Evening colors soften as they drift over the landscape, and birds soften their songs as the last rays of light fade away. The day's end awakens something in me that I want to hold onto. Grey greens leaning toward blue, crest the trees. The once blue sky surrenders to pale yellows, and cotton white clouds turn to purplish blue as the sun falls in the West. Before answering night's call, I take in the scene, reviewing the play staged each evening and I commit it, with its actors, to my own play, writing it with paints and brush work. Carrying me into sleep, I will see my canvas come to life in dreams.
Painting grips me at times. It's how I see, how I feel. A homeless man asleep on the loading dock grabs me and the only way I can tell his story is through painting. The flowers I paint are memories of Mom. The realism and tightness that drifts into my work are the guidance of my Dad. I lose my way at times and those efforts are scraped off. Too many voices speaking to me at the same time.
The passion for a subject brings about the right colors and leads me to a good design. Over thinking a painting leads to a dull, overworked canvas. Set your mind and hands free. I tell my students, “Don't copy what you see, paint what you feel.”
