Summer is almost upon us and foolishly, I have a slow, large-ish painting going at Sand Beach in Acadia National Park. Once the season gets going, painting there becomes problematic. At 8 AM when I started, the beach was empty, quiet. Gradually it filled and quite often people want to talk.
I met an older couple today, very pleasant conversation about traffic and our island’s unending road construction, etc. The gentleman was a painter. Very nice. And so on. They related that it was their wedding anniversary. For the last thirty years, they had returned to at first hike and in later years, just walk in the park They always came to Sand Beach to have their picture taken together on the anniversary of their wedding day. The woman remarked that it had rained on their last ten anniversaries. But this morning was glorious. Beautiful light, one could not help but to hold creation in high regard this morning at Sand Beach. And so after a bit they wandered down the beach and I returned to my canvas.
Just a bit later the woman came back and thanked me for our pleasant chat. She related that her husband had Alzheimer’s disease and that this was likely their last trip to Sand Beach.
Small study in oil. in progress:
I suppose he is the hardest lot that wears feathers. Yes, and the cheerfullest, and the best satisfied with himself. He never arrived at what he is by any careless process, or any sudden one; he is a work of art, and “art is long”; he is the product of immemorial ages, and deep calculation; one can’t make a bird like that in a day. He has been reincarnated more times than Shiva; and he has kept a sample of each incarnation, and fused it into his constitution. In the course of his evolutionary promotions, his sublime march toward ultimate perfection, he has been a gambler, a low comedian, a dissolute priest, a fussy woman, a blackguard, a scoffer, a liar, a thief, a spy, an informer, a trading politician, a swindler, a professional hypocrite, a patriot for cash, a reformer, a lecturer, a lawyer, a conspirator, a rebel, a royalist, a democrat, a practicer and propagator of irreverence, a meddler, an intruder, a busybody, an infidel, and a wallower in sin for the mere love if it. The strange result, the incredible result, of this patient accumulation of all damnable traits is, that he does not know what care is, he does not know what sorrow is, he does not know what remorse is, his life is one long thundering ecstasy of happiness, and he will go to his death untroubled, knowing that he will soon turn up again as an author or something, and be even more intolerable capable and comfortable than ever he was before.
Mark Twain – Following the Equator
Britta Konau offers cogent and thoughtful commentary about my current paintings at Dowling Walsh :
“These paintings introduce us to a kind of beauty that goes far beyond what is visible to the eye.”