Till it rained one day, I had never done a painting of Fabyan's windmill. Always the runners, lovers, and screaming kids were my inspiration. People were my reason for getting up before the sun and driving the nine miles to Fabyan Park. The before-work runners, stretching. The bird watchers and grey-haired speed walkers getting out before the noon heat were all there for me. Free models to practice my drawing skills with. Studying bicyclists speeding along, how one leg finished its work straight, while the other was poised to send the rider speeding on. All my reasons for sitting hours in my van sketching.
Color was another reason for Fabyan visits. The paths into the woods are paths for thinking and inspiring the landscape artist in me. A leaf catching a ray of sunlight surrounded, by the cool shades of green. Moss hiding in the bark of a tree, telling an old boy scout which way north lies. A scent, found only in the woods, brings one closer to themselves. Quiet surrounds, and then a bird's wings against the still air are heard. A fallen giant, its roots washed clean from years of rain and snow, has brought me to its resting place revealing it’s glory in a silence heard through one's eyes. I listen with my paints and record the story through my brushes. Black, purple, Paris blue - a parade of colors come forth with tales of squirrels battling birds of prey and robins raising young ones. The tree, in its bed of orange and yellow, gives back to the young reaching through the shadows with its few leaves, to become the new giant.
