In the desert, we ache for rain. The heat is a drum beat pulsing against our bodies. Dry and relentless, it bakes the ground, burns tender leaves, and turns plant and tree detritus into kindling. Wildfire, a constant fear, nags at us and we can’t chip or chop the dead and down fast enough. Then, suddenly, afternoon clouds erupt over the mountains, billowing and voluminous. The sky darkens. The wind picks up. The air, heavy and dull, becomes electric and the scent of moisture heightens our senses. There is a drop. A patter. A downpour. Then it’s gone. The world is cleansed, fresh, open, and relieved.
Painting is like this. First, the background in dark or light. A heaviness. A waiting. An unfulfilled expectation. The first splatter hits the panel almost like rain kicking up dry dust from thirsty ground. More splatters. Then drips and splashes. The field is ablur with color and texture and the tension between shadow and light. There is fury in the flinging like lightning flashing and thunder’s roar. The paint cascades, etches, obscures, and elicits form and shape and pattern. Then, as it slowly abates, there is something new and alive before me — raw still and needing care — but born.
People always ask how I know a painting is done. I know when I feel the calm after the storm, when stillness descends after the torrent, when all that remains of the wind is my breath — even and quiet and replenished. It is in these moments, like my plants and flowers, that
my art and I grow or are reborn.
“Dance of Time”
48″ x 48″
Acrylic on Panel
Inspired by the sandstone cliffs of Abiquiu, NM
