Been no sun show its face today, and a little cold snap in the Southern springtime air, dipping into the middle 40s tonight. And along Waterhole Branch here, the wind is moving the trees around, bending their branches, shuddering the leaves when it gusts. Chilly, but can’t call it a gray day, too much green at play here on the cusp of April. Even with some light rain now and then, and the sky like a sheet of flat galvanized tin.
I can sketch and draw pretty good, but I’m not an artist. I don’t understand how colors work from pigment knifed or brushed onto canvas. I’ve tried. I’ve made some muddy messes, some lifeless and faded pastel mistakes. Randy Moberg, my friend who is a gifted painter, told me color must be discovered. I’m not even sure I know what that means. I’m sure, however, it’s not what happens when I try to render an image with acrylics.
I’d like to watch Randy, for instance, paint the greens I see out my window. How can there be so many shades of green? Or would an artist say values of green? I can tell you this, the display in these woods this late afternoon, as the twilight settles beneath a clouded sky, softening and blending the greens is a thing of exquisite and priceless beauty. An ancient slab of precious jade could not inspire the wonder and awe of this scenery. This little touch of colorless winter is so reluctant, yet so out-matched.