Some days the sky is a bit bluer than others. Such days I make it a point to get out there to paint. I have plenty of places in mind. Every time I go somewhere I check for interesting scenes, like a twisted tree or field of corn. I plant it somewhere in my head where ideas live. A weathered red barn may remind me of my Great Grandpa's barn and Dad telling me how he climbed the windmill there. The barn is now replaced by Fermilab, the National Accelerator, where people look for quarks. Forty miles south, I find a similar barn and file it away in the left side of my brain (or is it the right side?). Not sure what goes on up there any more.
What part of the day will that barn look best, is something I will have to think about. Do I really want to get up at four in the morning to see the sun's first rays light up that barn? Being an artist isn't always easy - at least not how it first seemed to me. There isn't always a pay day for the effort. Dad told me how time and money would play into things, sobering me up some. Dad was my coffee in the morning, Mom was the powdered donut. Dad's math skills told me I made 24 cents an hour doing a painting. Dad's math was moved to the deepest part of my brain… those powdered donuts always seem to be up front though, ready to help with defining what I needed to do.
Henry, my miniature Schnauzer, was always ready to head out somewhere to do a little painting - and to remind me to pack a little snack for us. The extra long leash in his mouth, he waited at the door to lead me to the car. Trash bags, paper towels, French easel - the usual things I need to work, all in a two, big wheel cart. I alway seem to pack a dozen colors I'll never use and fifty brushes that remain paint free at the end of the day.
Henry, in his best voice, announces he is passing through town. Leaving town, we follow the river, passing scenes I have already captured on canvas and Henry explored with his nose. With a soft bark he reminds of the good times we shared at different stops we made over the summer.
Pulling into the Oswego Library parking lot, Henry is excitedly on my lap pushing to get the door open before I am completely stopped. In a flash he is out and marking a rock. My scene is behind the library, down a rocky path to a hidden stream.
Paul, who found this stream, is already into his painting. Paul is another artist who finds painting on the spot most rewarding. Henry follows a garden snake as Paul and I paint and tell each other about our week.
