight breeze sends a wave of silver through the trees as their leaves catch the evening sun. Bending branches set a family of starlings to flight, creating an abstract of black wings against the cotton clouds. I pause with my effort to relate the scene before me, watching nature's choreographed flight. Henry, too, takes in the flowing abstract of black wings. Ready for a treat, he stretches under my easel. A day of exploring the roadside wildflowers and hunting quick field mice, he settles back to his space below the easel, having received his reward of a chewy treat. A touch of silver to the tree tops and I feel the breeze in my painting. Indian Yellow brings a bit of richness to the goldenrod lining the valley stream, winding its way through my painting. 

A passerby slows, Henry pauses and sits up. I got two thumbs up and told where I might like to try my skills again tomorrow. Always nice to get approval from those who know the country. Sometimes it's a tail wag - Henry knows when to lay it on. Sitting in my lap, he really understands my explanation for things I leave out and the flowers I add that aren't there. Some trips out, even with the paints, are to simply gather information. How many greens are out there among the grasses and trees? Sometimes I carry a study to a finished work of art. I look for studies that contain elements in a scene like a road or a path, a house or structure of some kind. It's a way of stretching the range of color and adds a sense of place.  Usually I talk these things out with Henry.

Dreaming Out a Painting

We are inspired by the ordinary, consumed by beauty, and slaves to ourselves. Without rewards, we press on with passion driving us. Alone, we examine ourselves. Colors feeding our souls as we grow, lifting us higher. For one, an old boxcar sitting abandoned on rusty train tracks ignites a spark. They offer a canvas and time to meet the calling, and bring themselves to the dream they pursue. Feelings of a past can be nearly forgot, then are called forth by the rich, rusted colors catching the sunlight. Those colors, and the memory, are the treasure at the end of our rainbow.

For others, it is people crossing a rain-soaked street, rushing to catch a train home. Neon signs, and the mix of tail and headlights dancing before them in the downpour. Each sees something different. These images for us are like a child captivated by the first sight of a Christmas tree, blinking with tinsel and colored lights. Art awakens feelings.

A stand of trees becomes something else with the choice of colors chosen. Thoughts unintended come forth. Even a simple still-life of toys can bring about darkness to some. We accept the well thought-out comment with equal grace, as we seek the praise. 

For me, art is traveling the roads of the past. Seldom does a work in progress grow without some form of the past guiding my hand and my choice of color. Sylvia, a model I often hire, becomes my cousin MaryAnn. She reads below her back porch, shaded by the old plum tree full of fruit, just out of reach of tiny hands. Her barn cat cautiously finds a comfortable spot for an afternoon nap. The scene grows from nothing as Sylvia lays her textbook down to begin work. Closing her eyes, I am alone to dream out a painting.