January 22nd, 2020
The trouble with January is.... January Blues. It is not only blue Monday but a turnabout in mood throughout the month. The sad thing is February deems not much better. Here in the Northern Hemisphere lies a lack of sun. Every year older this lack of solar power settles in with a vengeance.
Beauty is hard to find these days. The skills I have acquired in the past years don't seem to make much of a difference in the motivation of moving forward. The start is always exciting. It is a matter of continuing the excitement to finish. To be satisfied with a painting when it is finished. To sit in the illuminated sphere of contemplation and face the reality of a path once taken brings back memories of a life that is worthwhile.
The memory comes flooding back. Have I achieved the right lighting? Can I smell the dryness of the grass? Is there enough beauty in the drab scene to bring me back home? Back to another path that brings back more memories. Enough to continue on.
Or to return to another painting. To adjust and reflect. What can I change? Where can I go from here?
I returned to a painting finished a few years back. I felt I needed to resolve a bit of the path I was on. Subtle change but change non the less. Just one step closer to happiness.
I sit and contemplate landscapes from old photos. I need to carve out little thumbnail drawings. I need to satisfy a means. To control the composition. I need to enter the picture plane. The contour of the path. Move me along into the scene. Take me over the edge. Does it always have to be the same? Working out these compositions in small studies brings a smile to my face. Some feel so good. The memory, movement, feel of the thing, brings me home. Such a great start to a painting. Now stick to the path. Keep it real. Keep the beauty of the piece in its creation. Keep the memory alive.
The painting is as much about memory as it is about place. The trails are a place that pull me. A wanting for the ability to travel the paths again. Physical capability to scale the hills of Summers' past. The dead of winter brings hope for the Spring meanderings.
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