Colors the Camera Misses

There is something about painting on the spot that invites strangers to express opinions and questions, such as why I have chosen the subject I have to express myself. Painting is about emotions and imagination. A fallen oak  awakens my sense of wonder with its second-life colors. Green moss wraps fallen giants while bright orange fungus springs forth, giving comfort to tiny furry creatures and keeping them safe from the sharp eyes of the kestrel circling about. Tiny black eyes peek out from the hollowed giant at me as I mix colors.   

An elderly couple out keeping fit, taking time from their morning hike, informed me about the fungus that is appearing on my canvas. Their opinions on my work so far are encouraging. A quick sketch of them arm in arm, continuing on their way, is an unexpected reward. The deep red browns of the decaying trees set off the oranges and pale yellows of the fungus. Moss greens tickle my browns and the deep purples I use to outline the leaves of the plants carpeting the forest floor. More colors and hues appear as I work. Colors the camera misses are there for the finding.

A young boy takes a seat next to me as I tackle a scene of the river and the footbridge in Fabyan Park. The bike path nearby attracts people from all over. Some come from as far away as Chicago. I've gotten used to people commenting on my paintings. This boy just sat quietly watching me mix colors and lay paint on my canvas. His mother, after half an hour, enticed the boy back onto the path with a promise of McDonald’s french fries. To encourage him to go with her I told him french fries sounded pretty good. An hour later came a nudge on my arm. There was my little fan with a bag of french fries for me. He stayed another half hour sipping a coke, watching me finish my river scene. 

Most times I enjoy visitors with their questions and critiques, even the negative comments I get at times. There are other times I want to pull my hair out, like the time a man pushed through some bushes to see what I was doing. A billion tiny gnats were stirred up and hundreds landed on my near finished painting. One time my sister Cathy was on the bike path with twenty of her friends. She had each one ask me my favorite question, "What are you painting?” when I was nearly finished with my painting... 

Talking Out the Problems

Molly was my first adviser, a great listener and wise. Always agreeable. Sometimes she would doze off under my easel, or if there were no models she would curl up on the model's stand and arrange the pillows to her comfort. When there was a model, she would turn on the charm in hopes of a treat. She often inserted herself into the pose, curling up behind Jordan or replacing the book Kim just laid to rest. On breaks you would see her, tail wagging, waiting for that pinch from the model's sandwich. A slice of apple now and then was her reward for staying quiet during these sessions.

No models meant walks around town, and visits with fishermen. She often pointed out subjects for sketching and patiently waited while I sketched. Unlike Henry, she allowed petting. It was good for us to get out of the studio and breathe the fresh air. Colors always looked a bit fresher when I returned to the easel after those walks.

A cleaning of the palette and with fresh colors laid out, the background and foreground were taken on. Conversation with Molly would pick up, though usually it was one-sided, and she never argued over my ideas for the painting. Models sometimes questioned my sanity when I forgot I was painting a figure... I find it helpful to talk things out when I have questions about a painting and both Molly and Henry were good listeners.